The Shadow Protocol (62 page)

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 Nationals’ baseball stadium passed on Adam’s right as he raced up Capitol Street. He visualized DC’s street map. Harper’s experience helped him pick out a route, decades of working inside the Beltway as useful as any satnav. Follow Capitol, then cut diagonally across the street grid on Washington Avenue before heading west along the south side of the Mall until he reached 17th Street. The Eisenhower Building was then just a few blocks due north. About three miles. Even though the streets were still busy, he was only minutes from his objective …

Pulsing lights in the distance ahead warned him that he would have to change his route. A police car was tearing down Capitol Street toward him.

N Street crossed Capitol at the next intersection. The cops were still a couple of blocks away. He took a left, screeching through the junction. The road was much narrower than the one he had left, but at least this time there was no traffic. Small two-story houses flicked by. He needed to turn back to the north—

A pickup truck backed out of an alley directly into his path.

Parked cars on each side left him nowhere to turn. He braked hard, the tires leaving smoking black lines along the asphalt. But they still couldn’t stop him in time—

The Mustang was doing about fifteen miles per hour when it hit the pickup. The impact threw Adam forward. With the deflated air bag hanging limply from the steering wheel, there was nothing to stop him from cracking his head against the hub. He slumped back into the seat, dazed by pain.

The engine stalled. He tried to focus, putting a hand to his aching head and feeling dampness. There was a red smear on the flaccid air bag. A paralyzing nausea rolled over him as he tried to raise a hand to restart the car.

A middle-aged black man scrambled out of the pickup
and stared in dismay at his vehicle’s crumpled side before turning to Adam in anger. “Hey! What the hell? Look what you’ve done, you asshole!”

Adam took several deep breaths, forcing back the sickening dizziness. His fingers found the override in the ignition. He turned it. Something in the engine bay clattered alarmingly, but then the V8 burbled back to life. He put the gearshift into reverse.

“Oh
hell
no you don’t!” cried the pickup driver, reaching for his door handle. “You ain’t going anywhere!”

Adam reached into his jacket as if about to draw a gun. The other man retreated, worried. “Sorry, I don’t have time to exchange insurance details,” Adam said as he applied power. The Mustang briefly resisted before jerking away from the pickup, leaving a chunk of its radiator grille embedded in the truck’s mangled bodywork. One of the headlights was broken.

He reversed until he reached a gap between the parked cars, then swung up onto the sidewalk to get around the obstacle. The man yelled impotent abuse after him.

A siren behind grew louder. Adam checked the mirror. One of the Suburbans made a slithering turn off Capitol, the blue lights in its grille blazing.

He shoved his foot down, snatching rapidly up through the gears as he powered along the sidewalk and swung back onto the road. The SUV followed, gaining rapidly. The Mustang had suffered mechanical damage—it was only subtle, but Adam could feel that it was less responsive than before.

Another intersection ahead. He threw the car to the right, heading north—realizing too late that he was going the wrong way up a one-way street.

Headlights came at him.

He swung the Mustang to the left—then veered sharply back to the right as the other driver panicked and swerved across his path. The two cars missed by inches. He looked back, hoping that the Suburban’s route was blocked, but there was just enough room for the SUV to slip by.

Someone leaned from the side window. Fallon. Laser light stabbed from his MP5 as he aimed at the fleeing Mustang.

Adam jerked the wheel left as Fallon fired. Bullets seared past. Another burst as the soldier adjusted his aim, and the Mustang echoed with the hammering hailstone
plunk-plunk-plunk
of rounds tearing through sheet metal. Adam flinched, but the shots didn’t hit him.

He was not unhurt, though. His left eye suddenly stung. Blood from the cut on his forehead was running down his face. He wiped it away, but realized from the size of the stain on his hand that the flow was not going to stop.

Traffic ahead. He was approaching the intersection with M Street, cars crossing his path in both directions.

A dazzling red dot fluttered across the dashboard. Adam ducked as Fallon leaned farther out and fired again. More sharp thumps of impact—and the right side of the windshield crazed as a hole was punched through it.

The Mustang reached the junction. Left or right?

Neither
.

Adam braced himself and plowed straight across, aiming for what he hoped would remain a gap.

Horns blared, brakes squealed—then the Mustang lurched as a car clipped its back end. A sharp yank at the wheel and he regained control, checking the mirror—

The car that had nicked him spun like a top as Fallon’s Suburban slammed into it. The SUV skidded around—then flipped on its side, crushing Fallon beneath it and smearing him over the road before rolling onto its roof. It smashed into a streetlamp, practically folding in half around it.

Two down.

But there remained one to go. Baxter was still behind him, the last Suburban refusing to give up its prey.

The Mustang tore past a fire station, men already running out to help the crash victims. He looked ahead. The street ended at a T-junction. He slowed to turn west, feeling a shiver through the steering. The latest collision had
added to his ride’s woes. Damage to the suspension, or one of the wheels; either way, he couldn’t keep going much longer.

But he didn’t have to. Only a couple more miles.

If he could survive them.

Adam glimpsed a sign:
I STREET
. His mental map of the city warned him that he was in a minor maze of residential roads, with few direct connections to the major arteries he needed to reach. Heading north would only take him deeper into the tangled grid. But if he turned
south
at the western end of I Street, he would emerge on Maine Avenue. From there, he could follow the road northwest past the Washington Monument directly to 17th Street—and then it was a straight run north to the Eisenhower Building.

Where Sternberg was waiting.

The thought galvanized him. He wiped more blood from his eye and accelerated, weaving past trundling traffic. The junction was just ahead.

And Baxter was behind.

Like the Mustang, the last Suburban had lost a headlight. The cyclopean glare in the mirror was briefly lost to view as he made the turn south, then returned, closing in.

Adam swung right and poured on the power to make a sweeping entry onto Maine Avenue. He forced his way into the traffic, leaving a trail of swerving and skidding cars in his wake.

Reed navigated them all, the SUV’s siren howling a warning for other drivers to clear the way. Baxter brought up his MP5 again. The laser’s dot darted over the surrounding vehicles as Adam wove the Mustang through the shoal.

The speedometer rose—sixty, seventy. But the Suburban was keeping pace—and the shudder through the steering column was getting worse, the Mustang twitching and wavering.

Laser flare in the mirror as the SUV found a gap in the traffic and swung in behind the speeding Ford. There was a car to Adam’s left, forcing him to go right to evade—directly across Baxter’s line of fire.

The red glare was overpowered by stuttering muzzle flash. More shots struck the Mustang—then the entire windshield imploded, crystalline fragments flying back into Adam’s face in the eighty-mile-per-hour slipstream.

He instinctively shut his eyes to protect them from the hard-edged cascade, then forced them open again. He had to squint into the slashing wind—and the first thing he saw was a set of taillights rushing at him.

He swerved—finding another car already there.

The two vehicles caromed off each other with a crunch of metal, the second car bounding up over the central reservation. Adam hauled the wheel again to slot into its space, missing the slower vehicle ahead by a hair.

The road dropped into a tunnel beneath the Southwest Freeway. He pulled back into the rightmost lane, putting the car he had just passed between the Mustang and the Suburban. That gave him a few seconds’ respite.

He would need it. There was a tight turn coming up.

The Mustang emerged from the underpass—and immediately shot through a red light. Adam spun the wheel, bringing the car screaming through the traffic crossing the intersection and down the exit to the left, tearing alongside the monolithic block of the Federal Communications Commission. The road rapidly merged back onto another section of Maine Avenue … one leading to 17th Street.

Only a mile to go.

The Suburban reappeared behind him, barging a car aside. Baxter was getting increasingly desperate to stop him, putting civilians at risk. Harper’s part of Adam’s psyche tried to defend the collateral damage:
The ends
justify the means
. Adam didn’t accept that, but in this case he had no choice but to do whatever was necessary to reach Sternberg.

The road passed under two bridges. Another red light ahead, cars slowing in all three lanes—

Despite knowing the damage it could cause, Adam swerved up onto the central divider to get past them. The Mustang’s suspension protested with a loud bang—then there was another crack of metal as the car hit a street sign, shearing its pole off at the base. He flinched as the sign flew at him, flipping up over the shattered windshield and clanging off the roof.

He veered right to avoid a streetlight and crashed back onto Maine Avenue. Baxter’s SUV followed. The illuminated spire of the Washington Monument pierced the night sky above the trees ahead.

The vibration grew worse. One of the Mustang’s wheels was definitely damaged. But he had to keep going. Back up to sixty, weaving through the traffic.

The laser swept through the car—

Pain exploded in his right arm.

Adam screamed. More bullets clattered against the Mustang as it veered out of control and ran up onto the grass. A tree loomed in the headlight beam. He somehow found the strength to overcome the agony and turned the wheel. The trunk whipped past.