Sam opened the document.
The three of them read the Covenant together.
When they had finished, Virginia said, “Can you imagine how much of America’s history would have changed if this had found its way to Washington in 1863?”
Sam grinned as he closed the lid, locked the latch, and began the tedious task of sealing the false floorpan again. “At least now, it will finally reach its intended destination.”
Climbing out of the car, Virginia’s back straightened with sudden alarm. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
The three of them tip-toed toward the side of the barn. As they broached the hedge Sam heard boots crunch pebbles, and saw the flash of yellow lettering on the back of a blue bulletproof vest. He motioned with his hand.
All three of them stopped, and instantly dropped to the ground.
Taking cover in the hedge, they watched silently as multiple federal agents surrounded the house below them. From their vantage point above, Sam could count twelve agents on the northern side in standard covering formation, at the back door.
He watched as six prepared to insert themselves at the back of the house. They wore full black tactical gear with balaclavas, and were armed with M5 assault rifles. Two men on point, one held a door ram, the second man covering with a pump-action shotgun.
Sam indicated to Tom and Virginia to retreat to the barn staying low.
“Anyone up for a drive in the country?” Sam whispered to Tom and Virginia as they made it back to the relative safety of the barn.
“Better make it quick!” Tom answered, climbing in to the passenger seat of the Tudor.
Virginia pressed the automatic door button — the sliding doors opened at the back of the barn. She quickly climbed into the front passenger seat, while Tom took his position, reclining in the saloon style lounge at the back.
In the driver’s seat, Sam switched on the ignition. Once more, the Flathead V-8 motor roared to life. He shifted into first gear, turned the wheel to full lock, and revved the motor hard, power-sliding the tail end of the giant car around in a neat 180 degree turn. He gunned it again, squealing the car across the polished concrete floor and out the back of the barn.
As they tore away, Sam watched in the rear-view mirror as two FBI agents in blue jackets burst through the side door and turned to see the Ford as the three fugitives bounced away in a stream of torn up dirt, mud, and stones.
The driveway behind the barn opened on to a trail across the northern side of the property, which led into the woods. Despite the summer weather, the fire access trail was muddy and slippery, with rocks and jutting tree roots that made the going very rough.
Sam wrestled hard with the steering wheel as it thrashed away from him. The Ford’s rock-hard suspension was in danger of giving all three passengers internal injuries as they raced northward away from the sprawling lake house.
Sam looked again in the tiny rear-view mirror and saw Tom stretched out sideways across the saloon-style leather seats, while next to him, Virginia was holding on for dear life as the Tudor skidded, jumped and swayed its way through the densely wooded pine forest.
“Where are we going to go?” she yelled to him over the roar of the motor.
“Minneapolis Airport.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Sam pulled into the service lane that ran alongside the airfield, where the juggernaut Boeing BC-17 Globemaster III dominated the landscape. It dwarfed the rest of the airport parking and taxi traffic. The next biggest was a Boeing 737 passenger jet being used by a budget carrier, which at 102 feet long, looked like a nervous school bus cowering beside a hulking freighter.
The airlifter jet was a civilian version of the ‘Moose’ used by the US Air Force for heavy hauling sorties. It was 174 feet long, with a wingspan of 169 feet. It could deliver a payload of 77 tons on a dirt runway 3500 feet in length thanks to the brute force generated by the two Pratt and Whitney jet engines on each wing. It could even make a K-turn with its reversing function.
Sam pulled up at the security gate designated specifically for cargo carriers. A portly uniformed attendant at the security gate glanced at them. “You must be Mr. Sam Reilly?”
“That’s me,” Sam replied.
“The captain of the Globemaster advised me you’d be turning up with a classic car.” The attendant appraised the historic vehicle, admiration in his hazel eyes. “She’s a beauty.”
“Thanks.”
“You must be in a hurry.” He opened the gate and waved him through. “Have a good flight.”
Behind them, Sam heard the wail of police sirens. He glanced at the rearview mirror. There were more than a dozen police cars and FBI vehicles racing toward them. The attendant’s eyes darted to the small army of FBI vehicles, and back to Sam. Recognition suddenly penetrating his gaze.
“Hey, wait…” the attendant shouted.
Sam jammed his foot on the gas pedal and the car lurched forward.
He spun across the service lane and onto the taxiway. Sam raced past the control tower, along runway 12 L. Past a Boeing 737 that was stopped at the intersection with runway 22, waiting for a small private plane to land.
In his rearview mirror he spotted the flashing lights now making their pursuit on the runway, a quarter of a mile behind them.
“We’ve got company,” Tom said, rather unnecessarily.
“I see them!”
Sam gunned the accelerator and the Ford Tudor lurched forward with surprising ferocity. He glanced up at the sky where a private single engine Cessna was coming in to land from the north-east. He swung the wheel hard left, turning into runway 22.
Along the final third of runway 22, the Globemaster III started to move northeast, toward the end of the airstrip. The Cessna’s pilot had already spotted it. He or she was set to land well past the taxiing behemoth — right where Sam’s Ford Tudor was now racing at nearly eighty miles an hour.
The coachwork on the old car started to rattle.
Wide-eyed, Virginia stared at the Cessna approaching for landing. “Sam!”
“I see it! I see it!” Sam shouted, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and his foot hard to the floor.
Its single propeller blade spun in a blur, as the Cessna raced head on toward them.
“For God’s sake, Sam, move over!”
“Why?” Sam asked, with a sardonic grin on his face. “We’re heavier than he is, that gives us the right of way.”
Virginia looked at him, her otherwise soft face, suddenly distorted with fear.
An instant later, the Ford Tudor passed beneath the Cessna’s landing strip gear, the little craft safely landing twenty feet behind their transport and their car.
Virginia screamed. “You knew!”
Sam shrugged. “I had a pretty good idea.”
Behind them, sirens blaring, lights flashing, at least ten Federal Agent cars raced to meet them.
Ahead, the Globemaster III lowered its massive rear cargo door. Sparks flew from the steel boarding ramp, where metal struck the runway.
Sam lined up with the ramp, easily matching the jet’s current speed of eighty-five miles per hour.
Virginia tense, her mouth open, and her eyes round with disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”
“Sure, he is,” Tom answered, comfortably lounging in the passenger seat. “Have you ever known Sam to be anything but serious?”
“Yeah, what could go wrong?” Sam asked. “It’s not like this is a war zone. You and I did this before in Afghanistan, didn’t we?”