Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  So Flynn went along with the lawyer’s suggestion to meet down at his office tomorrow. Better to play it by the book at this point and live another day. If the lawyer wasn’t going to raise a stink about taking Fend to the safe house for questioning, that was a good thing. The judge’s office was due to call back any minute.

  Special Agent Flynn didn’t know what would make someone like Max Fend get involved with organized crime rings out of Eastern Bloc nations. But that’s what his file said. Fend had taken meetings with people who were involved in arms dealing, drugs, and human trafficking. He had close ties to some less-than-reputable Middle Eastern businessmen. Some were even on terrorist watch lists.

  He was also plugged in to the young elite European crowd. Wealthy twenty- and thirty-somethings not unlike himself. Lots of flashy cars and pretty girls. Fend liked to have a good time, apparently. He worked as some type of high-end consultant—wheeling and dealing and living the high life in the South of France. Why he cavorted with criminals, Flynn didn’t know.

  When the FBI asked Special Agent Flynn to investigate the potential hacking incident at Fend Aerospace last week, he would never have guessed that it would lead back to Charles Fend’s own son. But that’s what the evidence was telling him. The Cyber Division was dependable. They could really work some magic with their computers. And the more Flynn read up on Max Fend, the more it all fit into place.

  Flynn had come so close to arresting him.

  But now, as the brand-new Lexus rounded the first corner—and out of sight—the veteran FBI agent began to panic.

  “Let’s move!” he yelled.

  The group of agents piled into the SUVs and chased after them. A few seconds later, they could see the Lexus, racing through the streets of D.C.

  Flynn rode shotgun. “There! They just took a turn.”

  “I got ’em, I got ’em.”

  He flipped on the blue light and siren and called it in to the D.C. police and US Secret Service, since they were driving right near the White House.

  “Suspect is a white male, about six feet tall, medium build. Driving a maroon Lexus sedan…now turning onto…”

  “Constitution,” the other agent said.

  “Constitution Avenue. Request immediate backup and pursuit.”

  The D.C. dispatcher relayed the message, and the Washington streets came alive with police and federal agencies. Two minutes later, a Maryland State Police helicopter was en route.

  Flynn smiled.

  What a piece of work. Who the hell thinks he can run from the FBI in the middle of Washington, D.C.?

  Max was pressed back into his seat at the unexpected acceleration.

  The lawyer glanced in his rearview mirror as he drove.

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important. This is: don’t let yourself be taken into custody again, understand? They might not have enough to arrest you with right now, but they will. That’s what I’m being told.”

  “Told by whom?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The Lexus’s engine roared as the driver swerved through the busy D.C. traffic. Max held on to the door handle and his seat, tensing his legs against the floor for stability. He could see blue flashing lights both in front of and behind them.

  His body jerked to the right as the driver took a hard left turn on Fourteenth Street.

  “Why is someone trying to set me up?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  The driver reached in the backseat and threw a small backpack on Max’s lap. “Here. Put this jacket on. Make sure you leave your phone and any electronic devices in this vehicle. You know the drill.” The man smiled.

  With the smile was an unspoken acknowledgment that he knew about Max’s background.

  “Got it,” Max said, a twinge of apprehension in his voice.

  He unzipped the backpack. Two phones. A gun, with several magazines taped together. A Ziploc bag filled with cash, prepaid debit cards, and false IDs. All with Max’s face. He examined one of them. It was quality work. Must have taken a while. How long had they been planning this?

  The driver took a hard right on Constitution Ave. The Washington Monument was out the left side of the window now. The speedometer read over eighty miles per hour, the slow-moving traffic whipping by as the sedan zigged and zagged in between lanes.

  He was a good driver. But also a little lucky. They barely missed hitting a woman crossing the street. She had been looking down at her cell phone.

  “Put this on.”

  The man handed Max a large black motorcycle helmet. Tinted visor. Max did as he instructed.

  By the time they took the circle around the Lincoln Memorial, the police cars were pretty far behind them. But Max wasn’t worried about the ones behind them. He could see blue flashing lights and halted traffic on the bridge crossing the Potomac.

  Max said, “Tell me you aren’t going for one of the bridges.”

  “Not yet.”

  The Lexus swerved around the circle and jerked to the right, going off the road at over fifty miles per hour.

  “Wait,” Max said, realizing where they were going.

  The ground in front of them dropped off into a steep incline. Max couldn’t see what was beyond.

  “Hey…wait…”

  It looked like they were about to go off a steep drop-off in the road, heading towards the Potomac.

  “Hold on,” said the driver.

  The Lexus launched over the long concrete set of stairs that led down to Ohio Drive, twenty feet below. The sedan crunched into the bottom of the stone steps and skidded into the ground as the driver turned left and braked.

  It wasn’t enough to stop the collision. They hit a Mercedes sedan first. Sideswiped it while going about thirty-five miles per hour. Max jolted around in his seat. He clenched his teeth so that he wouldn’t bite his tongue in the crash. Another car bumped them from behind, its driver pumping her fist.

  Drivers slammed on their horns as the Lexus momentarily came to a halt. The man in the Mercedes started to get out of his car, furious and swearing. But Max’s driver just put his car in reverse and backed up a few feet, shoveling the car to the rear. It cleared enough space for them to break free. He drove forward, leaving the angry drivers behind.

  They raced to a spot only fifty yards away, under the bridge.

  “Alright, listen up. You have a heads-up display on the inside of your helmet. Do you understand what that is?”

  Max couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Yes.”

  “It’s going to project turn-by-turn navigation onto your visor. That will tell you where you’re supposed to go. The other bikes are going to leave you and rejoin you at various spots. That will ensure that you can’t be followed.”

  “Other bikes?”

  “Yeah. Now get out.”

  Max opened his door and stepped out under the overpass formed by the Arlington Memorial Bridge. The Lincoln Memorial was just behind them. Cars’ tires thumping overhead on the bridge.

  He now wore the black leather jacket and a black motorcycle helmet, visor down. The sedan driver was dressed the same. So were two others, already waiting in the shadows of the bridge. They straddled identical black Ducati motorcycles.

  Max’s heart beat faster as he saw the two empty bikes.

  One of the bikers yelled, “Bloody hurry up. We’ve only got a few seconds before the police arrive. Whatever you do, make sure you keep up.”

  The Maryland State Police helicopter flew over the Potomac just as the Lexus barreled into traffic.

  The pilot looked down through his chin bubble—the glass window by his feet. “That’s them, right?”

  The copilot said, “Looks like it. Idiot just wrecked his car, and he’s still not stopping.”

  “Can’t see him anymore. He just drove under the bridge tunnel. Hold on, I’m coming around left.”

  “Roger, coming left.”

  As they maneuvered, four black motorcycles shot out from undern
eath the bridge and began speeding down the road that paralleled the Potomac River.

  “You see that?” said the pilot. He stayed over the river, turning the aircraft to follow the motorcycles.

  “Yeah. Those guys are really moving,” said the copilot.

  The pilot said into his radio, “Dispatch, Maryland State Helicopter 223 is just west of the Lincoln Memorial. We have four black motorcycles heading north at over seventy miles per hour and are pursuing them. Recommend—”

  “Hey, they just took the exit…”

  The pilot watched as three of the bikes took the bridge. But one of the motorcycles continued heading west.

  “Shit. Now what do we do?”

  “I’m following the three. We’ll stick with the group and see if we can get a squad car to follow the other.” Dozens of blue lights were converging on the scene. The pilot veered left to stay over the group of three racing bikes.

  “Dispatch, Maryland Helicopter 223…one of the motorcycles is now headed west on Ohio Road, but three of them have taken the Roosevelt Bridge and are now on…uh…stand by…”

  “Another one broke off.”

  “Yeah, thanks man. I can see that.”

  “Dispatch, make that two bikes are on the George Washington Parkway. One has continued south on…stand by…”

  “Now they’re all going in different directions.”

  “Well, shit,” said the pilot. “What the hell…?”

  “Which one are we supposed to follow?”

  “I don’t know. I’m coming up. There are too many tall buildings over here.”

  “We’re gonna lose them.”

  The motorcycle he was following turned into a side street and then took another turn out of view behind a tall building.

  The pilot looked at his copilot. He shook his head.

  “Bud, I think we already did lose them.”

  It had been a while since Max had ridden one of these, but it came back fast enough. His trouble wasn’t riding the Ducati. It was keeping up with the other three riders. They were lightning on wheels. The engines blazed into a fierce, high-pitched whine, the traffic zooming by so fast it felt like Max was traveling in a fighter jet.

  Each rider had a set path. It took a moment for Max to get used to the turn-by-turn navigation being painted up onto his visor by a set of lasers. Max had to train his eyes to continuously flip between the transparent map and the actual outside world as they raced down Ohio Drive, only feet away from the Potomac River.

  Max had done some riding in France. He’d even spent time at a racetrack in Italy once. He wondered if they knew that. They must have. This kind of riding would have been a death sentence to the uninitiated. None of this was a coincidence, Max realized.

  He followed the pack of other bikes, weaving in and around traffic. But as three of them took an exit—which was what his turn-by-turn navigation told him to do—one of the motorcycles peeled left and kept traveling along the road next to the Potomac. They were separating.

  He took a chance and glanced up at the helicopter overhead. It all made sense now. This was the only way they were going to escape so many police, and an aerial pursuit.

  Each route must have been preplanned for this exact situation. They hit speeds over one twenty on the straightaways, the engines making a deep guttural sound. His chest rattling, heart pounding. The high-speed turns forced Max to remember how to hold his body. He leaned forward, his legs straddling the seat, knees bent at a sharp angle, only inches away from the ground.

  The three motorcycles raced over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, weaving in and out of traffic. They bolted around a lone police cruiser, its lights flashing. If he hadn’t been holding on for dear life, he might have laughed at the blurred expression of shock on the police officer’s face as they whizzed by. Max felt sorry for him. He was only trying to do his job.

  But so was Max. And him getting thrown in jail wouldn’t help anyone.

  They sped down Wilson Boulevard, and Max could feel the air pounding against his black leather jacket. His stomach fluttered as he accelerated even faster, the engine screaming. People stared at them as they raced past. But only for a split second. After that, they were gone.

  They were moving so fast that there were no police cars in the area now. Another of the bikes turned and it was just two of them. They raced through Clarendon and then slowed to a mere forty miles per hour as they turned a corner.

  Minutes later, the two other bikes had re-joined them for their entrance into the lower parking garage of Ballston Mall.

  They drove at a normal speed up through the garage, turning and climbing higher and higher, up through the levels of parked cars. The lead bike stopped in the corner of the top level. Very few cars up this high in the garage, and no people around.

  Everyone began taking off their helmets and outerwear. Removing their gloves. Moving fast. No one would look the same when they left. The bikes were parked in a row, lined up neatly next to each other in the corner. No fingerprints or other biometric evidence. Just four black racing bikes in one of the few blind spots in the garage.

  Each of the other three riders left in a different direction. None of them so much as spoke to Max. One of the riders, now wearing a sweater vest and khakis, left via the parking garage stairway. Another rider—a woman in sunglasses and a bland dress—took the elevator. The last rider was the man who had pretended to be the lawyer. He looked completely different now, as he walked through the double glass doors into the Ballston Mall. Hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. A Nationals baseball cap on his head.

  Max stood waiting, watching the only other vehicle nearby. An Audi Q7 SUV that was parked next to the bikes. Tinted windows. Engine running. When the three others were gone, the door opened, and a man got out.

  “She’s all yours, mate,” he said, with a British accent.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do me a favor. Try not to blow this, eh? As I’m not sure you’ll get another chance.”

  Max knew his face. He’d worked with him on an operation in France once. What was his name?

  Max spoke quietly, his voice a whisper. “You’re MI-6, right?”

  The man smiled. “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That was an interesting exit strategy.”

  “One of my personal favorites, now that you mention it.”

  “Who asked you to do it?”

  “Mum’s the word, chap.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me what this is all about?”

  The man took out a piece of paper and handed it to Max. “Call this phone number tomorrow. Six p.m. Eastern. Repeat that back.”

  “Six p.m. Eastern. Tomorrow. Who am I calling?”

  “She’s one of ours. She’ll help you from here on out. And do us a favor and don’t go asking her what you just asked me. You know better.”

  The man patted him on the shoulder and walked through the double doors of the Ballston Mall.

  Max got in the Audi and drove.

  5

  “How did this happen?”

  Special Agent Jake Flynn had never been in the office of the deputy director of the FBI before. Honestly, he’d expected it to be nicer. But it was just as cramped as all the other shithole office space in the J. Edgar Hoover building. Every year they talked about how they were going to start construction on a new FBI headquarters in Maryland or Virginia. But that would require the government to agree on something.

  And the only thing that anyone in the government could agree on right now was that Flynn had screwed up royally.

  “Sir, I apologize. I take full responsibility. We had no reason to believe that Max Fend would flee. A man pretending to be his father’s lawyer came to the safe house where we were questioning him, and—”

  “Why were you questioning him there? Why were you questioning him at all? My understanding was that the NSA and DNI feedback was that the evidence wasn’t strong enough.”

  “Sir, after spe
aking with the Cyber Division and our counterparts in the French government, we were confident that the updated evidence they were about to provide us would be enough to grant a warrant for Max Fend’s arrest. We were already in the process of moving on Fend. I thought there was a chance we might end up charging him with something, so I decided to ask him to voluntarily answer questions at our safe house in D.C.…”

  “Wait. Hold up. You’re saying this man claiming to be a lawyer arrived at one of our D.C. safe houses?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As you were questioning this Fend kid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That didn’t strike you as odd? That he knew your exact address?”

  “In hindsight, sir, it is a bit strange…”

  The deputy director dug his tongue around his lips, breathing out his nose. Flynn figured that he was probably trying to sort out whether to kill him quickly, or slowly.

  “Mr. Flynn, you have made a mess of this. Some guy that you brought in for questioning runs away from you? Fine. Go get ’im. Bring him back in and charge him. But this…this is out of control.”

  He held out his hand, gesturing towards the TV screen in the corner of his office.

  The cable news channels had run nonstop coverage of the footage. Everyone loved a good car chase. A car chase in D.C.? Even better. Throw in four black motorcycles? Now that was viral video gold.

  Since D.C. had countless cameras and tourists with smartphones taking pictures, there was ample video for the networks to use. They kept showing footage of the Lexus sedan getting air as it jumped the concrete stairs next to the Lincoln Memorial. Then the driver and passenger jumped onto four identical black motorcycles that were waiting under the tunnel overpass. The Fox News banner still read, “Car Chase of the Century.” The subheadline read, “Criminal masterminds make their motorbike escape from the FBI.”

  It was humiliating. And nothing pissed off the front office of the FBI like humiliating headlines.