“Thanks.”
He hit the brakes and skidded onto the only side street available, a narrow road next to a red-brick cathedral. The closest of the three police Saabs on his tail shot by and hit the spikes. It slipped sideways out of control and crashed into a parked SUV. The other two made the turn, along with a pair of motorcycles.
At the other end of the church, the road took a sharp turn to the right, but Nick saw an opportunity. He cut left instead, taking advantage of the MG’s sixty-inch width to squeeze between a set of barrier pylons and onto a small plaza, dotted with iron lampposts. The two Saabs skidded to a stop at the barriers, unable to squeeze through, but the motorcycles kept coming. They followed nimbly as Nick zigzagged through the pools of light beneath the lampposts and then shot through another set of pylons back onto the road.
The new street gently curved to the west. More flashing lights approached dead ahead, once again blocking Nick’s intended path. As they drew closer, he saw that the new arrivals were BMW armed-response vehicles. That meant guns. He jerked the MG into another 180-degree turn, forcing one of the bikes off the road, and turned north up the first street he came to. The BMWs followed and closed the distance, outmatching the older car for speed and acceleration.
This new street opened ahead into a large square with a huge fountain at the center. White marble angels surrounded a pillar topped with two more angels of gleaming gold. Nick had to crank the wheel left to avoid crashing into it. At the moment of his abrupt turn, one of the armed pursuers opened fire. A marble wing cracked and slid off one of the angels, splashing into the fountain below.
“He’s going to regret that,” said Drake.
“Why does this look so familiar?” asked Nick, putting the MG into a drift around the fountain.
Drake tapped the left window. “Nine o’clock, moving to six.”
Still fighting to maintain control, Nick shot a glance at the mirror and saw the massive stone edifice of Buckingham Palace looming behind them. “Oh. Right.”
Undaunted by his previous destruction of history, the cop in the lead BMW fired again. Bullets plinked off the MG’s bumper.
“Gotta get those beamers off our six, boss,” said Drake, ducking below the leather.
“On it.” On the other side of the fountain, Nick fishtailed out of his drift and took a low ramp up onto a pedestrian sidewalk into St. James Park. Again, the wider cars couldn’t follow through the barriers — only the motorcycles, and those had trouble maneuvering around their skidding comrades.
Nick followed the sidewalk around the western end of the park’s narrow lake and onto a long stretch through the trees along its southern shore. The speedometer topped 120. Rami dug his fingers into the two-tone leather seat, but the old Egyptian was smiling. “I knew these cars raced at Monte Carlo. I never thought I’d experience it firsthand.”
The motorcycles appeared to their right, tracking across a long grassy field on the other side of the trees. Nick ignored them. Thanks to the Brits’ restrictive firearms policies, even for their police forces, the riders could do nothing but try and keep pace.
Halfway through the park, the sidewalk broadened into a wide pedestrian thoroughfare. Nick recognized his surroundings from a previous trip to London. “I know this area. This route leads straight out of the park onto King Charles. We can take Westminster Bridge south out of town. We can still make it.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Molly through the SATCOM. “The Brits are blocking off the park exits right now. These guys are not idiots.”
“Suggestions?”
“I have none. I can’t see a way out.”
As soon as the exit to King Charles came into view, Nick saw that Molly was right. The Brits had walled it off with water-filled Rhino barriers. Floodlights kicked on. A cop with a megaphone shouted for him to stop. He ignored the command, if only because of the pretentious accent.
Nick pulled left, cut through the grass, and overran a decorative wire fence to get onto the main walkway that surrounded the park. More blue and yellow lights appeared a hundred yards in front of them, more BMWs with armed bobbies.
Ahead and to the right was the sandy parade ground of London’s famous horse guards, blocked off from the park by tightly spaced two-foot pylons. Bleachers were set up to the north and south for their Christmas demonstrations.
A spray of rounds plinked the hardtop right above Nick’s head. Instinctively, he jerked the wheel right — too far to stay on the path. The MG broke through a freestanding aluminum fence and thundered up the wooden wheelchair ramp of the southern bleachers. It bounced over a bumper stop at the top and flew another fifteen meters before crashing down onto the sandy parade ground. All three men in the car let out a stunned oof as they bounced in their seats. To Nick’s surprise, the MG kept going. He put it into a wide arcing drift, kicking up dust and searching for a way out. “I take back what I said, Rami. I love this car.”
Rami was ghost white. “It’s yours!”
Behind them, a motorcycle tried to follow. The rider held it together through the jump, but he was thrown from the bike as soon as it smacked down in the sand.
As Nick started his second loop, the cops on the thoroughfare spilled out of their BMWs and rested machine guns on the roofs.
“Incoming fire!” warned Drake.
The bobbies shot indiscriminately into the cloud surrounding the vehicle. Bullets slammed into the MG’s hood and ricocheted off the top.
Through the rising dust, Nick scanned the castlelike stables on the other side of the grounds. They blocked the entire eastern side, from one set of bleachers to the other.
Drake lifted his head and peered out the window at the same problem. “No exit,” he shouted.
“Then we’ll have to make one.”
Nick came out of his drift heading straight for the arch that bisected the stables, a passage forbidden to any vehicles but those bearing the monarch of Britain. A heavy iron gate blocked the exit to the street on the far side. He had no choice but to give it a shot.
He hit the gate square and centered, gritting his teeth through the jarring impact. The iron bars smashed the headlamps and fractured the windshield into a hundred spidery cracks, but the lock gave way and the MG made it through.
On the other side, Nick punched the gas, jumping the median and heading downhill toward the street that paralleled the Thames. Beyond a short stone barrier, the neon blue reflection of the huge Millennium Wheel stretched across the calm black surface of the river. “They didn’t see that coming,” said Nick, chuckling. “The bridge is two blocks south. We’re—”
He stopped in midsentence. His foot was on the brake, trying to slow for the ninety-degree turn at the riverbank. With each pump, the pedal went straight to the floor.
“Look out!” shouted Rami, but there was nothing Nick could do.
The MG jumped the curb, smashed through the stone fence, and pitched down into the muddy Thames.
PART THREE
ENDGAME
CHAPTER 53
Nick!”
Katy called to him.
Her voice was muddled, distant. He saw her atop a shining limestone wall, spotted with tufts of green rock plant and studded with tiny prayer scrolls.
Jerusalem.
Katy was in Jerusalem. That was right, wasn’t it? Nick had sent her there with his father. To keep her safe.
Suddenly Masih Kattan appeared next to her, holding Luke in his arms and smiling triumphantly. Katy’s face twisted with fear as a wall of flame rose up before them. Nick’s face burned from the heat. She screamed his name from beyond the fire.
“Nick!”