THE LAST NORTHBOUND cars that the police had let through sped past in a column over the bridge. And at the tail, Hayes saw the truck, heavy and slow on the uphill grade at the southern end of the bridge. It fell behind the others. It was isolated.
They raced toward it in the helicopter. “Do you want me to circle around to pace the truck?” the pilot asked. The easiest shot would be to reach it, turn, and take it out while running at the same speed alongside.
Hayes eyed the distance. They didn’t have time. It would take a while for that truck to stop, and he couldn’t let it get to the other end of the bridge, where the southbound traffic was stalled.
“No time. We need to cut him off. Can you put us in a hover over the roadway ahead of him?”
“Yes.” They came in fast over the turnpike. The pilot rotated the helicopter ninety degrees, flying sideways, so Hayes’s open door faced the semi.
“Closer,” Hayes said as the last northbound car shot underneath them. The bridge was now empty except for the truck.
“There,” he said, and they stopped, hovering a quarter of the way across the span. He rested the rifle’s hand guard on the webbing, looked through the optic, and watched the truck speed at him, growing in the lens. He was too far for headshots. The 7.62-millimeter round might be able to kill the engine, but it wasn’t a sure stop by any means.
He eased the trigger back, and the gun kicked into his shoulder. The noise was deafening inside the cabin, and his hot brass bounced off the ceiling.
He steadied the gun and saw the blown truck grille, steam billowing out. He fired again, and saw a flash of red from inside the engine. The truck was still moving fast, coming at them.
“You’re too close” came a voice over the radio from the op center. “Pull out. I say again, pull out.”
“Don’t,” Hayes said to the pilot. Behind them, stacked up in those cars, there were families like his. He and this helicopter were the end of the line; he didn’t care what it cost.
But the pilot hadn’t moved anyway. He kept them locked twenty feet above the road. The cabin stank of the heavy cartridges’ fumes, and Hayes raised the rifle slightly and centered it on the driver’s-side windshield. The glass flashed like a signal mirror as it came under each streetlight, but he could see the driver’s shape now, bouncing in his sight as the wind buffeted the helicopter.
Time seemed to slow even as the truck careered toward them. Hayes fired again and then saw the hole in the shattered truck windshield. He could make out the head now, a glimpse of the driver gritting his teeth in determination or pain. He centered the reticle on his face. The crosshairs moved in a figure-eight pattern while he kept the gun as steady as he could and eased back the trigger.
The gun shoved him again but he held it close and looked through the scope. The driver, his head mostly gone, slumped to the side, and the truck moved left as a cloud of black smoke belched out from under the hood. It slowed, but it was still coming way too fast. The second man reached for the wheel and Hayes put the crosshairs on his ear and fired once, then again as the man ducked down, and then a third time. Before he could check for a hit, the cab was twisting sideways in his scope.
Hayes lifted his head and saw the cab strike the guardrail, sending off a torrent of sparks. The heavy trailer shoved it from behind, and the truck jackknifed, the cab grinding against the rail as the trailer swept sideways across the roadway and began to tilt.
“It’s down,” Hayes said.
The pilot was already pulling back, and as Hayes looked at him he saw that his face was white as porcelain. He felt suddenly heavy on the deck as the helicopter turned and rocketed north as if it had been jerked on a fishing line.
The voice came in his ear. It was Morgan from the op center. “Was that it? Is it over?”
Not yet, Hayes thought. Not yet. He could see a last glimpse of the truck through the window as the helicopter turned to the north. In an instant, the semi was gone, like someone had changed a slide, and all he could see was a black cloud with red at its heart, growing silently for an instant. The air wavered around it in an expanding sphere, and Hayes went to brace himself, but the shock wave took him, blasted in his ears and tore at his lungs. For a moment he floated weightless inside the cabin, then he smashed into the deck as fire filled the aircraft and the explosion swallowed the bridge.