“Fasten your seat belt,” Jackie advised as she gripped the dashboard and braced her other hand against the roof.
“I’m working on it.” Scott latched his seat belt, then reached between his back and belt and slid his nine-millimeter Sig Sauer to Jackie. “If we get close enough, shoot him.”
As she reached for the handgun, her expression froze into a kind of stiffness. “How did you get this past security?”
Scott swerved to avoid a slower-moving car. “Thanks to Hartwell, I have credentials from both the CIA and the FBI.”
“How convenient,” she said as she checked the sidearm. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”
“Nothing that comes to mind.”
With the trunk lid bouncing up and down, Scott worked hard to stay directly behind Farkas. They were banging fenders with other vehicles as Farkas used the battered taxi to bulldoze his way through traffic. Cars and trucks were sliding off the side of the road as angry drivers mashed their horns, cursed, and shot Farkas and his pursuer the middle-finger salute.
“He thought we were dead,” Jackie said through clenched teeth.
“He thought I was dead.”
Her throat felt tight as she gripped the Sig Sauer in her right hand. “You could see it in the look on his face.”
“No doubt about it.” Scott slammed on the brakes, then pressed hard on the accelerator when Farkas’s taillights flickered an instant before he swerved to miss an ambulance. “Take a shot when I get closer.”
Jackie hit the switch that lowered her window, then grasped the weapon with both hands and leaned out of the car. Deluged by rain and spray, she waited until Scott was less than twenty feet from the cab. Barely able to see through the downpour, she aimed for the back windshield and gently squeezed the trigger.
Boom! Boom!
Two fist-sized holes appeared near the top of the rear windshield as it shattered in an explosion of glass particles.
Jackie wiped the water from her eyes and squeezed again.
Boom! Boom!
Stunned and cut by the flying fragments of glass, Farkas swerved back and forth while he pointed his weapon rearward and blindly fired every round in his clip.
Two shells went through the Town Car’s radiator before three rounds shattered the windshield, blowing the rearview mirror into the backseat and spraying Scott with glass.
Jackie yanked her head inside the car. “Are you okay?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he exclaimed, stomping on the accelerator. “Okay, you son of a bitch, it’s time to show your hand!”
Consumed by rage, Scott pulled up to the taxi and rammed the trunk on the driver’s side. He kept the throttle buried, turning Farkas slightly sideways. “Come on, lose it.”
“Be careful,” Jackie said as she subconsciously pushed on the floorboard. “We’ve already cheated death once today.”
Scott backed off a few feet.
Farkas steered into the slide, then jammed the brake pedal to the floor, causing the Lincoln to smash into the trunk of the taxi. Scott eased back a couple of car lengths seconds before Farkas sideswiped a new Corvette convertible, spinning the sports car completely around.
“Take another shot!”
“Next time I’ll drive — you do the shooting!”
Jackie leaned out and fired three quick rounds, hitting the trunk twice and shattering the driver’s-side mirror.
“Lucky shot,” Scott said lightly as Farkas yanked the car to the right, then back to the left. “That got his attention.”
She wiped her face and glanced at Scott. “How did Farkas know? Who gave him the information about the flight?”
He darted a look at her. “Who knows?” he answered without hesitation. “An Iranian operative — an agent who follows the Washington seen—”
“Watch it,” she shouted as Farkas whipped the taxi to the left to pass a Mayflower moving van. Scott started to follow, then stood on the brakes when he saw that the road was partially blocked ahead. The right front fender of the Town Car clipped the moving van, throwing the car out of control.
“Sonuva—” Dalton gasped as they tried to brace themselves before the car flipped over and slid on its roof, popping the shattered windshield out. There was a wrenching tear of metal while the pavement ground away the roof. When the crashing, crunching noise finally stopped, it was a dazed few moments before Jackie and Scott realized they were alive and in one piece.
“Get out!” Scott said as he detected the odor of gasoline. “We’re leaking fuel — get out! Now!”
Terror overcame her as she tugged frantically at the seat belt buckle. She saw flashing lights and heard voices coming closer as Scott released her buckle. Then she recoiled when she saw the first reddish-yellow flame dart from beneath the smashed hood. She heard a muffled sound a second before the small fire blossomed into a roaring inferno.
“Let’s go!” Scott said as he kicked out a backseat window. He pulled Jackie partially through the jagged opening before she got a foothold and pushed herself clear of the burning wreckage. They scrambled away from the blazing car, then stumbled across the road before the Lincoln exploded in a massive fireball. Amid the confusion and chaos of the moment, Khaliq Farkas had disappeared in a sea of flashing lights and emergency vehicles.
Wet, muddy, and shaking, Jackie gave Scott a troubled look and shook her head. “You need some driving lessons.”
He looked at her smudged face and glanced at the burning car. “Well, I just happen to know a woman who is an expert instructor in high-speed evasive driving.”
She forced a weak smile. “I was thinking you might want to begin at a demolition derby, and work your way up.”
“Hey, even Richard Petty had off days.”
Jackie started to respond, then paused when she caught sight of the multitude of police officers approaching them. “I suppose you’d like to handle this situation.”
“Sure,” he said with a confident smile, then reached for his credentials. “This is going to cause a mountain of paperwork.”
13
The shocking news from the attorney general about the sighting of Khaliq Farkas in Wyoming had been the central topic of conversation during the working dinner. The decision to keep the frightening discovery as understated as possible was unanimous. No one wanted to stir the media into a feeding frenzy, causing a nationwide panic.
The military services, Coast Guard, and several government agencies, including the CIA’s Counterterrorist Center, the CIA’s newly opened Global Response Center, the Secret Service, and the Federal Aviation Administration had been informed about the threat posed by Farkas and his A-4 Skyhawk. While hundreds of airport managers and fixed-based operators were being alerted, scores of aircraft were already searching for the camouflaged blue-and-gray attack aircraft.
After dinner and dessert, President Macklin and his advisers returned to the White House Situation Room. When everyone was comfortably seated around the expansive table, Hartwell Prost cautiously confronted the chief executive.
“Mr. President,” Prost said in his crisp Ivy League monotone. “This whole thing bothers me.”
With a weary effort, Macklin leaned back in his chair.
Prost hesitated, then continued. “I consider it my duty to recommend that you move to an undisclosed location until we have a handle on things. You know as well as I do, it’s next to impossible to defend the White House against an air attack. With Farkas on the loose, I think it’s prudent that we take swift action to ensure the safety of you and the first lady.”
For a moment Macklin appeared surprised by the suggestion. But his skepticism was obvious to everyone.