Zero Separation (36 page)

In his rearview mirror he watched as the emergency vehicles began to arrive at what was left of the
da Vinci
. Every cop car in the area was headed toward the
da Vinci
, except the one he'd seen earlier—the one he was sure Strauss was driving. It had to be him, Donovan thought, which meant that Strauss was also listening to a police radio and was once again armed. If Strauss heard anything on the radio about him driving a police vehicle, it would be a simple matter for him to pull over some unsuspecting motorist and hijack another car, most likely killing that person in the process. It was the same maneuver he'd pulled in Florida after killing Sasha.

Donovan roared onto the Dulles Greenway and shot through the E-Z Pass lane and swung into the left lane. As he hit ninety, he found nothing in his rearview mirror but the night. Strauss was nothing if not a consummate planner. Donovan had seen it in the way he flew, the way he'd stolen two Gulfstreams—the way he'd used Montero. Strauss was going to land the
da Vinci
at Manassas,
so he obviously had an escape already planned from there, which was now compromised. Donovan was positive that Strauss would have another exit strategy planned for himself—his emergency backup plan.

The Chevy's speedometer climbed past one hundred miles per hour as Donovan searched the road ahead for the blue-and-white squad car. Donovan knew most of the men and women on the Dulles police force and had for years. For Strauss to have escaped as quickly as he did, Donovan could only assume the worst. He'd probably killed the officer in the cruiser who'd responded to the crash. Donovan eyed Montero's Glock that he'd set on the passenger's seat. He'd already fired three times. He had no idea how many bullets remained. He wished she were here now. This was her game, not his.

The cough started deep in his chest and caught him by surprise. He put his fist to his mouth and rode through the spasms until his sternum hurt and his eyes watered. In the distance, just above the trees, he saw the flash of a green light followed by a white one—the rotating beacon that marked the Leesburg airport. Donovan braked hard and pulled to the shoulder. He swung the Trailblazer off into the grass, through a ditch, and up onto the frontage road that led to the airport. The shortcut shaved precious minutes and he floored the Chevy toward the airport entrance.

Leesburg, like many satellite airports, didn't have enough traffic to warrant a control tower. It would be exactly the setup Strauss would want. Donovan killed his headlights and drove toward the parking lot of Landmark Aviation, the primary operator at the airport. As he'd expected, everything looked closed.

Donovan powered down the window to listen. Just beyond a chain-link fence sat twenty or thirty small airplanes, mostly single-engine propeller types. The only sound Donovan heard was the gentle crunch of the Chevy's tires on the pavement. Across the parking lot, away from the building, Donovan spotted the police cruiser.

Donovan eased to a stop. He picked up the gun and used the
butt to smash the overhead dome light—no use giving Strauss a lighted target.

He slid out of the car, staying as low as he could as he ran. Besides the distant sounds from the main road, all he heard was the ticking of the Chevy's engine and the pulsing noise from the summer insects. Leading with the Glock, he went to the passenger's side of the cruiser. In the seat, slumped sideways in a bloody uniform, was a Dulles police officer. Donovan recognized the dead man as Bobby Henderson, a veteran of the force. He tried the door and found it was locked, as was the door on the driver's side. There was no one else in the vehicle.

Staying in the shadows, Donovan snuck to the chain-link fence where he waited, looked, and listened. He was about to climb over when the sound of a rattling chain drifted in the wind, catching his attention. He scrambled over the fence and dropped to the other side. Donovan ran to the first row of planes and found they were tied to the ground by chains, not rope. All of the airplanes were secured by chains, and somewhere across the six acres of aircraft, the sound he'd heard was Strauss untying an airplane so he could escape.

Donovan kept his ears tuned for any sound that would steer him closer. He stayed low, and quickly went from one plane to another, searching each row in the darkness. He knelt by the tail of a plane as his breath caught in his throat. He buried his face in his hands, but there wasn't anything more he could do. Like before, the cough erupted from deep in his lungs, ripping at his chest and shattering the silence.

Three quick gunshots rang out. The first two slugs punched holes in the metal next to him, but the third bullet slammed into his left shoulder and knocked him backward against the fuselage of the small plane. Donovan rolled away as two more shots sounded in the night. He struggled to his feet and ran. He wanted to return fire, but he hadn't seen a muzzle flash so he had no idea where Strauss was hiding.

Donovan had used the labyrinth of airplanes and tie-downs to
separate himself from Strauss. He felt weak, sick to his stomach, and collapsed to the pavement. His shoulder burned and when he touched it, he could feel the sticky warmth of blood. The hollow feeling and chills told him he was in danger of going into shock. The cough that had given him away was probably from the anthrax exposure. He'd gambled everything in his effort to catch Strauss, and he may have paid for his efforts with his life.

The sound of an airplane starter shattered the calm. The engine chugged once, twice, and then caught as it roared to life. Donovan forced himself to his feet; by the sound of the airplane, Strauss was at least a hundred yards away.

Donovan began to run in the opposite direction—toward the parking lot. Each footfall resonated painfully up through his legs to his shoulder. He pushed himself harder as he heard Strauss rev the airplane's engine. Donovan looked back at the ramp and caught the tail of a Cessna as it rolled forward out of its parking spot. Now he knew where Strauss was. The pain in his shoulder snapped his head frontward and his hand shot to his collarbone and the wetness there. An overhead light let him see that the left shoulder of his shirt was saturated with blood.

As he neared the fence, he gathered speed and leaped, using the right side of his body to take the initial impact. He cried out in pain as he slammed into the chain-link barrier. He used his good hand to clutch the top rail and pull hard while his feet found purchase against the fence. With his legs kicking, he rolled over the top and dropped to the grass below, the pain reverberating through his entire body. He stumbled the last few yards to the Chevy, making sure the gun was still tucked into his belt.

The Trailblazer cranked immediately and Donovan threw it into reverse, backed up, mashed the brakes, threw it into drive, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The SUV shot forward, jumped the curb, and plowed through the fence. Donovan could hear part of the chain-link fence dragging beneath the car and in his rearview mirror he found a shower of sparks.

He raced across the ramp and tried to spot Strauss. He roared
down the rows of neatly secured airplanes. As he neared the end, he braked heavily and then burst free of the airplanes and out onto the taxiway that paralleled Leesburg's single runway. Off to his right, nearing the far end of the runway, was the Cessna. Donovan swore as he spun the wheel and floored it once again—Strauss was farther away than he'd have guessed.

As the Chevy hit eighty, whatever was dragging underneath snapped free, and the SUV surged forward as he quickly roared through one hundred miles per hour. The Cessna was pointed away from him, still moving down the taxiway. In the dark, running without lights, Donovan hoped he had at least a small element of surprise. He watched as Strauss abruptly turned the Cessna and swung out onto the runway. Startled, Donovan understood that Strauss wasn't going to taxi all the way to the end of the runway. He didn't need the full length. He was going to start his takeoff from there. Strauss kept the airplane moving as he began his takeoff roll. Donovan kept the accelerator pressed firmly to the floor.

The Cessna leaped forward as Strauss added full power. Donovan dismissed thoughts of using the Glock, made one final decision, then gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. In a matter of seconds it would be too late to do anything to stop Strauss. The SUV slowed dramatically, and Donovan wheeled the SUV ninety degrees to the left until he was pointed at the runway. He floored the Chevy. Now there was nothing between him and the approaching Cessna except a narrow strip of grass.

Coming from right to left, the speeding Cessna hurtled closer. The spinning prop sliced through the air at twenty-four hundred rpm. The Chevy bucked over the grass until it found the edge of the runway. Everything seemed to slip into slow motion as Donovan realized he'd judged it perfectly. The last thing he saw through the windshield was the image of Strauss, a shocked expression frozen on his face as the Trailblazer ripped into the Cessna just behind the passenger compartment.

Donovan sought refuge below the line of the dashboard and closed his eyes as the windshield imploded and the sound of tearing
metal and a roaring aircraft engine filled his ears. The detonation of the airbag was like a gunshot as the solid frame of the Chevy sliced through the thin aluminum skin of the Cessna and burst through to the other side of the runway. The Chevy lurched sideways and Donovan grabbed the steering wheel just as the vehicle skidded off the pavement onto the grass. He slammed on the brakes, brought the Chevy under control, and rode it across the rough ground until the Trailblazer slid to a stop on the wet grass.

Over his shoulder, Donovan watched the wreckage of the Cessna careen down the runway. The wings had ripped free and the tail was a shredded mess. Donovan had caught the Cessna exactly where he'd aimed, where the fuselage was thinnest. He'd punched straight through and not gotten tangled up with the wreckage. Surprisingly, there was no fire.

Donovan found the Glock, opened the driver's side door and staggered uneasily toward the Cessna. He had to stop for a fit of coughing, but he finally made it to what was left of the cockpit. In the growing light from the coming sunrise he spotted Strauss, still strapped into the pilot's seat. The door of the Cessna, as well as most of the metal on that side of the plane, was stripped away. Donovan could hear the muted law enforcement transmissions from a walkie-talkie somewhere inside the wrecked cockpit.

Strauss's eyes were closed and at first Donovan thought he was dead—until he blinked and groaned as if he were just regaining consciousness. Donovan raised his gun and leveled it at Strauss as he moved closer to locate the radio. Before Donovan could react, a flash of steel whipped across his right wrist and the Glock dropped harmlessly to the ground. Donovan twisted away from Strauss, but not before the Israeli's stiletto flashed again, this time leaving a deep gash in the flesh of his right thigh. Donovan staggered backward out of range and discovered that his wrist was squirting blood. He clamped his hand around the pulsating wound and dropped to his knees.

He waited for Strauss to come at him again. His knife was poised, ready to strike, but he didn't move. His lower torso was
twisted at an odd angle and his right knee was bent in the wrong direction. Strauss hadn't come after him because he couldn't, he could only glare at him, his eyes filled with a killer's thirst for violence. Donovan spotted the Glock. It was lying on the ground between himself and Strauss.

“Give it up, Nash. You're bleeding to death.”

“You're the only one dying here tonight,” Donovan said as he struggled forward on his knees. “Montero's still alive and so am I.”

“You're lying. She's dead.”

Donovan inched toward the Glock. If he wanted to pick up the gun, he needed to hurry. He'd have to reach in with his left hand, the one Strauss had run a screwdriver through, which meant releasing the pressure on his severed right wrist, which meant more blood loss.

“You're going to bleed out before you can do anything to me.” Strauss said. “I might not get away—but I'll outlive you.”

At the taunts, Donovan felt his rage surge through his battered body and override everything. He let go of his damaged wrist and reached out for the pistol. Strauss swung wildly with the knife but Donovan stayed below the murderous arc. Severed artery pumping out blood, his fingers touched the barrel. He managed to lock them around the steel and pull the pistol toward him. He rolled away, and immediately pressed his spurting wrist tight against his chest to try and staunch the flow of blood. He raised himself up and aimed the gun. Donovan was rewarded by the expression of resignation and defeat on Strauss's face.

His vision became blurry and Donovan lost focus. He swayed backward, losing his balance. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but nothing happened. He didn't possess the strength. He was about to tumble backward when someone steadied him from behind.

“I've got you,” Lauren said as she eased her husband to the ground and clamped a hand around Donovan's open artery. “Stay with me. Can you get up? My cell phone's dead.”

“Plane… police radio,” Donovan said his voice not much more than a whisper. “Strauss… knife.”

Lauren slid the Glock from Donovan's hand, raised it with both hands and fired three rounds straight into Strauss's chest. The Israeli's head slumped forward and the stiletto tumbled harmlessly to the ground.

“Stay with me, Donovan,” Lauren said as she dropped the gun to the ground. “I need you to stay awake. Can you use your good hand on your wrist while I find the radio?”

Donovan let her guide his hand over the wound, and he pressed with what little strength he had while she retrieved the radio. She returned and resumed the pressure.

“All units, all units,” Lauren transmitted in the blind. “Leesburg airport, shots fired, officer down, need immediate helicopter medevac.”