The Shadow Protocol (63 page)

Off the road, without streetlights, he couldn’t see the wound. The bullet had hit his biceps, the muscle on fire. He tried to move his arm. Searing, stinging pain crackled through the nerves—but he still managed to grip the shifter. He changed down, a strained gasp escaping through his gritted teeth. The juddering Mustang found more purchase.

Lights ahead—another road through the park crossing his path. He aimed for a gap in the traffic and braced himself. Another slam came through the tortured suspension as his car hopped the curb and hit the asphalt before pounding back onto the grass at the far side.

The Washington Monument was an unmissable beacon. Adam turned so that it was off to his right and angled through the park toward another thoroughfare. He swung onto it in front of a startled cabdriver.

The pursuing four-by-four had barely been slowed by its off-road excursion as it charged after him. It was still on the grass, Reed running parallel to the road to give Baxter a clear shot. The laser stabbed between the two vehicles. Adam forced another car aside to take cover behind a van.

Baxter fired anyway. Rounds ripped through the van’s sides, mangled bullets smacking against the Mustang’s battered flank. Adam accelerated. The ex-marine unleashed another burst as he emerged, but the shots went wide as Reed was forced to turn sharply to avoid a stand of trees. The Suburban bounced back onto the road behind Adam.

The other cars gave him enough illumination to see blood soaking his sleeve. The bullet had gone through his arm, torn flesh around the exit wound. All he could do to stanch the bleeding was to take the wheel with his right hand, clamping his left over the injury.

The burst of pain was so intense that Adam thought he was going to pass out—but pure adrenaline forced him on. The road ahead forked. He followed it to the right at well over twice the speed limit, at last on 17th Street.

His final destination was dead ahead.

And the man trying to stop him was closing fast from behind. The one-eyed SUV reappeared in the mirror. Baxter leaned out again. His MP5 spat fire. The window beside Adam blew out, more glass showering him.

He cried out again as he let go of the wound, left hand back on the wheel so he could change gear. The Mustang picked up speed. Taillights rushed at him like meteors. He jinked between them, trying to give himself cover.

No good. He couldn’t shake the Suburban. Reed was an expert driver—and his vehicle was only superficially damaged, while Adam’s own had taken a severe beating.
The Mustang’s engine note became rougher. Warning lights flashed on the dash—temperature, oil pressure.

He willed it on. Only half a mile to go. It
had
to make it!

Buildings ahead as he approached the north side of the Mall—and another red light at the intersection with Constitution Avenue. He pulled out into the oncoming lane to pass the waiting cars—

Someone was crossing the road!

Instinctive terror punched at his heart as he braked and swung wide to avoid the pedestrian. The man’s look of shock as he shot through the headlight beam burned into Adam’s vision like a camera flash. Then he was gone, falling away behind as the Mustang recovered.

The man was silhouetted by the SUV’s lights in Adam’s mirror—

The Suburban didn’t deviate, swatting him aside. The dark figure tumbled along the road like a rag doll.

Horrified, Adam looked ahead—and felt another shot of fear.

Flashing lights ran across 17th Street a few blocks away. A police barricade, multiple cars and vans lined up across his path.

Inevitable
, Harper told him smugly.
The Eisenhower Building is right by the White House. Of course they’re going to stop you getting anywhere near it
.

But the cops were less of a threat than Baxter. The Suburban drew in, engine snarling. Adam tried to accelerate again, but the crippled Mustang was sluggish. All he could do was keep weaving as he powered up 17th Street, trying to shake off the laser sight.

It was impossible. The SUV loomed ever larger in the mirror—and then Adam’s rearview disintegrated as a bullet hit it, more rounds ripping into the roof and seats.

Buildings blurred past on the left. To the right was open parkland, but if he tried to escape that way it would lead him straight into the gunsights of the men guarding the southern perimeter of the White House.

He was out of options. The roadblock was coming up fast, past the intersection with E Street. The only way he could go was left, but that would take him away from Sternberg—and with Baxter right on him and the Mustang almost finished, he wouldn’t get far.

Escape, how to escape …

No.
Attack
.

A large panel van was waiting on E Street at the intersection, blocking Adam’s view of the building behind it.

His view—and Baxter’s.

Last chance—

Adam threw the Mustang into what he knew would be its final corner, the wounded vehicle’s pain as clear as his own. He passed the van’s front—then pulled on the hand brake.

The car went into a spin, its tail flying out wide. He controlled it, feathering the throttle as the Mustang whipped around through a full 270 degrees. Its momentum sent it skittering backward behind the van—then he stamped the pedal all the way to the floor. The rear wheels shrieked, belching out vortices of stinking smoke as they scrabbled for a grip.

They found it, arresting the car’s rearward motion—and flinging it forward.

It was the same trick he had used to vanish from Bianca’s sight when she had tailed him from STS what felt like a lifetime ago, making a seemingly impossible turn into the warehouse’s loading dock just before she rounded the corner and reappearing right behind her.

This time, he wasn’t going to give his pursuer a mere nudge.

The Suburban had followed him, Reed and Baxter momentarily confused by his apparent disappearance—before they saw him coming at them from an unexpected direction—

The Mustang rammed the SUV.

Reed’s door caved in, not even the air bags enough to save him from injury. The Suburban slewed around—then
its right rear wheel hit the curb. It flipped over, tumbling along the sidewalk before hitting a tree and spinning back into the road in a spray of glass and leaking fluids, ending up on its crushed side.

Adam’s car fared no better. The collision flung the Mustang onto the sidewalk. It crashed through the hedges outside an art gallery. He braced himself, grabbing the seat belt—but the force of the collision as it slammed sidelong into the building’s wall was enough to dislocate his left shoulder with a hideous crackle of cartilage. He hit the steering wheel again, tearing a deep cut into his cheek.

The engine stalled, the sudden silence almost shocking. He tried to sit upright, only to howl in excruciating pain as nerves scraped in his torn shoulder. He barely heard his own cry through the ringing in his ears. One eye was now blinded by the blood oozing from his forehead. He tried to focus with the other, the cabin swimming into view.

He could still move his right arm, barely. More pain burning through the ripped muscle, he gingerly placed his palm on the center console and levered himself back into his seat.

A blur resolved into the overturned SUV. Passersby looked on in astonishment, unsure what to do. A man ran up to the Suburban, peering inside—then jumped back as someone crawled out through the broken windshield.

Baxter.

One side of his face was covered in rivulets of blood from a ragged cut in his scalp. He lay sprawled on the street for a moment, catching his breath, then stood.

The MP5 was in his hand.

The onlookers hurriedly backed away as Baxter staggered toward the wrecked Mustang. Adam reached into his jacket. His fingers found the disk, still in its case—but he remembered too late that he had given Harper’s gun to Bianca.

Baxter drew closer, cold anger on his face. He was going to finish the job.

Adam fumbled for the door handle. It moved, but only a little. Jammed. He pulled harder, but the damaged mechanism still refused to give. He looked up. Baxter continued to limp toward him.

The laser sight flicked on, the beam rising toward Adam. He heard someone shouting but couldn’t make out the words. The edges of his vision began to roil, darkness growing. His body was desperate to shut down, to stop the pain.

He couldn’t allow it. Not yet. He tugged the handle again, shifting painfully to push at the door with one knee. It still wouldn’t open.

Trapped.

Baxter was only a few yards away, the laser dazzling. Somebody shouted again, more urgently, but the words were still distorted.

Baxter’s bloodied mouth twisted into a victorious smile—

A dark flower burst open on his chest. The former marine staggered, the laser line swinging crazily—and a second entry wound erupted beneath the first. Baxter toppled backward to the ground as blood gushed from the bullet holes.

Adam looked back. Two cops were running toward him, one keeping his smoking gun fixed on the fallen man. The other hurried to the Mustang, pointing his own weapon at its occupant. Words finally resolved through the ringing. “Hands where I can see them!”

Adam tried to respond, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. He slumped, head lolling. The cop shouted again. “Get your hands up!
Now!
” The gun’s muzzle moved closer, the black hole swelling as if to swallow him …

“Don’t shoot!”

A new voice. The cop lowered his gun. Adam gathered all his strength to turn his head. Several men were running around the corner from 17th Street. Most were in dark suits—Secret Service agents, guns at the ready. Among
them was a thinner man, his clothing far more expensively tailored.

Alan Sternberg.

“Call an ambulance!” shouted the national security adviser as the agents spread out to contain the scene. He peered through the Mustang’s window. “Jesus,” he said at the sight of the battered man inside. “Agent Gray? Can you hear me?”

Adam squinted up at him with his one open eye. “Sir, I’ve … got the disk,” he managed to say, reaching weakly into his jacket to produce it. “It’s got … the proof about Harper. Just before the … bombing in Islamabad …”

Sternberg gently took it from him. “If the proof’s on this, we’ll find it.” He looked back at the Secret Service men. “Where’s that damn ambulance?”

Adam’s vision began to tunnel again. He peered past Sternberg toward the intersection. The street was crawling with cops, holding back traffic and pedestrians—but one car had come through. A Cadillac CTS. Harper’s.

The rear window wound down. A face looked out. Even in his state of fading consciousness, Adam still felt the odd, dislocated sensation of seeing himself, as his borrowed persona reacted to the sight of Harper staring back at him. “Sir,” he gasped. “Open the door …”

Sternberg pulled at the handle. The catch finally released. “Someone help me with him!” A pair of agents rushed over to give assistance.

Adam barely held in a pained cry as he was lifted out of the car. His injured left arm hung limply at his side, but he managed to bring his right up to point at the Cadillac. “Harper … over there …”

Sternberg looked around in surprise. He started to speak, only to freeze as he saw Harper emerge from the car with a gun in his hand.

The Secret Service agents saw it too, moving to shield Sternberg. But Harper had already brought his weapon up.

He fired—

Screams came from the onlookers as the white-haired man collapsed beside the limousine, the fire-blackened hole of a bullet wound at point-blank range in his temple.

Adam watched as Harper fell, a mixture of emotions hitting him. Shock at the sight of someone taking his own life; anger that the architect of so many deaths, including Michael Gray’s, had found a cowardly way to escape justice. But he also knew exactly why Harper had done it. His thoughts were clear.
I’m a patriot, right to the end. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect America
. There would be no humiliation of a public trial.

There was another feeling in Adam’s mind, this one all his own.
Completion
. His mission was accomplished.

He could rest. Perhaps forever.

The last thing he saw as his perception faded to an all-consuming nothingness was Bianca climbing out of the Cadillac, her eyes locked fearfully onto his.

Kyle watched gloomily as the Bullpen’s video wall was switched off. “So. We’re suspended. Again.”

“Cheer up, man,” said Levon, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “At least it’s a
paid
suspension.”

“Rather than the ‘thrown in a cell awaiting possible criminal charges’ kind,” Holly Jo added. She gave Morgan an embarrassed look. “Thank you for letting us off with just a reprimand, sir.”

“Don’t think I didn’t consider taking matters further,” Morgan replied sternly. The three young specialists wilted under his gaze—until he unexpectedly winked at them, a small smile breaking through his stony mask.

“Well, I still think it’s an outrage,” said Kiddrick, glaring at him. “I mean, I was
assaulted
in my own office! I suffered injury and emotional trauma, to say nothing of the—”