Michael listened, filled with anticipation. His mother grunted and groaned in response to his urging. It was taking her forever to undo her gag.
As he waited, Michael wasn’t satisfied with being able to speak and breathe. He needed to see.
He’d maneuvered himself backward, attempting to lean against the wall to which he was chained. The chain was too short and he could not continue keeping his butt in the air. The chain pulled up on the handcuffs. His weight hung from the wall. Enjoying the limberness and flexibility of youth and ignoring the pain in his wrists and forearms, he arched his back like a gymnast and was able to touch his head to the rough brick of the wall.
Turning his head sideways, he rubbed the blindfold against the brick. The cloth moved, oscillating against his skin. As he did this, he continued to urge his mother to free herself from her gag.
“Don’t stop, Mom!”
He could hear his mother breathing and grunting somewhere in front of him.
The skin on his temple began to abrade and tear. A warm trickle of blood snaked down outside his left eye. He continued, dragging his face in longer, more effective strokes. All his weight was pressed down now on the shackles. His arms felt like they would burn up. Michael ignored it, pushing himself.
Finally, a sliver of dim, silver light penetrated the top of his field of vision. A few more millimeters and he would be able to see.
“We have eyes on Rodgers, Agent,” the agent at the screen said.
“Put it on the big screen.”
The image on the massive wall screens loaded a moment later, flashing the car chase on Interstate 64.
“Explain what’s going on.”
“They’re on I-64, headed east. They are on the western bridge section of the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, being pursued by a state trooper.”
The image on the screen wavered and moved in and out. In the left emergency breakdown lane, a large square Hummer was being followed by a Virginia State Trooper with his blue lights angrily flashing.
“What the hell is wrong with the picture?”
“It’s a private drone. Our agent is in a car following about a half mile behind. The high winds coming from the water are buffeting the machine.”
“A private drone? Where are the Bureau’s UAVs or Cessnas?”
It was not a well-known fact that government agencies were using surveillance drones and other aircraft, mostly Cessna’s, to observe tactical situations inside the continental United States. The FBI had a small fleet of unmanned vehicles hangered at various locations, as well as a larger fleet of piloted Cessnas.
“These events developed too fast to retask our current UAVs or surveillance planes. They are either in for service or on assignment. We looked into borrowing one from the Border Patrol. But there are none in the area. This whole thing will be over before it could arrive. The agent on the ground took it upon himself to purchase a camera drone in a local hobby shop earlier today. We’ll switch to our drones when one arrives. We’ve patched the image into his phone and are uploading it here.”
“Is this a government operation or what?” Broadhurst thought for a moment. “I’m glad someone is thinking on their feet.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“Do we know where they are going?” The acid in his stomach had become a bubbling cauldron. Broadhurst removed a plastic bottle of Tums from his suit coat, shook two tablets from it, and began crunching. He swallowed and repeated the procedure with two more.
“I think they’re about to be caught, sir. Nowhere to go,” another agent instructed.
Fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel, the state trooper’s Dodge Charger hugged the Hummer’s rear bumper. A Chrysler minivan in the fast lane, to the right and ahead of the Hummer, its driver confused by the sound of the siren, started to creep into the left-side emergency breakdown lane, cutting off Peter and Jason.
Peter laid on the horn. Instead of hitting the brake, he slammed the pedal to the floor. The bass-toned engine whined higher two seconds before the Hummer’s front bumper crumpled the front quarter panel. Peter stayed hard on the gas and, using the Hummer’s momentum, pushed the van out of the way and into the rear of the car in front of it. The Hummer squeezed between the Ford and the guard rail. Scraping metal tore down both sides of the vehicle.
Another driver began to pull in front of Peter, this one a tiny, low-to-the-ground Smart car. Peter gunned it again and the Hummer walked over the engine compartment of the subcompact like a monster truck.
“Almost there,” Peter hollered, once they were over the mangled car.
The state trooper, now stuck behind the crumpled insect of a car, was blocked.
Peter reached the entrance to the island as traffic inched into the eastbound tube. There was no way to break into the line of cars. He turned off onto the island.
“Now what?” Jason said.
“Start praying.”
Peter drove to the opposite side of the island. He checked for traffic and turned right, heading eastbound in the westbound tunnel.