“Make that pursued,” Pitt interrupted him. “They’re closing fast.”
Suddenly a burst of gunfire tore through the roof of the Jeep just above their heads. “Correction,” Giordino said in utter calm. “Change pursued to attacked.”
Sandecker slouched down on the floor and spoke rapidly into the car phone’s mouthpiece, giving location and instructions. Pitt had already slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The high torque of the big 5.9-liter V-8 kicked in, and the Jeep swiftly leaped down the beltway at 150 kph.
“The agent on duty is sending out a call for the highway patrol,” announced Sandecker.
“Tell them to put on some speed,” Pitt urged, whipping the big Jeep back and forth across the three lanes of highway to throw off their pursuers’ aim.
“They’re not playing fair,” Giordino said contritely. He dropped down on the floor between the seats as another burst sprayed the rear window’s glass over him, passed through the car, and took out half the windshield. “They’ve got guns, and we don’t.”
“I think I can fix that.” Pitt spared him a quick glance down and back.
“How?”
“By getting off this damn highway, where we make a perfect target, and taking every bend in the next road I can find until we hit a town.”
“The turnoff for Phelps Point is coming up,” advised Sandecker, peeping over the dashboard.
Pitt stole a quick look in the rearview mirror. He could see now that the vans were painted in the color scheme of ambulances. Even as he observed them, their red and blue flashing lights blinked. Their sirens remained mute, however, as the drivers pulled abreast of each other, covering the entire southbound lanes of the beltway to increase their firepower.
Pitt could make out men clad in black aiming automatic weapons out the side windows. Whoever planned the assassination had covered every base. There must have been four men to a van. Twelve who were armed to the teeth against three who probably had only one Swiss Army knife between them.
Pitt had an idea for evening the odds a bit. The off-ramp to Phelps Point was still two hundred meters ahead. No time. The next barrage of massed fire would blow them off the road. Without touching the brakes and warning the pursuing killers of his intention by flashing red taillights, he abruptly threw the Jeep into a crabwise slide and shot across two lanes and down an embankment.
The timing was perfect. A hail of gunfire missed the big Grand Wagoneer as it swept over the landscaped grass and surfed through a shallow ditch filled with half a meter of water. Then all tires bounced free of the ground as it soared over the other edge of the ditch, landing with a screeching of rubber on a frontage road that paralleled the beltway.
The pursuers lost time as they skidded to a stop in confusion. Pitt gained almost ten seconds before they regrouped and roared down the off-ramp onto the frontage road and resumed the chase.
For the second time in nearly as many days, Pitt was driving as if he was competing in a Grand Prix road race. Professional drivers, though, had an advantage. They wore helmets with visors against the wind resistance. The cold morning air washed over Pitt’s face through the bullet-shattered windshield, and he was forced to turn his head sideways and squint against the icy gust.
They tore onto a long avenue flanked by oak trees before bursting into a residential area. He threw the Jeep into a series of sharp turns, left on one block of houses, left again, and then to the right. The drivers of the vans were well versed in the routine. They split up and attempted to cut him off at the intersections, but he always managed to get there ahead and dash past with scant seconds to spare.
The killers held their fire amid the populated homes, relentlessly closing the net and cutting off avenues of escape. When Pitt was able to make a turn before they came in sight from the previous block, he turned out his lights and sped through the darkness. Unfortunately, the streetlights gave him away. He tried every trick he knew, gaining a few meters here, a few seconds there, but he could not entirely shake the stubborn killers.
Pitt circled back and threw the Jeep onto the main avenue into the town. A gas station, a theater, and several small shops flicked past. “Watch for a hardware store,” he shouted above the scream of the protesting tires.
“A what?” asked Sandecker incredulously.
“A hardware store. There’s got to be one in town.”
“Oscar Brown’s Hardware Emporium,” announced Giordino. “I saw it on a sign right after we sailed off the beltway.”
“Whatever you’ve got in mind,” said the admiral steadily, “you better manage it quick. The red light on the gas gauge just flashed on.”
Pitt glanced at the dash instruments. The needle was pegged on “empty.” “They must have stitched the fuel tank.”
“Oscar’s Emporium is coming up on the right side of the street,” said Giordino, motioning through the open windshield.
“You have a flashlight?” Pitt snapped to Sandecker.
“There’s one in the glove compartment.”
“Get it out.”
Pitt took one final look in the mirror. The first van was sliding around a corner two blocks back. He steered the Jeep into the gutter on the left side of the street, and then cramped the wheel to the right.
Sandecker stiffened in shock.
Giordino croaked, “Oh, no!”
The Jeep spun sideways for an instant, then the four drive wheels dug in and it raced over the curb, across the sidewalk, and crashed through a huge plate-glass window into the hardware store. The Jeep bashed through the front counters, sending cash registers spinning into the darkness. An end display, a cluster of garden rakes on sale, burst up like toothpicks. The car careened down an aisle between shelves hurling plumbing fixtures and nuts, bolts, and screws in the air like grape and canister out of a cannon.
Insanely, it seemed to Giordino and Sandecker, Pitt didn’t stop. He kept his foot pressed on the accelerator, traveling up and down the aisles as though he was searching for something, leaving total destruction in his wake. The tumult as the Jeep ran wild was enhanced by the sudden whoop of the security alarm.
At last Pitt shoved the front bumper into a display case, resulting in a great spray of jagged glass. The one remaining headlight flickered dimly on twenty or thirty handguns scattered about the shattered case and stacked rows of rifles and shotguns in a large cabinet against the wall.
“You sneaky bastard,” Sandecker uttered in awe.
40
“CHOOSE YOUR WEAPONS,” Pitt shouted over the banshee cry of the alarm as he kicked open the door.
Sandecker needed no urging. He was out of the Jeep and ransacking the cabinet for ammunition while clutching the flashlight under his arm. “What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” he yelled out.
Pitt snatched a pair of Colt Combat Commander automatic pistols, one with blue finish, the other in stainless steel. He ejected the clips. “Forty-five automatic!”
Sandecker fumbled through the boxes in the cabinet for only a few seconds before he spotted the right caliber. He tossed two boxes to Pitt. “Winchester Silver Tips.” Then he turned to Giordino. “What do you need, Al?”
Giordino had pulled three Remington-1100 shotguns off the rack. “Twelve gauge, double-aught load.”
“Sorry,” Sandecker snapped back. He handed Giordino several boxes of shotgun casings. “Number-four magnum buckshot is the best I can do on short notice.” Then he crouched low and dashed over to the paint department.
“Hurry and douse your light,” Pitt warned him, smashing the remaining headlight with the butt of one Colt.
The vans had slammed to a stop up the block and out of sight of the men inside the store. The assassins flowed from the vehicles in their black ninja suits swiftly and smoothly. They did not rush toward the hardware store, but paused, taking their time.