Stahl knew the police would track him into Holland. They would discover the abandoned police car and the bodies of the middle-aged couple from the Volvo. They might even find something that linked the couple to the Volvo. Then they’d see video of the Volvo crossing the border into Holland.
By now they could be closing in on him. Which is why he would keep Maccabee close by for now. With her at his side, the police wouldn’t risk a full-blown assault or sniper shot.
And soon, he’d be where a sniper shot couldn’t reach him.
* * *
Maccabee knew she couldn’t wait for a chance to escape – she had to create it, maybe even while she was driving.
But how? She was running out of time.
Ahead she saw a thick fencepost next to the road. What if she reached over, unbuckled his seatbelt, then slammed his side of the car into the fencepost? It might incapacitate him long enough for her to escape. The fencepost was coming up fast.
She had to decide!
Then she noticed he had a side-air bag. It would protect him enough to come after her.
She checked his gun in his left hand. He seemed to be holding it less tightly than earlier. Could she reach over and yank it from his hand? She visualized how she would grab it and aim it at his head.
She took her right hand off the wheel and placed it at her side.
Then, as though reading her mind, Stahl switched the gun to his right hand.
Frustrated, she drove ahead.
Maybe she could say she was very sick, about to vomit, then slow the car to a stop, open the door and bolt into a forest. She thought about that a moment, then knew she’d feel bullets enter her back before she got ten feet. Or he’d catch her and beat her again.
She’d have to wait for the right opportunity. One with a better chance of success.
She drove past the Dutch city of Maastricht and continued running parallel to the German border, a few kilometers to the east. Many roads led to the border, but Stahl gave no hint of his plan.
She knew she had to stay calm. She’d tried to not give him any reason to hit her again. She did exactly what he said, drove as he’d directed, at the speed he demanded.
She kept reminding herself that she was sitting next to a stone-cold psychopath. When he’d shot the couple in the Volvo and dragged their bodies into the forest, his expression, and probably his blood pressure, hadn’t changed.
She was his hostage for now… and his next victim the moment he no longer needed her. And she saw no reason he needed her now.
Deep down, she knew that unless she did something first, it was only a matter of time before he killed her…
Donovan flinched when the police radio beeped, shattering the car’s silence.
“Van Kampen here, sir!”
“What’s up?” de Waha said.
“A customs inspector at the Dutch border south of Maastricht saw a dark blue Volvo V70 pass through a while ago. Woman driver. No man in the car. But lots of big suitcases and clothing bags in back.”
“Enough for a man to hide under?”
“Yes.”
“Was she American?” Donovan asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she look part Indian?”
“Well, maybe, but… ”
“But what?”
“He said her hair was blonde.”
“Not Maccabee,” de Waha said.
Donovan’s hope sank. No one spoke for several moments.
“Hang on a second, sir,” Van Kampen grew excited.
Donovan heard him speaking rapid-fire Dutch to someone.
“We got a match, sir!”
“A match… ?”
“The border DVD video just matched the Volvo license plate to the stolen Volvo!”
“But how could it be Maccabee?” de Waha asked.
“She’s wearing one of Stahl’s wigs,” Donovan said, with a gun in her side.”
“What road are they on?” Donovan said.
“E-25, heading north.”
“When did they cross the border into Holland?”
“About… twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Alert all police in the area,” de Waha said. “We are now in pursuit.”
The driver mashed the gas pedal down and Donovan watched the Porsche Turbo speedometer climb to one hundred seventy kilometers per hour in seconds. At this speed, they’d soon reach the beltway around Maastricht.
The problem was which beltway exit did Stahl take? The exits were as numerous as the spokes on a Schwinn tire. One road led to Germany, one into Holland, one toward the Atlantic coast, one back toward Belgium. And several led into Maastricht, a city of one hundred twenty-five thousand… perfect for Stahl to disappear in.
Donovan studied the map. He ran his finger along the E-25 Motorway toward Roermond, then up to the larger city of Venlo, then along the N-278 toward the German border city of Aachen.
Several roads led over to the German border, some only a mile long. But Stahl knew the border officers were on hyper alert for him and an attractive, half-Indian woman. Still, with Maccabee wearing a blonde wig, and Stahl wearing another new disguise, he might risk driving into Germany at a border crossing.
Or safer yet, he might walk into Germany.
Another loud beep from the police car radio.
“Van Kampen, sir. A gas station attendant on the A-73 near Swalmen says he saw a Volvo like the one we’re tracking. A woman fitting Maccabee’s description was driving – and a male passenger that fits Stahl’s description. Lots of suitcases and clothing bags in back.”
“Did she have blonde hair?”
“Yes.”
“Does the gas station video confirm it’s the same Volvo?”
“Their camera isn’t working.”
“Anything else?” de Waha said.
“Nope.”
“How long ago?”
“Sixteen minutes ago.”
“Where’s Swalmen?” de Waha asked.
“Here!” Donovan pointed to the map. About thirty kilometers ahead.”
“Did they head north on the A-73?”
“Yes.”
“It’s them,” de Waha said.
Donovan nodded. “So he’s still running north beside the German border.”
“Right. Concentrate your men on A-73 north of the service station. Set up a roadblock just south of Venlo. Reinforce all German border crossings. Have choppers hugging the border. We’re heading up 73 now.”
Donovan calculated that Stahl was only twenty minutes ahead.
The driver hit the gas again and in seconds, the Porsche’s 530 horsepower pushed the car up to two hundred kilometers an hour. Donovan couldn’t believe the car’s speed. They’d close the gap fast, assuming Stahl ordered Maccabee to drive at the speed limit.
And assuming Stahl remained on the A-73.
And assuming he stayed in the Volvo.
Donovan hated assuming.