“What is that supposed to mean?”
The driver allowed himself a smile, glancing out the tinted windows of the Dodge Durango at the passing traffic. The vehicle was pulled over on the shoulder of the interstate — a worn t-shirt flapping in the cold winter wind between the window and the door signaling that the vehicle was abandoned — perhaps out of gas or suffering mechanical problems.
Or, just waiting… which was more to the point of it.
“Just something they say, Pavel,” the driver replied, catching his partner’s eye in the rear-view mirror. Seven weeks of planning, all of it leading up to this day. Less time than he would have liked…but recruiting the American had turned out to be the easy part of it. Useful idiot.
Consumed by his fantasies of a coming New World Order, of being liberty’s hero, he had never guessed how he was being played. That he was, in fact, nothing more than a pawn in a much larger game.
Or that he would be dead within the next twenty minutes.
“They’re reporting a two-vehicle accident on the primary route,” Ramirez remarked. “Apparently somebody was tail-gating and skid on the ice. Idiot commuters.”
A smile crossed Lay’s face. The snow wasn’t bad, but folks in Virginia weren’t used to it. He had spent his childhood in Vermont, and learned to drive up there. Now that was snow. “We’re taking the alternate, then?”
The SEAL nodded. “It’s a bit longer, but they’re liable to be backed up with the accident. And we’ve not used it for two days, so we should be good.”
Always security-conscious, the DCIA mused. That was Ramirez. There had been a time he would have dismissed it. Not now.
Behind them, the Toyota merged with traffic two cars back. “I have them,” the man announced, speaking into the wireless headset of his cellphone. He pulled the Glock out of the pocket of the door, laying the polymer handgun across his lap with sweaty fingers. Cursing his fear. “They are proceeding along Route Three, the same one they used two days ago. What do you want me to do?”
“Just maintain a following position,” came the calm voice. “I’ll talk you through this. You’re going to be fine.”
A blurred image of himself in the mirror was the first thing Thomas Parker saw of the morning. He felt suddenly dizzy and threw out a hand, steadying himself against the edge of the sink.
A wave of nausea nearly overcame him and he coughed, feeling sick. Very sick. He reached for the faucet, turning on the cold water, splashing it over his hands and face. His aching head.
It might have been easier if he’d actually been sick. Knowing the headache and nausea were a direct result of too much alcohol the previous evening didn’t help his mood any.
One way or the other, he was going to have to sober up or he was going to be late. The CIA didn’t know about the drinking problem he’d developed, and he planned to keep it that way. He was on a strike team, after all. Mistakes weren’t tolerated. Mistakes killed.
His gaze drifted toward the sticky note on the mirror, the phone number written there. The number of Harry’s pastor. Nichols, his team lead, knew about the problem, and that was his solution.
Thomas snorted. Yeah, some solution. An avowed agnostic for all of his adult life, he saw no reason to change his mind now. Certainly the betrayal of Hamid Zakiri had done nothing but deepen his cynicism. And his drinking.
They’d shared this apartment, he and Hamid, a way to keep down the cost of living in suburban Virginia. It had been for Hamid’s benefit, not his own. He’d been the manager of a Fortune 500 tech company in the years before 9/11, and his money was invested wisely.
About the only thing he’d done wisely.
“Thomas?” Her voice sounded shriller this morning. He looked into the mirror to see a brunette standing in the bathroom door, her hair a mess and wearing one of his shirts.
She’d looked better when he was drunk too, he realized sourly. He couldn’t remember her name, nor much of anything else from the previous evening, in fact. The Agency would have a cow if they knew.
With their jealous watch over security clearances, the CIA took a dimmer view of one-night stands than most parents. Make that parents with a multi-million-dollar surveillance budget and you have the picture.
He turned back to the sink, trying to block her voice from his head. He was going to be late for work…
“Target is closing, approximately five hundred meters now. Are you ready?”
They spy on us, we spy on them, the man had said. They target us…we target them. It was true, what Jones had always warned about the shadow government. The tyrants in Washington had been killing people for years…now was their time. The driver of the Toyota nodded nervously, covering his fear with a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah — I can do this.”
“Then be quiet and focus,” came the calm reply. “ I’ll guide you in. Three hundred meters.”
For a moment, the driver took his eyes off the target SUV two cars ahead, glancing nervously once more at the Glock. He’d never killed a man, but this — this was justice…
“Two hundred meters,” the voice in his ear intoned. The driver hit his turn signal and accelerated hard into the fast lane…
Defensive driving hadn’t been a part of Hell Week, but the Secret Service had taught Ramirez everything he needed to know on the subject.
A curse escaped his lips as he saw the Toyota in his driver’s side mirror, accelerating fast. A threat.
Alerted by his bodyguard’s outburst, Lay looked up into the mirror. The small sedan filled his field of view, and in that moment he knew. It was them…
There was no time to react, no time for self-recriminations or doubt. It all happened too fast.
Ramirez put the wheel over, hard to the right, flooring the accelerator in an attempt to thread the needle up the shoulder of the road.
Too late.
The sedan impacted hard against the front driver’s side of the SUV, sending it skidding toward the guardrail on the right shoulder.
Impact.
It struck David Lay with the force of a punch as the airbags inflated, slamming him back against the seat. Dazed, he reached for the clasp of his seatbelt. There was little time. He had no idea how little.
The men inside the “stranded” Durango watched the collision unfold from several hundred meters back along the interstate. The driver lowered his high-powered binoculars from his eyes, glancing down at the phone which lay open on the seat beside him. A simple, pre-paid flipphone, a number already dialed on the small screen.
A grim smile crossing his face, he reached down with a single finger…pressing SEND.
No. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, the man thought, flailing against the airbags that pinned him against the seat of the Toyota. The Glock. Where was it — where had it gone?
Outside the passenger’s side window, over the billowing airbag, he could see the guardrail he had slammed into, coming to rest direct in front of the SUV. He swore, knowing that every second he struggled decreased his chances of success. That they would win once more.
The next moment, his world erupted in a blinding flash of white. Flames and fire…
The driver of the Durango watched in silence as the explosives layered into the frame of the Toyota detonated, sending both vehicles careening through a wall of traffic toward the median.