And that’s when it happened.
From an unknown location, someone fired a series of gunshots into the air and total panic ensued. The people lining the President’s route from Xavier to the limo screamed and scattered, raising their hands over their heads to protect themselves, more from instinct than judgement.
Agent Partridge reacted in a half-second. In a textbook manoeuvre of professionalism and bravery, and without a second thought about his own personal safety, the secret service man leaped forward and grabbed the President, moving around him like a human shield and forcing him into the back of the Beast.
Grant was in the back of the car before he had time to take a breath.
Partridge followed, throwing himself in after the President and slamming the heavy door shut behind them. He barked a series of orders into the palm mic and the driver of the Presidential limo floored the accelerator, sending the massive armored vehicle lurching forward.
In a cloud of burnout smoke from the spinning tires, the limo raced away from the university and hit Drexel Drive a few seconds later.
“Sir, are you hit?”
Grant took a second to focus on his surroundings. “No, I don’t think so… What the hell just happened?”
“Someone tried to take a shot at you, Mr President. We have to get you back to Air Force One immediately.”
Grant agreed. They’d had chatter about a serious attack, but latest intel had suggested it was going to be overseas and not in the United States. This changed things in a big way, and he had to get back to the White House. That was the best place to control things.
But then things got much more out of control.
He watched with horror as the driver slumped over in the front seat of the Presidential limo.
He and Partridge shared a glance. “What the hell..?”
Grant looked closer the through the glass partition and saw a gas emanating from somewhere in the footwell.
“He’s been knocked out!” Partridge said. “We’re going to crash!”
The President shook his head. “He’s out cold all right but I don’t think we’re going to crash — look!”
Partridge watched with undisguised terror as the massive seven-ton Cadillac screeched along Drexel with no one at the wheel. Instead, just over the shoulders of the knocked-out driver, he saw the steering wheel jerking eerily to the left and right as someone controlled the vehicle remotely.
“What the hell is this?” President Grant muttered.
“It’s the Boston Brakes! Someone’s hacked the car, sir!” Dirk Partridge pulled at the door release but with no luck. “The locks are disabled!”
“We might not be able to get them open, but we can make sure whoever’s behind this can’t get them open either. This button locks them from the inside, so that’s something in our favour…” Grant didn’t look like he had reassured himself much.
Partridge slapped on the windows in panic. “We’ve got to get out of here, Mr President!”
Grant heard the growl of the General Motors V8 as it speeded up to power out of a corner. Normally a comforting sound, it now terrified him. “This car is completely sealed in the event of a biochemical attack, Partridge! What keeps me safe in here is now what’s keeping me prisoner — these doors are as heavy as those on a 757 jet plane, and the only window that opens is the driver’s, and then only by three inches. If you can think of a way out of here with the door locks disabled then I’m ready to hear it.”
Behind them three Cadillac Escalades rushed into view.
“Don’t worry, sir — the Secret Service is right behind us!” Partridge said.
He’d barely finished his sentence when they heard the sound of hydraulics.
“Oh no…”
The Beast fired smoke and tear-gas grenades out the rear fender. Installed as a protection device to assist the President in case of enemy pursuit, they were now being used against him.
Grant looked back and saw the Escalades skidding through the grenades’ smoke, out of control. Two of them had a collision and smashed into a bank on the side of the street, while the third maintained its pursuit.
A police helicopter appeared overhead and began to follow them, hovering just above the remaining Escalade.
They raced into an underpass where a slow-moving Pepsi truck was trundling along in the slow lane. The two captive men watched in horror as the rear of the truck lowered to the ground and an identical presidential limousine reversed out the back and skidded forward out of view along the underpass. Moments later, their own limo was controlled into the rear of the truck and the back closed up.
In total darkness, they heard the Escalade race past the truck in pursuit of the dummy limo and knew it was over. Whoever was doing this had just kidnapped the President of the United States.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the Idaho Mountains, Hawke, Alex and the Pentagon Chief dropped to all fours and crawled through the cabin on their way to the garage. Bullets flew all around them, busting the wooden panels into splinters and covering the rug in thousands of shards of glass from the exploded windows. When Alex began to slow down, Hawke pulled her along at his side. Ahead of them, Jack Brooke smashed open the internal door to the garage and tumbled down the steps.
Hawke got to his feet and helped Alex into the garage where her father was already rummaging around.
“Joe — buy me a couple of minutes.”
Hawke took cover behind a workbench and fired defensive shots from the Beretta when anyone tried to enter the garage. “They’re running around to the front, Jack!”
Behind him, Brooke snatched up a couple of empty bottles of Coors and some old rag which he tore into strips. Then he flicked open the cap of a small portable gas can and inserted some clear plastic tubing. “Bastards won’t be expecting this,” he mumbled. He sucked on the tube and drew the gas through into the bottles.
He hurled the hastily constructed Molotov cocktail into the cabin and seconds later the door was ablaze and impassable. “Now we focus on getting out of here.”
Brooke hit the electronic door mechanism and the roller doors began to wind open. Instantly they were met with more gun fire, many of the bullets blowing neat circular holes through the aluminum door while others were lower and ricocheted off the smooth concrete floor of the garage.
They dived for cover behind the workbench while Hawke scanned the area outside the garage to see where the enemy was. He located three men with machine pistols who were using Brooke’s old Winnebago across the yard for cover.
Hawke immediately opened fire with the M9 and hit one of the men in the chest, killing him instantly. The other two retreated further back in the shadow of the RV to a low wall running along the edge of the main driveway.
“Looks like the coast is clear,” Brooke said. “But for how long, I don’t know…”
“Get over to the outbuilding,” Hawke said. “I’ll slow the bastards down here as much as I can.”
Before she could object, Brooke took his daughter’s arm and pulled her away toward the line of spruce trees across the yard which divided the main property from the outbuilding where he stored his cars.
Hawke covered them as they ran, pinning down the gunmen behind the wall. Then he made a break for it, firing as he went. Two simple parkour rolls later he was sprinting through the row of spruces and heading for the outbuilding.
He heard a burst of machine pistol fire from behind him and turned to see the men closing in on him. One of the men — one with heavily gelled-hair combed back in a slick — was laughing as he fired.
“We have to get out of here, Jack!” the Englishman yelled.
“So move your ass!” Alex screamed back.