The Hi-Power he'd thrown in the seat next to him rocked as the lorry swerved around. Van flashed a look at the timer. Five seconds. The detective stamped down on the accelerator, hard. He was aiming for the bumper in front of him, just to the right hand side of the centre. It wasn't easy to miss. The two vehicles connected with a smooth 'bump' which quickly became a grinding of metal, and then a screech as the back bumper ripped clean off the car in front, and the entire car spun into the ditch running along the side of the road. Van didn't wait to see the impact, as he was already unclicking his seatbelt and jumping out from inside the lorry. Mentally, he knew he'd left two seconds to spare. He hit the ground, hard, and there was an awful series of 'cracks' inside his right side chest. Van suspected that was several ribs fractured at best. But he needed speed. He couldn't let the car's occupants recover. He couldn't stay in the lorry any longer, either. He'd waited before, let them talk, talked to them. And men had died for it. Too many friends.
Van thought back, to the hotel room. He'd gone for a meeting with one informant he'd turned, and the two had sat down. Suddenly, they'd been attacked, surrounded by enemies. Van had tried to talk, to reason with them. No luck. They'd shot his informant, and the only thing that had saved him was a group of police officers bursting in through door. It had been a bloodbath. The officers had all died, and so had half the street gang. Van had been forced to jump, out of the window, when the room caught fire from a bomb, dropped by a dying thug. Van had fallen three floors and landed badly. His side had never quite been the same since. He'd made mistakes, during the Andersky Case. It had changed him. He could never afford to stand and talk again, when he could open fire instead.
And that was what he did, as Van rose from the heap that his leap from the lorry had lain him in. Behind him, the countdown in the lorry reached zero, and the bomb inside detonated, showering the surrounding area with shrapnel. Van, luckily, was unharmed by the explosion. His right hand went to the USP under his left arm, but something twinged and he fumbled the weapon, dropping it at his feet. Ahead of him, the car smouldered, but it had not caught fire properly yet. One of the men inside seemed not to be moving, and another two were. It had been blind lucky that Van had got this far. He'd got inside the factory, and then been very, very lucky indeed. One lucky misplaced gang trap and a very unobservant guard patrol leader later, Van had gained a weapon and a distraction. And now he just had to deal with the leader. Just.
Van had lost the Browning he'd taken from the guard in the leap from the exploding lorry. He'd dropped his USP. He was running out of options. He had already run out of guns. Van fumbled for his dropped USP, but bending down proved too painful to sustain. Instead, Van staggered forwards, towards the enemies. One turned, and raised a weapon at him. The gang member fired off a badly-aimed shot, which pinged off the road a few metres away from Van. He took another step forward. The other moving figure, the leader, began fumbling in his pocket. Van stepped forward again. He had no real plan. His head was ringing from the explosion, and his side ached, badly. Van knew he was going to die here. What other plan was there other than to walk. Another shot ricocheted off the road and went off towards the fiery wreckage of the lorry. Van coughed. The gang leader finally found whatever it was in his pocket.
"You stay back!" he shouted, waving the detonator he had just drawn out in the air. Van didn't stop. What was the point? The leader raised the detonator. "We all die! I push this, we ALL DIE!" Van continued walking. He was dead anyway. The gang member with the pistol swivelled round to stare at his leader, seemingly concerned about the possibility of being blown up. "Stay back!" screamed the leader.
And then the cavalry arrived. There was a shot, and the man with the pistol, still looking nervously at his clearly mad leader, twirled and fell to the ground as a fine red spray came out of his neck. The leader looked at the dead body of his fallen comrade, simply screamed, and clicked the detonator. Van, desperate, threw himself to the ground. The explosion ripped up and around the car, setting it properly on fire. Van crawled away, every movement agony to his ribs, but alive. A pair of boots came into view. Van looked up. Sophia, Dragunov slung over her shoulder, smiled down at him.
"Well," she said, brightly, "you made it."