More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Tears misted in her eyes, but she swallowed them down. There was no time for emotion now. She should be checking for vehicles following them or helicopters poised to shoot from the sky, but she was too caught up in—

  It hit her then. Helicopters. There were two of them. Not two helicopters, but two different people shooting.

  When the helicopter had taken off with Jack in it and she jumped to the ground, shots had helped her escape, shots that came from the ground. She wondered if Jack remembered.

  Morgan almost turned in her seat. She had become used to talking to him, planning with him. She felt gagged by her own anger.

  Jack hadn't said a word since he climbed into the driver's seat. His swollen face made his profile grotesque. His features were tight, his hands powerful, gripping the steering wheel as the SUV mowed down bushes and small trees, over abandoned hiking trails, making its own road through the dense greenery.

  Morgan glanced behind her, through the window at the back of the van. The sleeping bag she'd pulled over them in the early morning lay like a crumpled reminder of what she would lose only a few miles down this imaginary road. She'd never think of an SUV again without being reminded of Jack lying there, holding her, making love to her.

  She woke before Jack had. Darkness shrouded the night. The crickets and cicadas had ended their song. All about her was quiet. Nothing moved to break the stillness, except for Jack's easy breathing. It was that very quiet that had awakened her.

  The pond drew her like a siren's song drew a sailor. She went there and entered the water, swimming until she saw him watching her. His face was hard, set in the stony semi-darkness, as if he'd made some irrevocable decision.

  And indeed he had.

  "Jack." Morgan couldn't be quiet a moment longer. He glanced at her, his face still set. "I'm not going to bring up the lake."

  She saw his jaw muscles tighten and it gave her a secret pleasure to know he was upset by his own decision.

  "Last night—" She stopped. That wasn't what she meant to say. "Yesterday, in the helicopter." Her words were staggered, even though she tried to control them. "I only got away because of—"

  "The other shots," he finished her sentence.

  "You heard them?" she asked in surprise. Why was she surprised? Jack saw everything. He'd been trained to observe. Even the tiniest details didn't get past him. She wondered about his life. She wanted to know every aspect of his life, his future. They were only fifty miles, maybe less, from their destination. Time had eluded her. She'd spent twelve years trying not to think of him and only a couple of weeks thinking of nothing else.

  "Any idea who they are?"

  "I thought they were together until they started shooting. Why do you think. . ." She didn't know how to finish.

  "There are two of them."

  Morgan shuddered. She didn't really want her thoughts confirmed.

  "Why?"

  "I haven't a clue. You've made some powerful enemies."

  "Do you think both of the candidates have people looking for those papers?"

  "It's possible. The information is valuable to both sides. The men in the cabin knew about the ring and the papers. They wanted them. I assumed they were working for one of the groups in Korea campaigning for president, but I don't know which side. They would answer none of my questions."

  Morgan slumped back against the upholstery. Then she heard it. The beat of the air. The unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors.

  "They've found us," she shouted, her body instantly arrested with fear. She leaned forward, staring into the sky, trying to find out which direction they were coming from. She also wondered who they were. She'd feared only one side of the Koreans, but why not both? The papers could help and hurt either side.

  Morgan racked her mind trying to think of something to do. Back in St. Charles she'd been in control. She knew everything about the area, the places to hide, dead-ends, roadblocks. It was her turf. Here she was lost They had no road, only what they carved out of the forest. Jack banked hard on the steering wheel, taking the vehicle into a ravine, and abruptly braked. She was slung forward and thrown back into her seat. She closed her eyes for a moment listening for the distant sound. The trees hung over each other here and the Lexus was hidden from the sky.

  Morgan held her breath until she confirmed the sound was receding. The helicopter was going in the opposite direction from the one they were traveling. She glanced at the odometer. Since they left the highway more than twenty-four hours ago, they'd only traveled thirty miles. Sixty miles of prime forest sat between them and their goal.

  "Jack, we have to return to the main road." She spoke logically. Emotions, which rioted through her, were absent from her voice. "At this rate it will take us days to get to Clarksburg, even if you're sure of the direction."

  "I've come to that conclusion myself. If we were here alone and safe, it would be the best route, but with two different factions trying to find us, we need to find the fastest method."

  "Why don't we just call your friend at the CIA and ask them to pick us up?''

  "I thought of that, but. . ." he trailed off.

  "But what?"

  Jack didn't answer. He stared straight ahead looking at nothing.

  "There's something not quite right. I can't put my finger on it. My gut tells me we've got to do this alone."

  His instincts must have paid off in the past. He didn't say it, but she heard it nevertheless.

  "Do you know who is chasing us? I mean both groups?"

  "Only one. I don't know who's behind the second one."

  Morgan thought again about her enemies. She could think of no one, at least no one that had a face. She had taken the papers from Korea along with Hart—her father. She got him out of the jail, but had only been seen by the one guard. Yet he had aided her. Had he told the others who she was? It had been years. Look at where Hart was today, very likely the next U.S. president. Look at the politics of Korea. That guard could have bought himself a higher station with that piece of information. Knowledge of her identity could be the reason the Koreans had her in their sights now.

  But that only accounted for one group of assassins. Had the guard played both sides of the field and sold his information to two political parties? She didn't know, but it was the only thing that made sense.

  Jack's movement caught her attention. He leaned forward and looked up. Nothing could be seen through the trees. Only the slight craning of his head told her he was listening. She strained. No sound. The helicopter was gone.

  But not for long.

  They would circle and circle, expanding their circumference until they spotted the SUV and the two inhabitants.

  Jack started the engine. He pulled out of the trees and through the narrow ravine. Now they were out in the open. Only a few trees helped to keep them shaded. Jack drove with breakneck speed. Morgan gripped the seat arms and often ducked oncoming trees. He was tense and she could see him check the skies and listen for sound as he propelled the Lexus ever closer to the road they had left a day and a night ago.

  When they saw it, a strip of black shining in the sun, they were above it. Jack didn't start downward, but continued parallel, forever checking the sky, until the road and the mountains met. He slipped back through a rail-less outcrop and onto the blacktop. Cars, vans and trucks flirted with his SUV whizzing passed it on their way to distant destinations.

  clarksburg - 40, the sign said. Forty miles. "We're almost there," Morgan breathed.

  Jack nodded.

  Morgan checked the rear windows. There were several cars behind them. Not one looked menacing, but she knew better than to believe the innocence of appearance. Jack too checked the mirrors frequently. Five miles later Morgan relaxed a little.

  Big mistake.

  ***

  "Tighten your seat belt," Jack said needlessly. Since their first encounter with the road and all its surprises Morgan had worn her seatbelt just short of tight enough to slow her circulation.
/>   "What's wrong?"

  "They're back," he said, not differentiating between who "they" were. Were "they" the supporters of the Korean president? Were "they" the opposition to his election? Could "they" be someone altogether different?

  Morgan's head whipped back and forth looking for something, anything. She didn't know what she expected to see.

  "I don't see anything."

  "Right," Jack agreed. "There is no longer any traffic on either side of the roadway."

  Morgan checked the south side of the road. In both directions she saw nothing but the vast, beautiful landscape that should win some kind of highway award. On the north side, again the only vehicle cleaving the wind was the Lexus SUV in which she and Jack traveled.

  "Where do you think they are? Should we get off the road?''

  "We're going in."

  Jack's voice made her look at him. It was cold, hard, determined. His face, even the swollen side, took on the chiseled effect of granite. Whatever was about to happen it was going to happen here.

  "I want you to get down on the floor in the back."

  "No!"

  "Don't argue with me," he shouted. "This time they'll stop at nothing. Now get down."

  Morgan moved then. She skirted around behind his chair. He couldn't see her, but she had picked the best place. She was wedged between his seat and a huge metal crate. There was a strap on the wall that Jack had installed. She didn't ask about it, but he felt her using it to strap herself to the reinforced wall.

  The van was suddenly jolted as a barrage of bullets churned up the dirt and pavement. Along with it came the sound of helicopter blades churning the air. Jack was glad Morgan was behind him. He didn't need the distraction of trying to make sure she was all right while he dodged bullets.

  It was the Apache. Jack was tired of that aircraft tracking them. More than tired, he thought. It loomed in the sky in the path of the SUV, a green bug ready to sting. And this time it had reinforcements. Bullets burst from the onboard guns. Jack ducked, but kept on the straight and narrow. He expected a pellet to hit the windshield, burst the glass and invade the cabin. He wore a bulletproof vest so he was protected from ordinary bullets and if the shooter aimed for his chest. Morgan hadn't protested when he'd insisted she wear one, too.

  Behind him the trucks were back. Two of them rode within the painted lanes and one used the shoulder. Jack knew this group was with the helicopter. It still bothered him that the others had shot at them. It had given Morgan the cover she needed to get away, but they weren't with these guys. Having two sets of killers out there was disorienting. He needed to deal with these now.

  Not without surprises, Jack had given Burton and Tilden instructions on what he wanted in the SUV and they had delivered. He wouldn't mind having them around to back him up.

  The helicopter hung lower. It was coming in for another bullet run. Jack saw the gunwales begin to turn. He wouldn't wait for another burst. He'd let them feel his sting. Flipping open the specially installed panel on the console that separated the two front seats, Jack hit the red button. On both sides of the van panels opened. Each held a rocket. The navigational system activated, targeting the flying aircraft. Jack hit the green button once and one of the missiles fired. He felt the drag on the van as it took off. It pulled the van to the left, spinning it across the road, out of control. Jack gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought he'd pull the heavy plastic circle off the column. He tried to fight the ricocheting effect that threw the van back and forth across the double lanes as if some magnet attracted the metal body on one side of the road then the other in a zigzagging, crisscrossing pattern.

  Before he regained control, he saw his missile clip its target. "Damn," Jack cursed. It hadn't been a direct hit, but it set the helicopter into a gyro spin. The bird spun around as much out of control as the van. The pilot worked feverishly to keep the bird in the air. It lost altitude. The Lexus careened toward it, three thousand pounds of forged metal at seventy miles an hour. Collision was imminent. Behind them the three trucks brought up the rear, pinning them in like cellar rats.

  Jack swerved hard. The helicopter sat down sideways on the pavement, its bulk dropping fast in a test that was never part of any performance evaluation of the bird's air-worthiness. Jack turned the steering wheel while practically standing on the brakes. He could see the gray-white smoke from the tires, smell the burning rubber as friction between the pavement and the tires disagreed in heated proportions.

  The vehicle spun completely around, avoiding the bird, coming to a stop three feet from contact. The Apache was behind him. Its guns were out of position, pointing at the median that divided the highway.

  One rotor was bent askew in an angle that had it touching the ground like a balancing rod. The Apache was down and out.

  The trucks bore down on them. They had a minute perhaps before they got there. Jack switched from brake to accelerator. The SUV lurched forward.

  "Jack, what's happening?" Morgan asked.

  "Stay put," he ordered, forgetting she was even in the vehicle. "We're going to play chicken." He muttered the last to himself.

  He hadn't done this in years, but he was banking on human nature and the instinct for self-preservation in his enemies. Jack pressed the accelerator harder, increasing his speed. The three trucks in front of him came toward him at a speed equal to his own. Jack stared at them, rushing down the center of the two lanes. If one of them didn't chicken out and swerve their vehicle right or left, they'd have a head-on collision.

  He didn't think about anything beyond the speed. The air whistled outside the Lexus. The sound was high pitched and whining as if he was hurting it as he cut through it. Fifty feet, he estimated. This was usually where the average driver peeled off. These were not average drivers.

  Forty feet.

  Thirty feet.

  Still they came forward. Jack held his position. He selected another button on the panel and poised his finger over it

  "Jack." He felt Morgan look around his seat, trying to see through the front windshield.

  "Get back," he shouted, pressing the button and letting go a barrage of gunfire that struck the ground in front of the processional.

  Twenty feet.

  The middle truck driver caved. Pulling his steering wheel to the left, he forced the truck next to him off the road. The two of them collided. The sound of metal mangling was loud as the two vehicles pitched through the guardrail and skidded down the side of the mountain.

  Jack didn't brake. He continued traveling south, the opposite direction of the one he wanted to go. Checking his mirror, he saw the final truck swinging around and giving chase. Jack hit the brakes. The resulting squeal of tires and defiance of the laws governing bodies in motion had the Lexus spinning in circles. Plastic boxes, sleeping bags and supplies spilled about the inner space. For a moment he thought of Morgan. Had anything hit her? He couldn't look back. He couldn't take his hands off the steering wheel.

  The truck bore down on him. Chicken wouldn't work this time. This time skill and luck would determine the victor. Jack was a good driver. He'd driven over sand, mud, through mosquito-ridden swamps, on the speedways of the world's top sports arenas and through the traffic of major highways. This fight wouldn't be won by the better driver, but by the one with the best wits and the most luck. He was determined to stand in that winner's circle.

  Only a hundred yards separated them. He could see someone hang out the window and take a shot. Jack flinched to the side. The bullet struck the windshield. It shattered. His hand instinctively came up to protect his face. The sudden burst of wind took his breath.

  Loose papers flew about the small cabin. Unidentified debris scuttled about the floor. A Styrofoam cup struck his foot. He ignored it. What he couldn't ignore was Morgan's voice.

  "That's it," she shouted.

  Jack heard her moving.

  "What are you doing?"

  Morgan didn't answer. Several seconds went by. She scrambled toward the
back of the vehicle. He didn't know what she was doing. He glanced toward the rearview mirror, only to discover it had fallen to the floor when the glass shattered. More bullets chipped the ground in front of the van. He swerved left and right. Morgan would be thrown against the walls if she didn't hit one of the containers that he'd packed food and supplies in. Jack repeated the spray of bullets. They crossed the front of the approaching vehicle level with the lights. Bulbs burst in small explosions. The truck crunched over the glass, although Jack could not hear it. It continued its suicide run straight for him.

  The deafening sound of gunfire came from behind him. A tire blew and the on-coming truck defied gravity as it jumped in the air. Morgan knelt in the open column of space, a high-powered rifle at her shoulder. Jack pulled to the left. The truck completed its arc on the right. It bounced, leaping into the air like a metallic ballet dancer yet to learn the graceful steps of the dance. Rubber tires came off at odd angles, bouncing and rolling across the highway. Metal bumpers were ripped away as the truck continued its odd streak along the roadway. Tripping over its own feet, it caught a fender piece that had broken loose. The truck flipped on its side, its weight carrying it completely over. Skidding along, creating a sparkle of fire-blue streaks as metal and roadway fought for dominance. The truck moved onward toward Jack and Morgan.

  "Get down," he shouted to Morgan. "It's going to be close." Morgan dashed behind his seat and held on. He felt her hands at his waist as she gripped the sides of his chair.

  Jack turned the steering wheel as hard as he could. The truck rushed in a straight line directly across the highway. "Here's where the luck comes in," he murmured. The truck headed on an irrevocable angle that would cross paths with their own. He prayed there was time to get out of the way.