TWENTY-SIX

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Jack had taken the rest of the day off. He needed to go back to his apartment to get a few more things. He knew it was dangerous but took a chance that no one would make an attempt on his life in a highly public setting in the middle of the day. After dark, though, all bets were in the trash and anything was fair game. And at times, government employees did hire hit men, and those guys didn’t mind drawing a little attention to themselves. They knew how to strike and disappear, hit and blend in.

Like he did every day, Jack took the George Washington Memorial Parkway south to 395, where he merged with Route 1. He took Route 1 to the 495 bridge and crossed the Potomac into Maryland. A mile later he’d get on 210, then head south to Friendly, where he had a condo on Broad Creek.

But before he even got off 495, he spotted the two cars trailing him from a distance. Both were SUVs, Tahoes, black, tinted windows. It was ridiculous how the most highly resourced government on earth could be so conspicuous. Jack accelerated and took the exit for 210, not bothering to even tap the brakes. The exit ramp was long and gradual and allowed him to merge with traffic and lose no speed. Heading south, he wove around several cars, then merged into the left lane. There was a clearing that would allow him to accelerate even more. Glancing in his mirror, he found the SUVs still on his tail, following at a safe distance. His foot pressed the pedal a little closer to the floor. He needed to be careful not to draw the attention of any Maryland State trooper, though. He had no idea who was in those SUVs and didn’t know what kind of story they could concoct about him. Fugitive. Terrorist. Spy. Their options would be nearly unlimited.

A few miles down the road, one of the SUVs gained on him, just a few car lengths behind now. The windshield was tinted as well, so Jack couldn’t tell how many were in the vehicle. He glanced at his dash display. He had nearly a full tank of gas; he’d filled the car yesterday. Of course, they probably had full tanks as well, and those Tahoes could hold a lot more than his MKZ. It would come down to fuel efficiency, but Jack didn’t want to take any chances. He’d just have to lose his pursuers.

The second Tahoe sped up and fell into place behind its twin. They both inched closer to Jack’s Lincoln. Jack accelerated again. A mile or two up ahead they’d go through the town of Accokeek, and he had a chance to turn onto 228 and head east, where he could hook up with 301, then go west on 218 back to Interstate 95. From there he could head north back to Langley, back to the devil’s lair.

Going nearly eighty, the exit for 228 approached quickly. It was a left turn with a traffic light. At least a dozen cars were stopped, waiting to turn. For a moment, Jack thought about continuing straight on 210, but it led to nothing but miles of residential sprawl. There would be nowhere to hide, nowhere to disappear. He had to turn; 228 was his only option. He slowed and checked his mirror. The lead SUV aligned itself directly behind him. He had to do something now. If he stopped for the traffic light, armed men would exit the vehicles and make a public display the government would later deny any involvement in. If he continued straight, he’d head right into a trap.

There was only one other option. Still going fifty, he quickly surveyed the area for marked police cars and, not finding any, yanked the steering wheel to the left and crossed the median into oncoming traffic. Horns blared; tires squealed. Jack hit the brakes, turned right to avoid a van, then accelerated again, crossed both lanes of 210 northbound and hit the ramp going the wrong way at forty miles per hour. He took to the shoulder as more horns wailed and traffic swerved out of his way. Once off the ramp safely and on 228, still heading the wrong way, Jack steered his Lincoln to the shoulder, crossed the grassy median that separated eastbound from westbound traffic.

As the car settled into a comfortable speed, Jack checked his mirrors. There was no sign of the black SUVs. He’d lost them. He then noticed how severely his hands trembled and how heavy his heart beat. When he was younger and a field agent, he’d been in a few car chases, but that had been years ago. His adrenaline was used to desk work now, not life-threatening encounters.

Breathing deeply, he decided to head north on 301 rather than south. His pursuers would be expecting him to go south and double back to DC. He’d go north, find a new car, and disappear.