The Last Spymaster (27 page)

“The second car’s pulled in front. Maybe to confuse us,” he said. But as the second wheeled around the corner, he recognized the sleek lines, the glossy ebony color. “Dammit all to hell!” By feel, he grabbed the SIG Sauer from his backpack. “It’s the black Lincoln that chased us on the Beltway.” He stared as the second car spun around the turn, too, its back tires skidding,
almost as if showing off. He swore loudly again. “The one with the blue-white lights is Jerry’s BMW!”

“What!” Her voice rose. “How could they have found us? Are you sure it’s them!”

He glanced at her then stuffed the SIG Sauer into his waistband. “Damn right I’m sure. Can’t make out any faces. Looks like two men in each car.”

She accelerated to seventy miles an hour, trying to understand Jerry’s appearance. It was unbelievable. But the CIA had to be somewhere close. This was the correct stretch of road, the place where they were supposed to act out their movie. She peered eagerly ahead, but there were no other vehicles.

The two cars caught up and resumed pacing them. She clutched the wheel so hard her hands hurt. Where was Langley!

Her voice snapped. “I’m going to outrun them. Does the map show anywhere we can duck and hide?”

“I’ll look.” He yanked the map from the glove compartment and turned on the small overhead map light.

She rammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Jag went into kickdown, sending them deep into their seats. She pushed it to eighty. The tires sang.

As the car settled into flight, he held up the map to read.

To ninety. Then ninety-five. The scattering of trees was a blur. In her mirrors, she saw the two cars were trying to catch up. To one hundred. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to trust the pliant strength of the Jag and her ability to control it. The asphalt road seemed needle-thin as it curved into the distance.

“I don’t see a way off for at least seven miles,” Tice told her grimly.

“There are two more cars. Ahead.” Langley at last!

She stared hopefully through the windshield. The vehicles raced toward them around a bend, their headlamps shooting flickering light through pine trees. They appeared to be in tandem, too, maintaining a rigid distance from each other.

“It’s almost as if they need to be close enough to each other so they canenact
some plan.” He glanced behind and ahead, keeping track of both pairs.

She did the same. “Oh, my God.” Her voice was a dry whisper. “Look.”

He whipped around just in time to see the two front vehicles were suddenly hurtling side by side toward them, their beams on high, blazing light. There was no shoulder on this road. The edge dropped off into weeds and grass and brush. The overbright row of headlights grew larger, more glaring, an assault.

He spun back and stared. “The BMW’s making its move now.”

With a graceful rush, the BMW pulled abreast of the Lincoln, creating another speeding wall of metal and glass. Their headlamps were on high beam, too, shattering the darkness. Side by side, the two sets of cars closed in relentlessly on the Jag.

“Now we have the answer,” Tice said. “Why only one car was following for such a long time. Why Jerry hasn’t tried anything. It’s their plan. They’ve been waiting to spring a trap on us.”

A bolt of fear shot through her, followed by indignation.
Stop lying to yourself.
Laurence Litchfield interviewed her for the job. Litchfield ran Whippet. Whippet tried to wipe her. Whippet tried to wipe Tice. She had been set up from the beginning. The only people keeping the rendezvous were Jerry and his wet squad.

In a gesture that spoke volumes, Tice laid her Walther on her lap. “No strings.”

“What can we do?” She battled to control her emotions. The gun’s dull metal shone, beckoned. She felt deep gratitude.

“Jerry’s tasting victory now, so his edge isn’t as sharp. He’s got a lot of troops in play, but that makes his job harder, too. They’re vicious, but they’re city-based thugs. Those are our advantages. See the woods ahead?”

In the BMW, Rink leaned into the steering wheel eagerly. “We’ve got them now!”

Jerry started to nod. “Dammit! What in hell?”

The Jaguar had screeched to a sudden stop. It sat at the side of the road like a lump of red coal.

“They’re giving up!” Rink said happily.

“Like hell they are. Not Tice. He’s up to something. Move in fast!” As Rink hit the gas, Jerry barked into his cell, “Close in! Close in!”

The Jag’s exterior lights died. Angelides strained to see what they were doing. No interior light showed. The front doors opened and closed so swiftly they hardly seemed to move.

“Jerry!” Rink said.

“I see ’em!”

Two shadows flitted out and plunged down off the road and up into woods that spread back through the farmland. Rink skewed the BMW sideways and screeched to a stop twenty feet from the silent Jaguar, his headlamps aimed at the timber. Within seconds the Lincoln stopped beside them, mimicking the slew. The dazzling headlights exposed the bark of tree trunks in detail while deepening the forest’s shadows into black Rorschach blots, impenetrable.

There was no movement in the woods, no sign of Tice or Cunningham. But as Jerry and Rink opened their doors, bullets thudded into their car. The men slammed their doors, staying inside. As they ducked, the BMW rocked and sank.

“Shit!” Rink bellowed. “They shot out my tires!”

Jerry was getting pissed. He did not like to waste time on being pissed. “They blasted the Lincoln’s, too. The bullets came from two directions. Guess now we know for sure Cunningham can shoot.”

“How in hell are we supposed to drive out of here!” “The Jag,” Jerry said impatiently. “We’ll whack them, then we’ll take the Jag.” He announced into the cell, “Into the trees. Move!”

But as Jerry and his three men leaped out and ran, there was another fusillade. Bullets smashed into metal, bit into asphalt. The men dove as the other two cars—an Oldsmobile and another Lincoln—swerved and halted nearby, their beams also trained on the forest. Two more firestorms erupted from the trees, shredding their tires, too.

“Damn you, Tice!” Jerry growled. “I’ll get you for this. I’ll get you!”

Abruptly everything was quiet. The night air was still, motionless. His men’s tension was electric. Eyes sharp, he studied the woods. He listened. Finally, the noise of four more car doors opening broke the heavy silence.

“The rest of the boys are getting out,” Rink whispered. “They must’ve figured it’s safe.”

Jerry nodded. Running footsteps pounded the asphalt. As the new quartet slid in, a shadow flickered among the vegetation and faded into the woods.

“That’s them!” Jerry stabbed a finger. “Remember that spot. Walt, you and your men circle around. Cut ’em off.” He motioned to the others. “The rest of us are gonna go after them head-on. Move!”

Beside an old-growth walnut tree, Tice stood balanced on the balls of both feet, his Browning in one hand, a fist-size rock in the other. He had returned the SIG Sauer to his shoulder holster. Sweat coated him. The forest was a sea of shadows.

The quiet oaths of the urban gunmen floated through the trees as they stumbled on roots and walked into low branches. Although they were having as many problems as he had hoped, it did not lessen their deadliness. He turned, tracking the group that was circling left in the time-honored flanking maneuver that Stonewall Jackson had used to win many victories here in his home state. The other group was heading for where he had last shot at them. Several hundred yards separated the two teams.

He had to give Cunningham time. He crouched and cracked the rock against a low boulder. Stone on stone.

A hoarse whisper drifted through the night: “Over there!”

He listened, forcing himself to be patient. When he was sure both sides were converging, he hurled the rock in the direction of the road. It landed with a crash and rolled noisily. The two teams adjusted to the new destination and accelerated, predators scenting blood.

He picked up a second rock and ran around the tree and slid under a leafy bush. He turned onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest, dropped
the rock, and held the Browning ready. Twigs and sharp stones stabbed through his clothes. He peered out carefully. The flanking group was crossing far to his left, hurrying toward where the first rock had landed. The second team headed toward it from the right. They would pass close to him. Their footsteps grew louder.

They seemed to materialize out of the shadows, Jerry in the lead. His muscular body padded easily, like a dog in the wild but without the finesse. As expected, three men followed Jerry in single file. If this were an alley, they would peer around every Dumpster, lift every lid, try all doors, miss nothing. They would find him. Sweat trickled off Tice’s forehead, burning his eyes.

Instead, they passed his bush one by one, their eyes scanning, looking for the obvious. When the forest shadows swallowed them again, Tice released a long stream of air and crawled out, listening. As soon as he was certain of their location, he hurled the second rock. It landed with a loud
thump,
closer to Jerry’s group.

A challenge rang out from them: “Hold it right there!”

Like a vicious echo, a single gunshot exploded. More followed from both sides. The air shook with the noise.

“Oh, shit!” someone bellowed.

“Walt’s down! He’s been hit!”

There were more curses.

“Hold fire!” Jerry shouted. “Stop it, dammit!
Stop
it. We’re shooting each other, for chrissakes!”

With a cold smile, Tice melted into the timber, leaving them to their chaos. He wove among the trees, his feet light on the duff, skirting patches of moonlight. When he could no longer hear the janitors, he increased his speed. Dodged bushes. Darted past boulders. The scent of pine filled his head until he thought it would explode.

When he finally emerged onto a plowed field, he was breathing so hard his chest ached. On the horizon, cars slashed along a rise as if they were lit beads pulled on a string. He slowed and looked up eagerly and found the North Star. Oriented, he inhaled deeply, willing oxygen to his tired muscles. He loped off.

Carrying her Walther and shoulder bag, Elaine slithered out from under the Jag and crouched, her clothes filthy, her hair loose. Jerry’s four vehicles blocked one lane, hunched like crippled beetles on the frames of their wheels, their headlights glaring sightless into the timber.

Watching the woods, she ran to Jerry’s BMW. The band that tied her hair fell off. Cursing, she backtracked and snapped it up. And ran again and yanked open the BMW’s passenger door and dove inside, closing it swiftly to minimize the amount of time the interior light showed. Shadows filled the car. It stank of cigarettes and old sandwiches.

She looked around then opened the glove compartment. There was no time to pick and choose. Jerry and his men could return anytime. Suddenly a volley of gunfire erupted. She fell flat on the seat, head hitting the armrest. Heart hammering, she listened. Waited. More gunshots followed. Too many. Was Jay all right?

Still, if someone returned now, she would be in serious trouble, too—trapped in Jerry’s car.
Hurry, hurry.
As more bullets exploded, she scooped the contents of the glove compartment into a pocket in her shoulder bag. She ran her hands over the seat but found nothing. Frantically she felt the floor carpet, picking up matches and a crushed paper cigar ring and candy wrappers, and slammed them into her purse. At last she raised her head and peered out the window. The thick woods seemed silent, tranquil.

She opened the door and tumbled out onto weeds and reached up with both hands and pressed the door closed. Scanning for movement, she crouched and ran. Each footfall sounded like thunder to her ears.

At the Jag, she surveyed around then jumped inside and switched on the ignition. Lungs aching as she tried to catch her breath, she cruised the car quietly away, watching her rearview mirror.

She had been hiding in the woods when Tice began running back and
forth, the Browning in one hand, the SIG Sauer in the other, shooting out the janitors’ tires from two positions. The point was to make them think both Tice and she were escaping. Then, while his volleys imprisoned the men low in their cars, she had dashed back and slid beneath the Jag.

She forced worry from her mind. When the collection of wounded cars behind her was out of sight, she floored the gas feed. Soon a little intersection came into view. She noted her odometer reading and turned right, rushing off onto a road that looped north. Precisely five miles later she pulled onto the shoulder and cut her lights. The engine thrummed. Tilled earth spread gray and dead-looking, interrupted only by the distant woods where Tice planned to lose the killers. She hoped he had lost them. She was sure he had.

When a knuckle tapped the passenger window, she jumped. Sweaty and disheveled, Tice stared soberly at her through the glass. The fine lines on his face had deepened into caverns. He was a beautiful sight. As she unlocked his door, he peered suspiciously back over his shoulder then dropped like a rock inside.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Gulping air, he closed the door and fell back against the seat. Twigs clung to his jacket. His hands were scratched. He rested them on his thighs. They quivered.