The Inner Circle (35 page)

I nodded and put the radio to my mouth. Then I spotted the red pickup trailing the logging truck. Drew and I broke cover and sprinted up the slope.
 

Seconds later the logging truck roared past us. The red pickup eased to a stop. Ronny was behind the wheel.
 

“What happened?” he asked.
 

Drew climbed in first. I slammed the door shut and shouted at Ronny to move it. Ronny punched the gas.
 

“What
happened?
” he asked again.
 

“They came for us.”
 

“How?”
 

“The son of a bitch had a tracking device in his goddamn molar.” I lashed out, slamming my fist into the dash. “Motherfucker!”
 

We drove for another minute in silence. The road twisted and turned. I didn’t know why, but when the dark sedan came speeding around the bend in the oncoming lane, something dropped in the pit of my stomach.
 

“Fuck,” I said.
 

Ronny glanced at me. “What’s wrong?”
 

The sedan came up fast. For a moment I had the childish thought that if I closed my eyes and didn’t look at the sedan, it wouldn’t be real. But I kept my eyes open. I looked.
 

For a split-second as the sedan whipped past us, the two men in the front wearing wraparound sunglasses like the Blues Brothers looked back.
 

“Hit the gas,” I said.
 

Ronny knew better than to question me. He heard the urgency in my voice. He pressed his foot down even more on the gas pedal, and the pickup accelerated.
 

I glanced back through the pickup’s rear window. The sedan’s taillights were already flaring. The car appeared to rock back and forth for a moment, teetering, before the driver executed a hasty one-eighty.
 

“Here they come,” Ronny said, his gaze momentarily on the rearview mirror.
 

I reached for the glove compartment. Inside were two spare magazines—we always kept extras in our vehicles. I took them both out and handed one to Drew. Then I pressed the button to lower the side window.
 

“What are you doing?” Ronny asked.
 

“Heading out to get some fresh air.” I glanced at Drew. “Want to come with?”
 

Drew nodded.
 

I stuffed the magazine in my pocket, went to grab the caution bar. This part of the highway was not level and straight. The pavement was still wet and slick. Any false move and I would be toast. I squeezed the caution bar tight, took a deep breath, and pulled myself through the window.
 

It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, not with Ronny already driving nearly eighty miles per hour. I almost lost my balance once when I attempted to put my right foot on the window, but then I managed to crawl back into the pickup’s bed. I pulled the gun from my pocket, checked the magazine, slapped it back in place.
 

The sedan was coming right up our ass. The passenger’s window lowered, and one of the Blues Brothers leaned out with a gun.
 

I moved toward the back of the pickup bed on my knees, aimed, and opened fire.
 

Despite Ronny swerving the pickup around the curves and my heart blasting away in my chest, my aim was steady. The bullets struck the sedan’s windshield—each bullet making a sort of splat in the glass—but that was as far as they got. There was no penetration. The driver barely even flinched.
 

The passenger, who had ducked inside during my volley, leaned back out. He opened fire.
 

I flattened myself on the pickup’s bed. My foot hit something solid. As Ronny began swerving the pickup even more, trying to evade the bullets, I glanced back and saw Drew lying flat too.
 

“
What happened?
” he shouted.
 

“
The windshield’s bulletproof!
”
 

Ronny hit a tight curve, tapping the brakes enough to send us rolling across the pickup’s bed. There was a lull in the sedan’s gunfire. I peeked up and redirected my aim, this time going for the grill.
 

The burst of bullets was temporarily drowned out by a logging truck roaring past in the opposite direction. This truck had a shorter bed, with even thicker logs stacked in the back. These were not contained by heavy metal prongs, but by two thick chains.
 

I checked the highway ahead of us. Another one of these logging trucks was coming our way.
 

“
Drew!
” I shouted, and lifted my chin at the oncoming truck.
 

He glanced back, then nodded at me. “
Keep me covered!
”
 

I turned back to the sedan. The passenger was leaning out the window again. I fired, first at the windshield, then again at the grill, until I ran out of bullets. I let the magazine drop, slapped in the spare, opened fire again.
 

The space between the sedan and pickup was maybe two hundred yards. It was going to be tight. I glanced back and saw Drew kneeling with his left arm balanced on the side of the bed, waiting for the right moment. I knew if anyone could make this work, it would be him. He was our sharpshooter. This was what he trained for. Even if, when it all came down to it, we were relying on luck.
 

The logging truck roared past and Drew opened fire. I saw the bullets tearing into the chains and logs. The first chain snapped. The second didn’t.
 

“
Shit!
” he shouted. He looked at me, and his eyes went wide. “
Ben!
”
 

I hit the bed just as another round of bullets tore into back of the pickup. Ronny started swerving again.
 

I shouted back at Drew, “
Are you out?
”
 

He shook his head, pulled the spare magazine from his pocket.
 

“
We’re going to have to take out that windshield! Give it everything we have!
”
 

The pickup suddenly increased even more in speed. The entire bed vibrated. Ronny, who had been keeping low behind the wheel, slid open the rear window.
 

“
Here comes another one!
”
 

I closed my eyes. Not another sedan. We were barely keeping this one away, and we were almost out of bullets.
 

Ronny shouted, “
Make it count!
”
 

I looked at Drew. Drew looked at me. Ronny swerved the pickup again, creating another lull in the sedan’s gunfire. It gave me enough time to sneak a peek. Nothing was behind the sedan. But ahead of us was another logging truck, coming fast.
 

Drew saw it too. He was already getting into position.
 

“
I’ll cover you and then go for the rear chain!
”
 

He nodded.
 

I aimed again at the sedan’s windshield. My finger tightened on the trigger. I fired twice, then turned to my right, settled my arm on the side of the bed, and took aim.
 

It literally happened in a flash of slow motion. The logging truck passed us. The world exploded into a giant cacophony of gunfire. Bits and chips of wood spat up from the logs. Like before, the first chain snapped. Like before, the second chain didn’t.
 

At least, it didn’t at first.
 

The logging truck roared past just like its predecessor. Unlike its predecessor, it didn’t keep going. The driver slammed on the brakes. The rear began to fishtail. The sudden halting jolt was enough to snap the second chain. The logs started rolling off the flatbed.
 

They rolled right into the highway.
 

Right into the sedan.
 

The sedan was already going at least eighty miles per hour. Maybe that was its undoing. The driver never had a chance to stop. Instead he swerved into the oncoming logs. The momentum and velocity was enough to flip the sedan, sending it reeling off the highway into the trees.
 

Drew and I both watched it happen. It took only a second. Then the road curved and the whole thing was gone from view.
 

We went to the front of the truck. The rear window was still open. Miraculously it hadn’t been hit.
 

I leaned my head in. “You okay?”
 

Ronny nodded. “What about you guys?”
 

“We’re fine.”
 

“That was intense.”
 

“Tell me about it.” I looked up through the windshield. “Pull off at the next road. We’re going to need to ditch this thing.”
 

“And then what, walk ten miles through the woods?”
 

“That or call Maya to come pick us up. Either way, those guys no doubt called in our location. One of those Black Hawks might be coming along at any moment.”
 

Ronny was silent behind the wheel for a second. “I can’t wait to be done with this stuff.”
 

“I know what you mean.”
 

He looked at me. “Do you?”
 

There was more to the simple question than I cared to admit. I decided to ignore it for now and said, “But before we officially disband, I think we all need to take a trip to Washington, D.C.”
 

“Why?”
 

“I figure before we all part ways, Carver’s memory deserves some payback.”
 

“What are you talking about?”
 

“Boojum,” I said. “The son of a bitch that sold Carver out. I think it’s time we finally meet him face to face.”

51

“This is Stark.”
 

“Hey, Ed.”
 

“Carver?”
 

“I was thinking about our last conversation.”
 

“Where are you?”
 

“I’m here.”
 

“Here? Here where?”
 

“Washington.”
 

“What—what are you doing in Washington?”
 

“I want to meet.”
 

“You do?”
 

“Yes. Are you busy?”
 

“Actually, right now I am, yes.”
 

“I’m at the Holocaust Museum. I want you to meet me outside the main entrance in ten minutes.”
 

“Ten minutes? I can’t make that.”
 

“I already called you a taxi. There’s one waiting outside your building right now along Pennsylvania Avenue.”
 

“How do you know where I am?”
 

“Ten minutes, Ed. Don’t be late.”
 

“Carver, I can’t—”
 

I clicked off, slipped the iPhone into my pocket. The Kid had rigged the same voice manipulation application onto the phone that was on his computer. Like before, while it was my voice coming out of my mouth, it was Carver’s voice going into Edward Stark’s ear.
 

As promised, a taxi was parked in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. It had pulled up right when I called Stark. That had been a minute ago. Another minute and it would have to move along. More than a decade had already passed since 9/11, but still people were extra cautious. Especially the FBI.
 

I stood across the street, on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 10th Street, the Office of the Attorney General behind me. I wore a gray suit, dress shoes, my prescription sunglasses. In my left hand was a briefcase. It was Monday, and in Washington a suit and briefcase won’t bring you a second glance. Probably won’t even bring you a first glance.
 

I knew Edward Stark was inside the Hoover Building. I had watched him enter it two hours ago. Now it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning. Everyone was in position. Either he made his appearance or he didn’t. If he did, things would progress as planned. If he didn’t, we would need to improvise.
 

Less than a minute after I disconnected my call with him, Edward Stark appeared. He came out of the entrance doors, a tall broad-shouldered man wearing a suit. He paused for a moment, scanning the street. He spotted the maroon taxi. He took a step toward it but stopped. Seemed to think something over, then started walking again toward the taxi.
 

He didn’t get inside it.
 

Instead he went to the curb directly behind the taxi and raised his hand to the oncoming traffic. Another taxi—this one a blue Town Car—eased to a stop. Stark climbed in the back, and the Town Car merged with traffic.
 

I touched my earpiece. “We’re a go.”
 

Across the street, the maroon taxi pulled away from the curb. Drew was behind the wheel, a driver’s cap on his head. He knew I was standing on the corner but kept his focus on the street as he drove past.
 

I turned and started south down 10th Street.
 

Based on this morning’s traffic—D.C. is flooded with traffic—it was going to take the blue Town Car several minutes to get to where it was going. Stark had no doubt told the driver to go to the Holocaust Museum. And that was where the driver would seem to be taking him.
 

Except the driver had a detour planned—turning left onto 12th Street, then, waiting for the light, turning left again onto Constitution Avenue. It was in the opposite direction Stark would want to go—the Holocaust Museum was west, while he would be headed east—but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not while the car was in motion. And when it came to the light at the next block, I was already waiting at the curb.