Sam swerved to the right. “I’m on it!”
The Rolls Royce raced down the exit ramp heading toward MD-198.
Sam pressed the accelerator and then stopped — because 400 yards away, the road was blocked by a single highway patrol car, parked at a 45-degree angle, effectively blocking off the entire single lane exit ramp.
Sam jammed on the brakes, coming to a momentary stop. His eyes darted between the police officer, who had already drawn his handgun, and Ben, who was sitting bolt upright in his seat next to him.
Sam could hear the tension in Ben’s rapid breathing. “What do you want me to do?”
Ben pointed the Glock at his face. “Get past him!”
Sam revved the formidable V12.
The cop’s eyes narrowed as he aimed the handgun right at him.
Sam gritted his teeth and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The 412 cubic-inch, turbocharged V12 engaged, sending 563 horsepower to its rear tires, and causing the 5754.1-pound car to leap forward.
The sound of several shots being fired in rapid succession filled Sam’s ears until the cop emptied his magazine.
Next to him, Ben yelled, ducking down beneath the dashboard. The bullet resistant windshield splintered into a series of small stars. Sam kept his right foot planted firmly on the floor. The heavy Rolls Royce struck the rear axle of the smaller Ford Police Interceptor SUV at thirty miles an hour, smashing it out of its way in a shard of broken glass and a splinter of sparks.
The Rolls Royce kept its momentum, scarred, but undeterred.
Behind them, the police officer reloaded a second magazine and began emptying it at them. The shots hit their target, splintering the rear window into a series of glass stars before they were finally out of range.
Sam edged the car up above 110 miles an hour.
“Now what the hell do we do?” Ben said, his voice panicked. “Now they know where we are, they’ll send an army of patrol vehicles our way.”
“Then we’ll have to get off the road entirely.”
“How?”
Sam turned off 198 and into a small side road. A sign next to him read, General Aviation Drive, Tripton Airport.
Ben glanced at him through incredulous eyes. “You want to hijack a plane?”
Sam shrugged. “Not at all. We couldn’t do it. This close to Joint Base Andrews, we wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in the air before their F16-Fighter Falcons shot us down.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Sam pulled up in front of a small aviation hangar, where several helicopters were maintained for local joy flights.
A Bell 206 JetRanger was on its helipad, with the rotors turning slowly.
Sam grinned ruefully. “It looks like our ride’s ready for us.”
Chapter Nine
Sam waved his hands at the pilot. “Stop!”
The pilot, a female in her early forties glanced at him through her aviator sunglasses. Her face was set with the typical concentration and determination during takeoff. The lines around her mouth registered annoyance, more than concern. She raised both her palms skyward and mouthed the words, “What is it?”
Having stopped her from taking off, Sam didn’t wait. He moved in quickly and opened her side door. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re needed back at the office.”
Sam saw her look over the two of them with a single, contemptuous glance.
“What’s the problem?”
Sam had to shout to be heard. “We need you to go back to the main office. There’s a problem with the flight plan that you filed.”
“No there isn’t,” she said. “We’re a charter service that stays out of D.C.’s no fly zone. I’m running some routine maintenance tests without any passengers, so I don’t have to lodge any flight plans.”
“Yes,” he said, emphatically, looking at the hilt of the handgun sticking prominently out of Ben’s belt. “There is.”
Her eyes widened as she noticed the bulge sticking out of the front of Ben’s pocket. Her mouth tightened. “Okay!” she shouted. “I’ll get right on that.”
She reached into the JetRanger to shut down the engine. Sam grabbed her wrist first, gripping it hard, and twisting it so that she couldn’t disengage the engine.
He said, “That’s not necessary. This is going to be quick. Just move out of the area, please, ma’am.”
“They’re waving at you,” she said, trying to keep her voice low, but still having to shout.
“I know,” he grinned through gritted teeth. “I just wanted to go on a vacation. Plans change.”
“What?” she said.
“Never mind.”
She nodded and walked past him. Sam turned to watch her go. She passed Ben without incident, not even looking his way.
Sam said, “Get in.”
Ben pointed the Glock at him. “You first.”
Sam nodded and climbed up into the pilot’s chair. He buckled his harness and put on a pair of headphones. He ran his eyes across the series of instruments, taking their values in with a glance. The helicopter was full of fuel and it was ready to take-off.
Ben came around the opposite side of the cockpit and climbed in, closing the door behind him. Sam handed him a set of headphones. Ben closed the door and latched it.
His hand wavered for a second on the cyclic control. A moment later, he increased the throttle and the engine whined as its RPM increased to 95 percent of its maximum speed. The blades above thudded, drowning out all external sound. Sam placed his feet on the antitorque pedals, applying the slightest of pressure. His right hand adeptly gripped the cyclic control.
In the distance were some flashing red and blue lights, heading toward them.
Sam held the collective control, which looked similar to a handbrake in a car, and pulled it upward. The powerful JetRanger threw off the chains of gravity and took off into the air. He performed the delicate balancing act, managing the pedals, cyclic control, and collective. At an altitude of fifty feet, he dropped the nose downward, and headed off due north.
He grinned.
Everything was going to be all right.
Chapter Ten
The Secretary of Defense sat at her recently appropriated desk, where she checked and signed off a series of routine reports. Her eyes glanced over a message regarding the search and rescue of the USS Omega Deep and leveled at a single statement she’d written by hand no more than a couple hours earlier during her debrief with Sam Reilly — There is a traitor in the Pentagon.
For a moment, she wondered if there could be a connection to the hostage situation and the traitor. She made a mental note to find out more about the man who had taken Sam Reilly hostage. So far, she knew that the man had been taken in for questioning regarding something his parents had done during the seventies and had been told that the man had gone crazy and broke out of the interrogation room, stealing an FBI agent’s handgun in the process. She had searched the standard array of databases at her disposal but found little of interest on file about the man, and nothing about his parents.
Who are you Ben Gellie?
There was no doubt in her mind that someone was lying to her about his background. The question still remained in her mind, Who?
She made a defiant decision to find out.
Her next train of thought was interrupted by a curt knock at her door.
The Secretary looked up to see Scott Williams, the director of the Pentagon Protection Force Agency waiting.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am.”
“What did you find?” she asked without preamble.
“We’ve located Sam Reilly and Ben Gellie.”
“Where?”
“Tripton Airport, Maryland.”
The Secretary stood up. “The airport. What does he expect to do there, hijack a plane?”