76

The final contingent of HRT assaulters and my small team raced through the backyard to the basketball court, the HRT guys loading up in a high-speed Suburban worthy of their body armor, weapons, and night vision goggles. Carly and I loaded into our Hyundai Sonata, worthy of our Taliban AKs. Jesus and Dingler looked absolutely disgusted at their direction in life.

I said, “You two in the back, no seat belts. Get ready to get some, because these guys are killers. I’ve already had a firefight with them once.”

They loaded and Dingler said, “Where was that?”

“Morocco.”

They took that in and realized the weapons and the car weren’t indicative of the skill. I started rolling, and without a command, Carly started navigating.

Good. She’s learning.

Jennifer had said the boat ramp was only a mile away, and that may have been so as the crow flies, but the drive was one left and right after another. Eventually we hit a two-lane highway that wasn’t in the heart of a neighborhood, and I floored it.

Carly said, “It’s a half mile ahead. Be careful. If you don’t make the exit, you’ll be on the bridge and have to travel all the way across before you can turn around.”

I said, “Give me a countdown.”

“A thousand meters . . .”

“Eight hundred . . .”

“Six hundred . . .”

I asked, “Right exit or left?”

“Left. Four hundred . . .”

I was doing eighty miles an hour on the small highway when headlights passed me. In the blink of an eye, I recognized a Toyota Tundra truck, gray. But without a trailer.

I slammed on the brakes to slow down enough to maintain control, then yanked up the emergency brake handle and jerked the wheel, sending the car into a classic Rockford Files J-turn and throwing everyone into the windows. I immediately floored the vehicle, now headed the other way.

From the back, Dingler shouted, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“The truck just passed us. Get ready to assault. I’m going to PIT him. When he spins out, you two deploy and lock down the driver.”

Incredulous, he said, “How the fuck do you know it’s the truck? You don’t even have a license plate. You can’t just ram a civilian because you think it’s a bad guy.”

I gained on the truck, now back to eighty miles an hour. I said, “Yes, I can.”

Carly just held on, unsure of how she should respond. Support her new organization, or support what she’d been told her entire life was the way things worked? She opted for silence.

Thankfully, the road was deserted, and I gained on the truck rapidly. When I came within fifty yards, the driver goosed the accelerator, and I saw him throw something out of the window. I knew I was right.

I pulled into the left lane and jammed the gas pedal to the firewall, hearing the engine scream in protest. I slowly gained on him, until my right axle was just behind his left rear tire.

I said, “Get ready. When he spins out, I’m slamming the brakes. Get on him.”

I torqued the wheel to the right, hammering my front end into the rear of the truck. Because of the empty pickup bed, the vehicle was front heavy, and it didn’t take much.

I ground against the truck like a NASCAR driver trying to put someone into the wall, and Carly, on the passenger side, practically crawled into my seat to get away from the impact. I kept pushing, and we raced down the road locked together. Suddenly, the truck’s rear tires broke traction, and he spun completely around, sliding through the shoulder and throwing up gravel and smoke.

I regained control of my vehicle and looked in the rearview, seeing the truck in a ditch, nose in, the rear wheels spinning in the mud, the driver struggling to get back on the asphalt.

I slammed on the breaks and shouted, “Out, out, out!”

I flung open my door and leapt to the pavement. The FBI guys beat me to the punch, impressing me. By the time I was on the street, they were running toward the truck with their guns up.

I sprinted behind them with my pathetic AK raised. I saw the driver kick the door open and fall into the road, then jump up, raising a pistol.

No!

Before I could say anything, both of the FBI men fired, shredding the body with multiple rounds. I had to give it to them, they could shoot, but that guy dead was the last thing I wanted.

Dingler kicked the terrorist’s weapon away while Jesus provided cover; then they began searching him. I entered the cab, ripping through it but finding nothing. I went to the bed and saw three backpacks. I hollered at Carly, saying, “Get this stuff into our trunk. We don’t have time to search it now.”

She began unloading and I ran to the FBI team. They finished searching the body, Dingler standing up with a passport and wallet. I said, “I wanted him alive.”

Defensively, Dingler said, “He had a weapon.”

I sighed and said, “I know. I know. You made the right call. But I still wanted him alive.”

Dingler passed what they’d found, and I said, “No cell phone? Where’s his phone?”

“He doesn’t have one on his body. Maybe it’s in the truck.”

I remembered the driver throwing something out the window and realized it was the handset. He knew it was the end game and that his phone would break open whatever cell was still operational. I said, “No. It’s in the bushes somewhere back there. We don’t have time to look for it.”

Carly came forward carrying the rucks and I said, “We need to move.”

We ran back to our car, loaded the rucksacks, and then went flying back to the dock. Carly gave me directions again, and I broke at the exit, circling around and seeing a narrow lane dropping down into the river. A trailer was jammed sideways right where the water started lapping the concrete. On top of it was a single Sea-Doo.

I slammed the brakes and leapt out, running to the trailer. I stood for a moment, then said, “They’re on the loose.”

Jesus said, “We need to call this in. Let Brock know we have the launch point.”

I nodded and said, “Do it.” I looked at Carly and said, “Tell Knuckles on our net.”

I went to the Sea-Doo and opened the hatch at the front, expecting to see four shaped charges wired to explode. I saw an empty container. And got an idea.

“Carly, how long is this river?”

“Three kilometers. Maybe more, given the bends.”

I shouted at the FBI guys, “Help me get this in the water.”

They ran over, manhandling the watercraft until we finally had it floating. Dingler said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “Chasing them. Get on.”

He balked, saying, “Whoa, no way.”

“Jesus, get on here.”

He looked at Dingler, and Dingler said, “We aren’t boarding that with you. You’re a target once you go. You’ll get killed by friendly fire.”

I had no time to argue with him. Every second we waited, the enemy was getting closer to the kill. And truthfully, I was growing tired of his shit.

“Carly, get your weapon.”

She grabbed her AKM and waded into the water, then slid onto the back, no questions at all. Dingler looked embarrassed. I said, “Give me your NODs.”

He handed over his night vision goggles and I said, “Jesus’s too.”

Jesus passed them across, and I gave them to Carly. Dingler said, “What do you want us to do?”

I tossed him the keys to the rental, saying, “Do your FBI shit with the guy dead on the highway. Search the bags. Find the phone. Do whatever it is you do at a crime scene.”

He said, “What are you going to do?”

I fired up the watercraft, secretly glad for the practice the day before, and said, “What I do best. Kill terrorists.”