Up ahead, a dirt bike and a cargo truck were embroiled in a high-speed chase. Owen took a shortcut to catch up, and along the way he saw several sedans disabled by the truck, crashed and abandoned at the roadside.
"Nikki, any way to control the traffic lights?"
"Owen, I can't. That takes time…"
"All right. I'll figure something else out."
Hackers weren't as omnipotent as movies made them seem. Back at the train station, Nikki had been forced to use dangerous direct hardware access for speed—that had only worked because Serbia wasn't the U.S., and she wasn't familiar with their systems, let alone able to crack them quickly.
Owen's original plan was for Nikki to switch all the traffic lights along the truck's path to red, locking down traffic and trapping them. That clearly wasn't going to happen now.
He continued the pursuit. The chase path veered further from the city, and soon Owen caught sight of a flood control channel.
It was similar to the ones back in the States—normally dry, only used during floods—but this one had clearly been abandoned, with debris piled high throughout the basin.
Owen watched as Ethan Hunt steered the dirt bike off the road and launched into the channel, hoping the rough terrain would help him shake the pursuing truck. But the GRU wasn't backing down. The truck veered sharply, crashed through the guardrails, and rumbled into the flood channel after him.
Owen twisted the throttle on his Harley, the engine roaring as he sped up—but he didn't follow them in. Instead, he stayed along the embankment, tailing the chase from above.
Down below, Ethan zigzagged through the dry canal, weaving around debris while trying to dodge bullets being fired from behind.
The cargo truck didn't bother with finesse. It barreled ahead in a straight line, smashing through obstacles without hesitation. Surprisingly, despite Ethan's agility and the truck's brute force, their speeds were nearly even.
Up top, Owen wasn't having an easy ride either. He had to keep an eye on the situation below while avoiding debris and potholes on the embankment road—a single mistake could send him flying.
Bang! Bang! Bang bang bang!
From inside the truck, the GRU agents opened fire. But hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle wasn't so simple. Even Owen, with his bullet time, wouldn't count on hitting anything in that situation.
Most bullets missed. A few struck the plutonium case strapped to Ethan's back, sparking on impact, but the box held firm. If anything, it wasted a lot of the GRU's ammo.
Ethan's bike handled off-road well. He swerved and dipped through obstacles, his snake-like driving both evasive and defensive.
A culvert lay ahead—one of many spaced throughout the channel. Normally, these came with a small ramp to the surface, but since the channel had been abandoned, all access ramps were sealed off with chain-link fences and padlocks.
The culverts themselves had been converted into shelters by the local homeless. One man peeked out after hearing the commotion and nearly fell over in shock.
Ethan's bike shot through the culvert, followed closely by the roaring truck. The homeless man barely scrambled away in time.
But the truck paid for its aggression. It was too tall. With a deafening crash, its top was sheared clean off by the tunnel. When it emerged on the other side, the roof was gone—exposing the two GRU agents inside, one driving, the other firing.
Above, Owen ran into his own trouble. A set of steel gates barred the embankment path, locked in the middle with a chain.
He glanced between the ramp and the chain—then made his call.
Without slowing, he pulled the Winchester 1887 and fired at the chain.
Boom!
The 12-gauge blast snapped the lock. A moment later, the Harley crashed through the gate, and with a twist of the lever-action, Owen reloaded on the fly, speeding onward in a trail of smoke.
Below, the situation escalated. A well-placed shot from the truck seemed to damage Ethan's bike. Smoke billowed from the engine. Though it still moved, its acceleration was shot.
The truck surged forward and rammed the bike. Ethan was flung forward, barely managing to cling to the truck's hood. The bike crunched under the wheels, spat out the back as a twisted wreck.
"Owen, more incoming—support units!"
Nikki's warning crackled through his comm. Owen looked back—sure enough, two more motorcycles were closing in fast.
No more delays!
Inside the truck, the GRU passenger reached for the plutonium case. Owen fired. The buckshot didn't hit directly, but the sparks were enough to force him back.
The agent turned and returned fire. Again—shooting from one moving vehicle at another wasn't easy. But Owen's shotgun gave him the edge—wide spread, big payload. A few shots in, and the agent's shoulder was hit.
Owen spotted another culvert ahead. He twisted the throttle and dove down into the canal.
The heavy Harley lacked the dirt bike's suspension—when it landed, sparks flew from the undercarriage. But the frame held.
He hit the truck's front tire with a blast. The tire burst—rubber shredding off instantly, leaving only a spinning metal rim.
The truck lost balance. Owen waved to Ethan, who shouted and leapt down onto the Harley's back seat. Owen gunned the throttle and swerved away, narrowly avoiding the flailing truck nose.
They shot through the culvert. The truck wasn't so lucky. With no control, it crashed dead-center into the tunnel wall, its front end crumpling like paper.
BOOM.
Behind them, the two GRU motorbikes swerved around the wreck and roared through the gap. Gunfire burst again. Owen glanced back—both riders were closing fast, PP-2000s blazing.
Sparks flew from the plutonium case.
"Gun's in my back waistband!" Owen shouted.
Ethan reached around and found a P226—his own pistol. He hadn't used it since Owen disarmed him. Now, finally armed, he opened fire furiously.
Owen could only drive. He hoped Ethan would take them out soon—if either rider got too close, the case could only protect one side.
Bullets flew. All four riders fired until their ammo was gone. Owen had just one magazine—everything else had been lost during his rooftop dive. The GRU agents, unable to reload while riding, also ran dry. A tense balance settled over the chase.
Another culvert ahead—but this one was sealed off with steel bars.
Luckily, a ramp led up to a fenced exit on the side, also locked.
Owen repeated his trick—BOOM! The lock blew apart. The Harley burst through and roared onward.
The two GRU bikes followed immediately, flanking them left and right.
"Ethan, left side's yours!"
Ethan kicked and punched to keep the left rider at bay. Owen, one hand on the bars, used the other to spin the Winchester's lever, chambering another round. He whipped around and fired at the right.
Click.
Nothing.
Empty.
Click. Click. Still nothing.
The GRU rider started to grin—just as Owen swung the shotgun like a bat. SMACK! The stock crashed into the rider's helmet. The man crumpled, tumbling with his bike.
Owen turned to the left.
The second rider, wary of a repeat, stayed half a length back—just out of reach.
But Owen grinned. He rammed the empty shotgun into the front wheel spokes.
"Roll, kid."
The rider flew. Bike and man went spinning into the dirt.
Owen chuckled and gunned the throttle. Ethan, panting, couldn't help but laugh.
"That's one way to handle it…"
"We're not done yet," Owen muttered. "Keep your eyes open."
(End of Chapter)
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