I figure the assault vehicles will have at least two guys in each car, maybe three. Six against one is not great odds but I’ve had worse.
My thoughts move to my pregnant wife and for a moment, my mind reaches out to her.I got this, sweetheart.These fucking shitheads are not going to ruin our lives. We’re going to get old together and our baby girl is growing up with her dad.
The goddamn Ford is back in my rear view, his high beams lighting up the whole interior of my front seat.
“Jack. What the fuck’s the problem? Why aren’t we going faster?” The senator has hung up the phone and focused all his pent-up aggression on me.
“Sorry, sir. We got metal pressing into the tire, slowing us down.”
“Unacceptable.”
Thank God for all my years in the service because I’m able to bite my tongue and drive. Whoever is after Joe chose the perfect hour because if there was more traffic, I could dart in and out until the cops arrive.
However, there’s not even a sliver of a moon to light up the empty road.
“Hang on, sir.”
I slam on my breaks, skid, and crank the wheel until I’m headed down the highway in the wrong direction. Staying to the left, I pray no one left a disabled car because if they did, it won’t be pretty. Still, this is better than being forced off the road in the middle of bumfuck Maryland.
It doesn’t take long for the truck that was following us to reappear in my rear view mirror.
At the same moment, Slate’s calm voice sounds in my headset. “I can’t take a piss without you getting into trouble. You go across the meridian?”
“Nope. Going south on the northbound curb.”
“Jesus.”
“Nope, He’s not here, either. Neither are the cops. Where the fuck are they?”
“Still a couple miles out.”
“’Copter?”
“Five, maybe ten minutes.”
When the back-tire thump-thumps, I grip the wheel tighter. “I’m about to be driving on a rim. Give me an exit, preferably with cover.”
Behind me, two pairs of lights get closer.
Slate responds two seconds later. “Turn left, now. There’s a Seven-Eleven.”
“Copy that.” With blind faith, I roll down an embankment, bump over a grassy field, and stop in front of gas pumps.
“Behind the store, Go. Go. Go.” Running on pure adrenaline, I grab McAlister as he exits.
His pace is pretty impressive for a guy almost sixty which is good because both the Ford and the Escalade are flying down the entrance ramp in the wrong direction. The truck slams into our parked SUV, sending it flying into a pole, and a corner of the metal roof collapses.
The taller, heavier of the two men, opens the back door of my SUV then curses up a storm. “They’re gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” A shorter guy joins him, straining his inked neck as he turns in circles.
“You deaf? You let them get away. You should’ve let me drive.”
They’re still arguing when the other vehicle arrives and two more men join them. The second set are Asian, wearing expensive suits, with headsets in their ears.
Professionals.
Shorter suit waves his hands around. “Search for them. They can’t be far.”
