LEPLAVY CALLED STEVENS BACK.
“The helicopter lost him,” he said. “He’s in Newark Liberty airspace. No way they can get a chopper in there without crashing like eight planes.”
“Shit.” Stevens looked out the window. Saw the lights of an approaching jetliner against the thunderclouds in the distance. “I guess there’s no rerouting the planes, either.”
“Not on your life,” LePlavy told him. “Can’t even change runways, not with the storm coming. I’ll notify the airport police, though, get their ground units involved.”
“Do it,” Stevens said. “We’ll try and keep up until they arrive.”
He ended the call. Watched the speeding Durango race across an interstate overpass toward the Newark Liberty terminals. To the left was the airfield. Planes landed. The thunderstorm approached. Stevens could see lightning in the distance. Meanwhile, the Durango didn’t show any sign of slowing down.
“That didn’t sound good,” Windermere said.
“It’s not,” Stevens said. “Airport airspace. No helicopter. Unless airport police can scramble some units, we’re on our own, Carla.”
“‘On our own.’” Windermere narrowed her eyes. “What else is new?”
> > >
DODRESCU HELD OUT across the New Jersey Turnpike. Kept driving as the road skirted around the Newark Liberty airfield. To the left now were employee Park and Ride lots, aviation supply warehouses. To the right was the Lincoln Highway, speeding traffic. Soon, Volovoi knew, they’d arrive at the terminal buildings. There would be public parking lots. Chaos. If their luck held, they could ditch the Durango and shake free of the FBI agents in the Charger behind them.
Just a few minutes longer, Volovoi thought. Hold it together just a few minutes more.
But Dodrescu didn’t have a few minutes. As the Durango raced through an intersection, he slumped and went unconscious, let his foot slip from the gas pedal. The Durango veered left, toward the oncoming lane. Volovoi glanced over, saw the kid, swore. “Shit.”
He reached across for the steering wheel. Guided the truck into the correct lane. Felt the truck slowing. Knew the Charger was gaining. Didn’t want to let the cops close any more ground.
There was a grassy median on both sides of the road. To the right was the Lincoln Highway. To the left was a low office complex, protected by a concrete barrier. Volovoi turned the wheel left. Aimed the truck at the barrier. Held the wheel steady and braced himself for the crash.
The truck slammed into the barrier. Collided on its front quarter and bounced off. The bumper disintegrated. Concrete crushed metal. Volovoi fought to keep the wheel steady, rode the big Dodge along the barrier as sparks flew, as the concrete slowed the truck. As soon as the truck stopped, he leapt out from his seat. Leaned back in toward Dodrescu, slumped over the wheel, and took aim with his pistol. Shot him twice in the head. Then he ran.
The Charger was closing distance. It sped toward Volovoi, three hundred yards away. No time to spare. Volovoi ran back to the road. Met a gray Acura coming head-on and stepped out in front of it, waving his gun so the driver could see. The driver slammed on his brakes. The Acura screamed to a stop.
Volovoi circled to the driver’s side of the car. Pulled the driver from his seat. Barely heard the man’s screaming. Shot him once in the head and climbed behind the wheel. Left the man’s body on the road and drove off.
> > >
WHATEVER RELIEF WINDERMERE felt as she watched the Durango slow disappeared as soon as she saw the big thug wave his pistol.
“Oh, no,” she said, watching him flag down a little gray Acura. “Oh, shit.”
Beside her, Stevens rolled down his window. Took aim with his pistol, but couldn’t get a clear shot. The thug was dragging the driver from the car. Windermere urged the Charger forward. Swore at it. Cajoled it. Couldn’t close the distance in time.
The thug shot the driver. Dropped him to the pavement like trash. Climbed inside the Acura and sped away from the body.
“Fuck,” Windermere said. “God damn it, Stevens.”
Beside her, Stevens still had his pistol raised. Wasn’t shooting. Couldn’t shoot. Too many bystanders. Too many civilians. She was driving the Charger too fast for a clean shot.
Windermere watched the Acura speed away. Wanted to follow, knew she couldn’t. Not with a gunshot victim dying on the pavement in front of her.
She took her foot from the gas. Slammed on the brakes. The Charger slid a little, jolted as the ABS kicked in. Came to a stop fifteen feet from the Acura driver.
Stevens was out of the car before she’d shifted out of gear. Ran to the man as fast as she’d ever seen him run. By the time she’d climbed from behind the wheel, though, Stevens had slowed. Was looking back at her, shaking his head. Windermere took a few steps, saw what Stevens had seen. The driver had been shot in the head, point-blank. He was dead.
And she couldn’t see the little gray Acura anywhere.