“Boss and his instincts!” Diaz said. “DJ, you stick with him. I’ll follow in the truck in case he’s got a vehicle parked somewhere and we need to haul ass.”
James checked his weapon, adjusted his earpiece, and quickly got out. He closed the door quietly, then stayed hidden behind the truck. Once the “target” was far enough ahead, James crossed the street, keeping his eyes focused on the man, who was walking at a steady pace, continuing toward L Street, where he turned. L Street was one-way going east.
James crossed to the opposite side of L, then started following the man. He pressed the PTT. “Still in sight, walking east.”
Diaz started the engine, checked his side mirror, then pulled out into traffic, easing into the left lane. The light at L Street turned red.
“C’mon! C’mon,” he mumbled, growing impatient. Finally it turned green, and he swung a left, shooting across oncoming traffic, getting into the left lane of L. Brakes squealed, horns sounded. He ignored them as he slowed down, seeing James coming back across the road.
Traffic on L was deadlocked. Diaz lowered the power window. James stood close to the door, prepared to take off if the man kept walking. “He’s straight ahead on the left.” Diaz leaned toward the windshield.
The man stopped next to a dark blue Camaro about six cars ahead of them. He appeared to be unlocking the door, all the while constantly watching people and vehicles, but for one brief second, his eyes seemed to lock onto James.
“Fuck!” James said under his breath, as he jumped into the truck. “Think he just ‘made’ me, Frank!” Both he and Diaz anticipated they were about to go on a chase through the streets of D.C. — once they were out of the gridlock.
The next block, Fifteenth Street, was five hundred feet away. The traffic light turned red. Diaz and James tried to stay focused on the Camaro. It was still parked, but they could see its brake lights and a right turn signal flashing. The light turned green, and traffic started moving slowly.
“Shit! Somebody let him in!” James spat out, seeing the Camaro easing in front of a red VW beetle.
Slowly the traffic moved and finally, the Camaro was second at the light. No flashing signal from the Camaro, only brake lights.
“He’s going straight!” James said.
The light turned green and the Camaro went straight toward Vermont.
“Don’t you turn red, you fuckin’ bastard!” Diaz swore.
The Ford was five vehicles back, a little too close for Diaz’s liking, but they couldn’t take a chance and possibly lose the Camaro.
The light at Vermont turned green. Every car had its left turn signal flashing.
“Where the fuck’s he goin’?” James said, as Diaz made the turn.
Soon they were entering Thomas Circle. The Camaro stayed in the right lane, taking the exit for Massachusetts Avenue.
“He’s gotta know we’re here!”
Diaz didn’t respond, but kept his full attention on the blue car. “Shit! He’s heading for DuPont Circle! That’s a fucking mess anytime! Stay on alert, DJ! Try and get a license number!”
James was using the glasses off and on, but whoever was driving the Camaro, always managed to make certain at least one or two vehicles were behind him.
At DuPont Circle a narrow, concrete divider, the height of a sidewalk, separated the four lanes into two. Traffic lights controlled each two lanes. The Camaro slowed as it approached the red light from the left-hand side of the divider, staying in the right lane. The car was at least twenty feet from the crosswalk, moving forward slowly. Diaz and James were four cars back. The instant the light turned green, the Camaro’s tires burned rubber as it shot over the divider, narrowly missing being T-boned by a Cadillac. Sparks flew out from under the rear end of the Camaro as the muffler struck concrete. The driver maintained complete control as the car flew down Connecticut Avenue.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Diaz shouted, pounding his fist against the steering wheel. He swiveled his head, trying to see a way to break through the traffic. He didn’t stand a chance.
“Goddammit!” James said through clenched teeth, continuing to watch the Camaro as it became just a blue dot in the distance.
Horns were blaring behind them. Diaz had no choice but to drive on. “Hope you’re ready,” he said, shaking his head.
James’ heavy eyebrows nearly knitted together. “What the fuck for?”
“For the ass reamin’ boss is gonna give us,” Diaz responded, as he sped around the circle practically on two wheels, before exiting at Connecticut. He pressed the accelerator, attempting to maneuver in and out of traffic.
“You honestly think we’ve got any chance in hell of finding that bastard?” James said, using the binoculars, searching up and down side streets.
Diaz continued pounding his fist against the steering wheel.
Grant turned the corner then continued down the hallway, walking under a continuous row of florescent lights. With a large thermos of strong, Navy-type coffee in one hand, and a box of freshly made, still warm donuts in the other, he stopped in the open doorway. Mullins was sitting behind his desk with his fingers linked behind his head, his eyes closed.
“Permission to enter,sir!” Grant called loudly.
Startled, Mullins’ eyelids popped open, and he shook his head. “Jesus, Grant!”
Grant closed the door, then put the thermos and donuts on the desk. “Coffee and donuts as ordered.” He dropped his baseball cap on one of the wooden chairs, then unzipped his windbreaker.
He unscrewed the thermos top, and removed the cork. “Got any cups?”
Mullins was still rubbing his eyes, as he swung his chair around and took out two mugs from a credenza drawer.
“Made the coffee myself,” Grant commented as he poured the steaming brew into each mug. “Oh, and the donuts are from Joe’s favorite bakery, made fresh this morning.”
Mullins leaned back, inhaling the strong aroma. He took two continuous sips, then cleared his throat. “Good stuff.”
“The key to making good coffee is never measure, just dump,” Grant responded with a slight grin. “You drink and eat. I’ll talk.” He filled Mullins in on the meeting with President Carr.”
“Jesus! That must be one helluva weapon,” Mullins commented.
Grant nodded. “Mike went to Indian Head earlier to test it. It’ll be interesting to hear what he has to say.” He reached for the thermos. “Ready?” Mullins shook his head while he bit into a jelly donut, ignoring powdered sugar floating down on his black tie.
As Grant refilled his mug, he continued talking about the Team’s inspection of the site where the attack occurred. “Did you see the newspaper report about a chopper going down?”
Mullins nodded as he wiped his mouth. “You think that’s ‘your’ chopper?!”
“Think it’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be,” Grant responded, as he leaned forward. “Listen, Scott, as requested by the President, we’ve gotta keep this ‘close to the vest’ for now. Will you be able to help without going through your chain of command?”
Mullins swallowed a mouthful of coffee and started reaching for the thermos, instead, he leaned back, hesitating briefly. “The President, huh?” Grant nodded. “Guess that’s all the approval I need. Any idea on where you’ll be going on this next ‘vacation’?”
Grant put his coffee mug on the edge of the desk, then walked to a wall map. Leaning close, he tapped his finger on Russia then continued sliding it along a route leading to Afghanistan. “Still not sure, but something’s telling me this might be the place.”