Mercer cut the car wide to the right, the tires squealing on the asphalt. Pedestrians dove out of the way as he took the car up onto the sidewalk for a few yards before veering back onto the road nearly in front of the White House. One BMW had tried to follow him, but had smashed into the thick concrete antitank barricades that protected the presidential residence. The other was stuck in traffic.
Mercer stopped the Jag at the corner of Penn and 16th. “Take my wallet,” he said, handing it to Tish. “My address is on the license and there’s enough money for a cab.” He yanked the house key from the ring dangling in the ignition and handed it to her. “There’s a security panel to the right of the door. 36-22-34 will deactivate it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Will you be okay?” Tish’s eyes were huge with fear.
“Don’t worry, just go.” She nodded, then leapt out of the car and immediately blended with the flow of people on their lunch breaks.
The moment the door slammed shut, Mercer took off down 16th Street, past the Hotel Washington. He cut back onto Pennsylvania in front of the Department of Commerce Building. He glimpsed the BMW in the rearview mirror. They were still following him, so he figured Tish was safe for now.
The Willard Hotel and the Post Office Pavilion blurred past as Mercer used the power and control of the Jaguar to snake through the thick traffic. Suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic fire again. The first fusillade mangled the coachwork of the Jag and punctured the rear windscreen about a dozen times. The next burst blew out the left rear tire.
The car flew out of control, the steering wheel like a slippery, living creature in Mercer’s hands. He knew the Jaguar was doomed. The car’s mad lurching had cleared the road quickly, and Mercer exploited this by driving into the oncoming lane, bouncing off stationary cars like a billiard ball. He finally came to a stop at the entrance of the Archive Metro station. In the relative silence following the crash, he could hear the fast approach of police sirens racing from all across downtown.
Mercer jammed a fresh clip into the pistol and leapt from the car. He flew down the escalator, shouldering people aside as he raced toward the city’s modern subway system. Commuters gasped or complained as he pushed through the crowd and jumped the turnstile. The Metro guard in the glass booth was the last of his worries. As he reached the platform, Mercer was dismayed to see that the two sets of parallel tracks were empty and that there was not enough of a crowd to conceal him. He whirled around to see three men running toward him, weapons barely concealed under their jackets.
The floor lights lining the near track began to flash, indicating that a train was about to arrive. The station began to rumble as the train approached, pushing a wall of air ahead of it. The far track was still clear. Mercer knew that if he boarded the train he would be cut down instantly — these men obviously had no compunctions about a public murder.
The noise in the station reached a tactile level as the train burst from the tunnel in a whoosh of air and a squeal of brakes. Mercer’s pursuers were only twenty yards away and already one was reaching into his jacket for his weapon. Mercer had only one chance for escape and he took it without thought. He ran for the edge of the track and leapt, barely two yards in front of the oncoming train.
The engineer blasted his horn and jammed on the brakes, but Mercer didn’t even notice. He was too intent on the ten-foot jump. If he overshot, he could fly into the next track, land on the current rail, electrocute himself and save his attackers the trouble.
He landed safely on the low platform between the two tracks. As his body rocked forward from the momentum, he was stunned to see another train rushing toward him from the opposite direction. He windmilled his arms, trying to regain his balance, and almost succeeded.
The oncoming train glanced into his shoulder, sending him flying back so that he bounced off the first train, which had ground to a halt. Mercer lay between the now-stationary trains for a moment or two, recovering his senses. Finally he stood and, ignoring the shocked faces of passengers on both trains, levered his back against one of the trains and his legs against the other to shinny up to the roof of the far carriage. Over the shouts and police whistles that echoed through the station, he heard the quiet double ping that indicated the train doors were closing.
A shot rang out and the roof next to Mercer’s head exploded. He flipped onto his back, extending the H amp;K toward the assassin who stood on the pedestrian bridge which spanned the tracks. Mercer fired just as the train lurched forward; his shot shattered concrete far to the left of his target. The assassin lined up another careful shot. Mercer rolled across the roof until he nearly slipped off, dodging the bullet.
An instant later, the Metro car slid under the bridge and Mercer rolled back across the roof, holding the pistol by his head, arms tucked close to his body. There was a four-foot gap between the bridge and the entrance to the subway tunnel. As Mercer passed through the gap, he spotted the assassin. Mercer pulled the trigger and saw the gunman fall back just before the Metro plunged into the darkened tunnel.
The ride through the tunnel was a nightmare. Though the train’s speed was nearly forty miles per hour, in the dark it felt like four hundred. The rattling car threatened to shake Mercer off the roof and he had the constant fear of being smeared against the low ceiling. The noise and vibration were maddening, but he grimly held on, jaw clenched tightly to keep his teeth from jarring loose.
After a couple of minutes that seemed like an eternity, the train thundered into L’Enfant Plaza, the next station on the yellow line. Mercer moved forward until he was under the pedestrian bridge. No doubt that there would be a backup team in this station by now and probably in all the stations on the line. They had him boxed in. Whoever “they” were.
The wait in the station dragged on as passengers left and entered the train in the confused ballet called commuting. Mercer feared that the train would be held because of the body he had left in the Archive station. But a moment later the bell chimed and the pneumatic doors hissed closed. The train began to inch along and in a second, Mercer was exposed to another gunman standing on the bridge.
Mercer raised the VP-70 to take aim just as the other man swung the barrel of a Beretta toward him. Neither man had time to fire before Mercer disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel. Mercer’s raised hand, the one grasping the pistol, smashed into the concrete wall. Instantly numbed fingers sprang open and the weapon slid from his grasp. It bounced against the roof, once, twice, then slipped over the edge, lost forever.
Mercer flipped back onto his stomach, cursing the pain and his own stupidity. He was now unarmed and facing an unimaginable number of enemies.
As the Metro climbed above ground just south of the Jefferson Memorial, Mercer realized that he had a chance to escape while the train was crossing the Potomac River. He swore at himself for even thinking it, but knew he had no other option. As soon as the train reached daylight, he sat up and kicked off his shoes. The train sped onto the truss bridge that spanned the sluggish river, rattling and clanging like an old steam locomotive. Mercer stood, the wind whipping his jacket around his body. He shed it quickly and peered at the river below. It was a sapphire blue.
Mercer jumped.
The jarring vibration of the Metro vanished as he arrowed toward the water, and for a moment all was quiet except for the wind in his ears. The impact as he hit the choppy water nearly knocked him unconscious, but the cold brought him back quickly. He was deep under the river’s surface. With lungs emptied by the blow, the swim upward was agonizing.
He finally broke the surface and coughed the water from his lungs. He looked up at the bridge, but the train had already vanished from sight.