“I get that. But what about Brooking?”
“She’s clean, as far as I know. Only she was recently brought in, so she’s not up to speed.”
“And the police? The detectives, and the others?”
“In the clear, as far as I can tell.” McKenna paused. We’d reached an intersection, and he couldn’t turn left as he’d intended, due to some construction. “The problem is, they don’t have high-enough security clearance. Fewer than a dozen people in the country do. That’s why I couldn’t let that officer stay within earshot when I pulled you out of the back.”
“And the fire? At the station house? You started it.”
“It was just a smoke generator. No flames. No damage done. Hits the spot every time. Want to get people running around like headless chickens? Make them think there’s a fire nearby. Tap into their primal fear.”
“And the motorcycle guys?”
“My guess, they’re the muscle for whoever’s behind all this. The attack—be it on ARGUS, the White House, or both—is going through AmeriTel. But we don’t think it was dreamed up by anyone who works there. Their background checks all pan out. The AmeriTel guys are most likely just patsies.”
“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t try to bullshit me, or stonewall me, or frame me. And I appreciate that.”
“You’re a good—”
McKenna broke off mid-sentence as we swung through a tight turn and almost slammed into two cars that had just run into each other. Both were on our side of the road, blocking our way forward, and a man’s body was sprawled in the other lane.
“Oh my God, they’ve had an accident!” I reached for my door handle. “We’ve got to help—”
“Leave it!” McKenna slammed the truck into reverse. “Get down. Ambush!”
The truck had moved back about three feet when McKenna stamped on the brake again. A man had raced across the road behind us. He was pulling a kind of chain. But instead of smooth round links, it was made of vicious three-inch spikes.
“A stinger.” McKenna shifted into Drive and hit the gas again. “Can’t risk it. The tires would shred.”
He steered sharp left, accelerating hard, aiming directly for the body in the road. Our wheels were going to crush the man’s head. I was about to shout a warning—how could McKenna not see what was happening?—when the guy raised himself up like a sprinter in the blocks and flung himself toward the curb. He was dragging something behind him. Another stinger. And he’d cut his move so fine there was no time for McKenna to react.
There were two bangs. Our tires had blown. McKenna fought the steering wheel, trying to keep going. For a moment I thought we might make it. But then the truck pulled left and shuddered to a halt. McKenna flashed a worried look in my direction, then pulled out his gun.
“Wait here.” He opened his door. “Lock the truck after me. And stay down. Do not get out under any circumstances.”
As he spoke, a third guy appeared from behind one of the wrecked cars. His face was hidden by a black balaclava, and he was holding something in one hand. A glass bottle. It was a quarter full with clear liquid and a rag was sticking out of the top. He had a lighter in his other hand, and with one swift movement he set fire to the rag, flung the bottle toward the truck, and ducked down out of sight. I heard the glass smash, and then a dull whump as the liquid went up in flames.
“Come on!” McKenna yelled, unnecessarily, because my door was already open. “The prison officer. In the back. We’ve got to get him out.”
A pool of liquid was burning fiercely in my path. I started to loop around it, but someone grabbed my arm. It was the guy who’d thrown the bottle. He pulled me back, slammed me against one of the cars, and pressed a heavy brown envelope into my hand.
“RUN!” he said, then let go of me.
I stayed still.
“What are you waiting for?” he snarled. “Go.”
“Who are you?”
“Your guardian angel. Now, go.”
I hesitated, tempted to rip the mask from his face.
“RUN!” he snarled again. Only this time he pulled a gun.
Thursday. Late afternoon.
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS I FOUND MYSELF running blindly through an unfamiliar neighborhood. Only this time, I knew exactly where I wanted to go.
I just had no idea how to get there.
The net was tightening around me so I forced myself to keep moving for another fifteen minutes, then paused to take stock of my situation. A giant oak at the side of the road gave me some cover, and as I leaned against its gnarled trunk, wheezing, I realized I was still clutching the envelope the guy in the balaclava had given me.
I tore it open and tipped its contents onto the ground. There was a cell phone, and a wad of ten-dollar bills. A couple of dozen of them. It was spookily similar to what Brian had given me at his apartment, the day before. Was he involved, somehow? Or was this a kind of standard urban survival kit, to be handed out to IT consultants on the run? I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it, though. Because I knew right away I wasn’t just looking at things. I was looking at a way to untie the noose from around my neck and turn it into a lifeline. Maybe the only lifeline I had left.
I powered up the phone, dialed a number for a pizza restaurant, and gave the address I could see painted on a shiny red mailbox on the other side of the street. Then I settled down to wait, dreading the howl of a siren or the pulsing of red and blue lights.
Twenty minutes later I picked up the sound of an engine. But not a throaty V8 like the police use. More like a couple of bees in a beer can. Moments later a delivery guy wobbled into view on a decrepit moped. He pulled up at the side of the street, opposite me. Took off his helmet, and hung it on the handlebars. Then retrieved a pizza from the insulated box behind the saddle and set off up the drive on foot.
I ran to the bike and strapped on the helmet. I took half the money from the mystery guy’s envelope and left it on the ground, weighed down with a stone. Then I fired up the tiny engine and launched myself onto the road.
I hadn’t ridden a moped for ten years, when Carolyn and I spent a week together in Rhodes. I’d been happy tooling around the island, back then, recharging my batteries at the beaches and the bars. Her plans had been more ambitious. She’d been obsessed with taking a ferry to Turkey, to see the remains of some ancient theater. The clash of agendas hadn’t made for a peaceful vacation. But it had taught me to move fast on two wheels.
I made it as far as my street without a problem, but then I spotted two cars parked near the entrance to my driveway. Both were dark blue, unmarked Fords. I drew level with the first one, and its engine roared into life. I managed another ten feet before it started to move. It was coming after me, with its twin glued to its tail. I eased back on the throttle, deflated. There was no way I could outrun them. But the cars swept past me, still accelerating, until they were around the corner and out of sight.
My heart was racing as I looped around, coasted to the side of the road, and killed the engine. Then I started to wheel the bike down my drive, trying to balance my urge to get out of sight with the need to move quietly across the gravel.
I reached my door, and realized there was another problem. I didn’t have a key. It was still at the police headquarters. But I’d come too far to give up. The house had plenty of windows. I could break one. Climb inside. Get what I needed. And disappear back into the night.
The question was, which window? Do smaller ones make less noise when they shatter? Or would it make more sense to break one in the kitchen, to be closer to my objective? I was weighing my options when it occurred to me that if glass had to be broken, there was a better option close at hand.
I picked up a small, pointy stone and crossed to the trunk of my Jaguar. I smashed the lens covering the license-plate lamp. Removed the bulb. Used the clasp on the helmet strap to bridge the terminals, which shorted out the light. And with it, the central locking. Just as the auto club guy had done last summer, after Carolyn had locked the keys in the trunk in her haste to drag me to The Tempest in Central Park. And that guy’d had a whole van full of tools at his disposal …