Storm was thankful he was inside the car when it happened. The wild lurching of the Jaguar might have thrown him had he been trying to hang on outside.
As it was, he was tossed against the side of the vehicle, taking a chunk out of his forehead. It was not a serious wound, but it was a bleeder. Storm cursed as blood poured into his eyes.
“Oh my God, are you hit?” Cracker said.
“Just drive,” Storm growled.
The Jaguar was now on its rims on both sides in back, pouring a steady stream of sparks behind it. The engine was working double to maintain the speed requested of it by the cruise control, its twelve cylinders firing furiously.
Storm looked down at the second-to-last Molotov.
“Come on, Derrick,” he urged. “Let’s do this.”
He twisted himself out of the car, exposing more of himself so he could get his left arm free. He focused on the hole in the wind-shield, except it wasn’t a windshield anymore. It was a catcher’s glove. And he wasn’t a grown man anymore. He was a twelve-year-old pitcher, in his backyard, standing on the makeshift pitchers’ mound his father had created for him.
“Keep your eyes on the mitt,” his father always told him when he was struggling with his control. “Don’t aim. Just throw.”
The old man had kept him on target in so many aspects of his life.
This would just have to be one more.
He whipped his left arm, following through as best he could with the throw.
The bottle traced a straight line toward the pickup truck, spiraling gently as it sailed in the air. Throwing a two-inch-diameter bottle through a hole no more than two feet wide from out the window of a fishtailing car traveling at fifty miles an hour was, Storm knew, a nearly impossible task.
But impossible is what Derrick Storm did for a living.
The bottle passed through the hole. The interior of the pickup’s cab was suddenly engulfed in flame.
The Lincoln veered suddenly to the right, clipping a car in the right lane then going into a spin. Midway through the spin, it lost its grip on the pavement and rolled.
It rolled once, tossing the erstwhile gunman from out his open window into a stream of oncoming traffic.
It rolled twice, caving in the roof of the cab.
It was when it rolled a third time that the combination of several factors involved — the growing conflagration inside the cab, the rupturing of the gas tank, the twisting of metal — came together to create an enormous explosion.
Storm did not bother to watch the rest. He settled back in the Jaguar, grabbed control of the steering wheel, and went back to the battle of keeping them on the road.
“Is that… is that it?” Cracker asked, his face having lost all its color.
“One more thing,” Storm said. “Hand me the last bottle.”
Storm braced the wheel with his leg as Cracker gave him the bottle. Storm yanked out the cloth, tilted it back, and let the Macallan slide down his throat.
CHAPTER 31
HACKENSACK, New Jersey
hey came to a stop at a combination gas station/used car lot just off the Turnpike, a seedy place that had seen everything — except a bullet-riddled Jaguar XJL limping into the parking lot on its rims.
“I’m still confused about one thing,” Cracker said as they climbed out. “How did he find us? I mean, you told me all those bugs were CIA… so it’s not like he could listen to us in my car.”
Storm thought it over as he pried open the trunk of the wasted Jaguar. He retrieved the Dirty Harry gun, putting it back in his shoulder holster. Its weight felt good. He checked the revolver. It was full.
“When you were with Volkov this morning, did he touch you at some point? Bump into you? Hug you? Grab you?”
Cracker thought it over. “No, I mean we shook hands, but… The only other time we had contact is when he asked to borrow my phone. But I don’t think we…”
“Let me see your phone,” Storm interrupted.
He turned the phone over and located a small piece of black tape that blended nicely with the back of the phone. Storm peeled away the tape to reveal a tiny microchip.
“He put a tracking device on it,” Storm said, showing Cracker the chip. “He collected his men and waited until we stayed put for a while. Then he moved in. I’m sure we gave him pause when he realized we were at an FBI office. But he knew time was on his side.”
Storm tossed the tape and microchip into a nearby Dumpster and was about to hand Cracker his phone when it rang.
Storm took a glance at the screen. The caller appeared as “GREGOR VOLKOV.”
Storm stared at it. “Don’t you ever die?” he asked, rhetorically. How could it be that Volkov had survived that accident, unless… Of course. He hadn’t been in the Lincoln. Storm realized he had never actually laid eyes on the man driving. Whoever it was, it hadn’t been Gregor Volkov.
It rang again. Storm answered the call with “What do you want?”
“Derrick Storm?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe it, it is Derrick Storm!” Volkov boomed in Russian-tinted English. “How delightful to hear your voice. I was very surprised to see you in Manhattan this morning. I had been under the impression you were dead. It was a very pleasant impression.”
“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual.”
“You must be referring to that little scrape in Mogadishu,” he said, laughing.
“Actually, I was referring to the pickup truck that I just saw burst into flames on the New Jersey Turnpike.”
“Oh, is that what happened?” Volkov said, as if it were nothing more than the answer to a riddle he’d only casually considered. “I wondered why we lost communication. Too bad. Too bad. They were good men. But apparently not good enough. I should have known they were no match for Derrick Storm.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t call to praise me, so let’s cut to the chase: Whitely Cracker isn’t coming with you. He’s not going to make those trades for you. He’s with me and he’s staying with me. So you can either drop it and slither back to whatever hole you hide in, or you can die. It’s up to you.”
“Tut-tut, Derrick Storm. Do you really think a man as prepared as myself didn’t have a backup plan? I certainly hoped the gentlemen in the pickup truck would persuade Mr. Cracker to join me. But I got myself a little… insurance.”
Through gritted teeth, Cracker said, “What are you talking about?”
“Would you be so kind as to put me on speakerphone? I’d like you both to hear something.”
Storm turned to Cracker. “Put it on speaker.”
Cracker touched a button. Storm said, “Okay. We’re listening.”
Volkov spoke to a person in the room with him. “Go ahead, my dear,” he said. “Beg for your life.”
The sound of Mrs. G. Whitely Cracker V filled the air: “Whitely, honey? I love you. I’m so sorry… that I…”
“Melissa! Oh my God, what are they—”
“That’s enough.” Volkov cut them off. “Isn’t it fortunate for me that my men were able to grab her just before she hopped away like the little bunny she is. They tell me she almost made it out, too. Would you like to hear from your darling children, Mr. Cracker, or can you trust that if I’ve got your wife, I’ve got them as well?”
“What do you want, Volkov?” Cracker said, trying to sound brave. “You want money? I’ve got all the money you need. I’ll give you ten million for each of them, wired to any account anywhere in the world, no questions, no strings. Make it twenty million. Half now and half when—”
“Keep your money, Mr. Cracker. You must not have been listening to me this morning. Why would I want your money when I can have power? Ultimate power. For myself and my country. I assure you, there is not enough money in the world to make me give up that dream. Not even in your bank account.”