“We’ll get him.” Baxter looked down at Bianca. “What about her?”
“Leave her with me—you need to take out Gray.”
Baxter nodded to his men. “Okay, you heard him! We catch that son of a bitch and take him down. Let’s go!” He hurried back to his vehicle. With a triple roar of big V8s, the Suburbans lunged away.
Bianca looked up at Harper. “What are you going to do with me?”
He sneered. “You’re going to be my chauffeuse.” He stepped back, keeping the gun on her. “Get in and drive.”
Adam made a call as the Mustang raced along the Suitland Parkway, entering one of the numbers he had memorized earlier: the office of the national security adviser. “This is Admiral Gordon Harper,” he said, his voice taking on his borrowed persona’s bulldog growl. “I need to speak to Alan Sternberg immediately.”
He knew that calling from a number not on the list of secure lines would invoke extra security precautions, but he was ready for them. “Please stand by, Admiral,” said the operator. “Can you give me your G-2 code, please?”
“Four-zero-two-five-baker-delta-seven,” he replied, rattling out the sequence with machine-gun speed.
“And your daily password?”
“Anthracite.”
A short pause while the codes were checked, then: “Thank you, Admiral. Connecting you to Mr. Sternberg.”
Adam waited, guiding the Mustang past slower traffic on the two-lane highway. Finally, he heard a voice. “Gordon,” said Sternberg, dislike contained beneath a veneer of professional politeness. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir, this is Adam Gray from the Persona Project at STS,” Adam said, speaking quickly to prevent Sternberg from interrupting. “I apologize for the deception, but it’s of vital importance that I speak to you.” The other man tried to cut in, but he kept talking. “I have proof that Secretary of State Sandra Easton was killed in Pakistan because a senior US official leaked her route to al-Qaeda.”
It took the startled Sternberg a couple of seconds to reply. “Agent Gray, as I understand it you’re currently on the run after stealing classified data from STS. Why should I believe you?”
“Because I used the PERSONA device to take the memories of the official in question. I know everything he does—and everything he did.”
“Who is this person?” asked Sternberg, in a tone that suggested he had already worked out the answer.
“Admiral Harper, sir.”
A pause. “That’s an extremely serious allegation, Gray. And I need more proof than just your say-so, even if you do have Harper’s memories.”
“I’ve got a disk that the admiral just took from the federal data repository in Suitland. He intended to destroy it. It’s a copy of the log files that show he interfered in a joint CIA–SOCOM undercover op to give disinformation to al-Qaeda in Pakistan, by switching the secretary’s fake itinerary that was meant to lead a terrorist cell into a trap for the real one.”
Another moment of shocked silence. “Now, it’s no secret that Harper and I aren’t exactly best buddies,” said Sternberg slowly, “but you’re saying that he’s a traitor? I can’t believe that.”
“Nobody would. That’s why he thought he’d get away with it. Sir, I’m on my way into Washington right now to give you the disk. When you have it I’ll surrender myself and face any charges against me, but you have to see the evidence. Harper can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.”
“All right,” said Sternberg after brief deliberation. “Bring me the disk. But do I have your word that you’ll turn yourself in?”
“Absolutely, sir. Once the disk is in your hand, I’ll surrender. Where are you?”
“At the Eisenhower Building.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Where will you be?”
“Meet me at the north entrance on Seventeenth Street. I’ll make sure that—”
The rear windshield exploded.
Adam flinched as a bullet hit the back of the passenger seat’s headrest, blowing a hole through the leather. He dropped the phone and took the wheel with both hands, eyes darting between the mirrors.
Lights were coming up fast from behind. Three sets, large vehicles.
Baxter’s team had found him.
Headlight glare from a car on the other side of the median strip gave Adam a glimpse of Baxter leaning out of the lead SUV. Red laser light lanced from his MP5. Adam swerved. Muzzle flash blossomed in the mirror, the gun’s rattle accompanied by harsh clanks as rounds hit the trunk lid.
He heard Sternberg’s tinny voice from the fallen phone. “Sir, I’m under fire!” was all he could spare the mental resources to shout before diverting his attention entirely to evasion and escape. The Mustang was on paper much faster than the SUVs, but with their upgraded engines and suspensions the Suburbans were no slouches.
He dropped down a gear and accelerated, the rev counter jumping up into the red. The speedometer reached one hundred and kept climbing. He checked the mirror. His pursuers were falling back …
Not fast enough. He was opening a gap, but now the other drivers had their feet hard to the floor.
Adam changed up. One-twenty. Mirror. The lead Suburban was a couple hundred meters back, out of the submachine gun’s effective range—but it was now maintaining the distance, its companions right behind it.
He looked ahead—
Red taillights filled both lanes.
Fear sent an adrenaline shot through his system. He braked, sloughing off speed and swinging the Mustang right to avoid a collision. A vicious thump-thump as the wheels mounted the curb, then the entire car shuddered with earthquake force as it rode along the bumpy grass verge.
It was like driving on ice. Adam grappled with the steering wheel, needing all his skill to hold the car in line as its tail threatened to snap out and send him into a spin. He overtook the obstructing cars, but now saw green rushing at him in his headlamp beams, shrubs and trees directly ahead—
A twitch of the wheel. The Mustang swung back to the left, kicking up dust and shredded grass before crashing onto the blacktop. The jolt as the suspension hit its limits felt like a kick to his spine.
He ignored the pain and straightened out, dropping back through the gears to accelerate again. The lead SUV switched on its strobes, unearthly blue pulses silhouetting the cars he had just overtaken. The one in the inside lane slowed, the other ducking aside to let the faster vehicles through.
The parkway passed under a bridge. A sign at the roadside told Adam that the chase had just entered the District of Columbia. He was about six miles from his destination.
Six miles. Half of them on the highway. The other half would take him through the busy streets of Washington.
And he would be under attack the whole way.
He kept accelerating, back up to a hundred. This section of the road was a long, sweeping curve through woodland—with a speed limit of only fifty. More traffic ahead. His gaze flicked between the rapidly approaching taillights and the blue strobes in the mirror. The cars ahead were reasonably spaced out …
Adam steeled himself—then pushed the pedal down, committing himself to the run.
He pulled into the right-hand lane, whipping past a car on the inside before swinging sharply back to the left to round another vehicle. No sooner was he past than he dived back to the right, barely a foot ahead of the car he had just overtaken. A horn sounded in anger.
Faster. More red lights rushed at him. Back to the left, foot dabbing the brake before he veered sharply across to the inside lane once more. Mirror. The cars behind were responding to the emergency lights, pulling over to leave the outside lane clear.
The lead SUV closed again, his slalom costing him precious momentum. Gear down, foot down. The rev counter wavered in the red zone. He swung past another couple of vehicles, cutting his turns as close as he dared. Another horn blast, a car weaving as its driver was frightened out of his highway trance.
He looked back. The gap was staying c
onstant—
A pickup truck ahead suddenly pulled across to the outside lane, speeding up to draw alongside a Chevrolet Cruze—then cutting speed to match it. The pickup’s driver had seen the strobes behind and decided to make the automotive equivalent of a citizen’s arrest, blocking the Mustang’s path so that what he thought was law enforcement could catch the speeder.
Adam had no choice but to brake hard, the Ford snaking. He looked frantically to each side of the rolling roadblock. There was no crash barrier along the grassy median strip to his left, but the number of approaching headlights warned him that crossing into the oncoming traffic would be suicide.
A paved cycle lane ran parallel to the highway on his right. But it was too narrow to fit the Mustang …
No choice.
He braced himself and swerved over the curb with another tooth-shaking crash from the suspension. Then the Mustang was straddling it, right wheels all the way over at the cycle lane’s far side while the left rattled in the parkway’s gutter.
Foot down. The black car accelerated, drawing level with the Cruze occupying the inside lane—and making contact. The flanks of the two vehicles ground together as the Mustang passed. The door mirror on Adam’s side was sheared off with a crack.
The Cruze’s driver panicked, instinctively turning away—and sideswiped the pickup.
Adam accelerated and dropped back onto the highway. The Chevrolet swung across the road behind him, just missing the Mustang’s rear bumper. The weaving pickup braked hard. Its tail end slewed around, bringing it broadside on across the lane—
A collision was unavoidable for the lead SUV. Reed, driving, took the less damaging option, veering right to hit the smaller Cruze rather than the big four-by-four. With two men and their gear aboard, the Suburban was more than twice the weight of the compact car. The result was inevitable. The Cruze was swatted aside, spinning into the cycle lane with its flank caved in.
But the SUV also took damage. The impact shattered its right headlamp cluster and tore off the front bumper, Reed battling to keep control as the Suburban reeled over the curb. It ripped through bushes at the roadside before finally slowing.
One down, if only temporarily—but still two to go. The other Suburbans also swerved to avoid the pickup, narrowly missing the wrecked Cruze before overtaking Baxter and sweeping back into pursuit of the Mustang.
The parkway curved around in a long sweep to head north. Adam was a mile from the Frederick Douglass Bridge, which led across the Anacostia River into the heart of the capital. From there it was about three miles to his destination.
The traffic ahead was more spaced out. He shoved his foot to the floor. The Mustang surged forward. A hundred and ten, one twenty. The wind noise through the broken rear window sounded like a jet taking off. At this speed the steering felt hypersensitive—the smallest mistake would throw him wildly off course. He gripped the wheel more tightly.
The strobes receded in the mirror. The upgraded Suburbans could probably match his speed in the long run, but he had superior acceleration.
The highway curved back to the northwest. Just seconds had passed, but he had already devoured half a mile, gliding back and forth between the two lanes to flash past other vehicles. Glaring lights to his right, buses lined up beneath them at the Anacostia Metro station.
Traffic lights ahead. They turned red—
The road widened into four lanes at an intersection. All were filled.
Brake!
Adam stamped on the pedal. The Mustang’s tires shrieked in smoking protest as the speedometer needle plunged. But he wasn’t slowing quickly enough, the back of a container truck looming directly ahead like a steel wall …
He jerked the wheel to the left. There was a narrow paved dividing strip separating the northbound and southbound sides of the parkway. The Mustang rode over it with a bang, briefly airborne before slamming back down—heading straight into the oncoming traffic. He pulled hard at the wheel. His car fishtailed, the rear wheels shrilling again as they regained traction and flicked him back onto the right side of the road.
Metal crunched as a car braking to avoid him was hit from behind, but he was already past the collision. The road ahead was clear. Where were his pursuers?
The strobes of the lead Suburban were visible only as reflections off the sides of the vehicles at the lights. It had been forced to stop. The second—
Its driver was braver—or crazier. It leapt over the divider, following Adam’s path through the intersection to swing back in behind him.
The Mustang’s thunderous engine note briefly echoed back at Adam as he tore through a concrete underpass. He was coming up to the bridge approach, the two sides of the divided highway splitting apart.
Brake lights flared ahead, a chain reaction rippling back toward him. Traffic was slowing for some reason.
All three lanes were blocked.
Another intersection was rapidly approaching. He looked past it, spying the bridge’s streetlights as it arched over the river. A glinting ruby line ran beneath them, more taillights glowing.
The bridge was jammed with vehicles. No way to get across.
Not on this side, at least …
He threw the Mustang hard to the left, swerving onto a single-lane access ramp.
Lights ahead—a car coming the other way. He rode up on the grass to avoid it. The Ford wriggled like a fish, trying to break out of his grip. The other car whipped past, but now the Mustang’s tail was slipping out again, sending him slewing toward a tree.
If he braked, he would spin out—
Mud sprayed up behind him as he feathered the throttle, holding his car on the very limit of control to make a powered drift around the curve. He sawed at the wheel to keep it on course.
Green gave way to gray in the headlights. The Mustang dropped back onto the road with a chirp from the tires. He yanked the wheel back in line, heading for the bridge.
The wrong way. He was now driving head-on into traffic coming out of central Washington—and there were only two lanes, concrete barriers hemming them in.
Blue pulses in the mirror. The Suburban was catching up.
Adam flashed the Mustang’s headlights, jerking the wheel left and right to weave through the oncoming vehicles. Left into a gap, then sharply back to the right—
Two cars side by side dead ahead. Not enough room on either side to get around them.
All he could do was aim directly between them and pray they had enough sense of self-preservation to get out of his way …
The car on the left did, swerving and braking. The driver on the right was either dumbfounded or distracted, continuing straight at him.
Adam jinked to the left. But the gap was still not wide enough—
The second driver finally reacted to the headlights charging at him and jerked away. The Mustang threaded its way through the newly opened gap at sixty miles per hour, clipping the other car and veering to the right. The barrier rushed at Adam …
He stamped on the brake, hauling the wheel back to the left. The Mustang slithered around, its back quarter hitting the concrete with a crunch that threw him sideways. He straightened with a pained gasp. The speedometer fell below thirty. He dropped through the gears and accelerated again.
More cars ducked out of his way as he headed into the traffic. Where was the Suburban?
Right behind him—
The SUV rammed the Mustang.
The collision was hard enough to trigger the air bag with a gunshot bang of compressed gas, catching Adam as he was flung against the steering wheel. Even cushioned, it still felt like he had been punched in the face. Dizzied, he sat up. The Mustang was swerving back to the right, toward the divider. He straightened out.
Something sliced through his peripheral vision to the left, very close. The Suburban drew alongside—then sideswiped the smaller vehicle and forced it into the barrier.
Sparks flew from the Mustang’s side as it ground against the concrete. Adam tried to steer away,
but the SUV was too heavy, pinning him. He looked around. Spence was in the Suburban’s front passenger seat, leering down at him.
Raising a gun—
Adam slammed on the brakes.
The Suburban shot past, trim ripping away from its flank as the two vehicles separated. It swerved toward the barrier—then swung sharply to the left as its driver fought to regain control.
The Mustang accelerated again—and hit it.
Adam had deliberately aimed to swipe the SUV’s rear quarter. The impact hurled the Suburban into a spin, sending it broadside-on into the left lane—
An oncoming truck smashed into it.
The SUV was thrown into the air like a toy, tumbling over the barrier in a shower of glass and plunging to its doom in the river below.
Adam didn’t look back, all his focus on the vehicles ahead. He was more than halfway across the bridge, but the accident would cause a concertina effect, backing up the approaching traffic. He flashed his lights again. Startled drivers cleared his path, giving him just enough room to straddle the white line and pass between them.
He squinted through the headlight glare. There was still a steady stream of cars coming out of DC even at this late hour; the capital did not clock off at five. A brief sidelong glance told him the reason for the buildup of northbound traffic, a car’s flashing hazard lights marking a breakdown. Beyond the obstruction, the road was clearer. Only a couple hundred yards more, and he would be off the confines of the bridge …
A bus occupied one lane ahead, the driver resolutely refusing to give him extra space. He had no choice but to continue anyway, blasting the horn in warning. The cars alongside the bus opted to let him through, the thought of insurance excesses swaying their drivers’ minds. Squeals and shrills of metal against metal as the Mustang rasped along the bus’s side, then he was through.
Off the bridge. Clear to navigate. He swung back onto the proper side of the road and accelerated.
Mirror. The tac team’s strobe lights were still visible on the bridge, but they had fallen back. This was his chance to lose them, while they were still picking their way through the confusion.
The Shadow Protocol Page 46