Page 63 of Cross Down
“Relax,” I say, keeping my grip tight on the steering wheel, which is shaking hard. “We’re going downhill, and gravity’s doing most of the work.”
While Deacon is telling me what I can do with the theory of gravity, I spot two armed men to our left, moving up toward Bastinelli’s compound. “Duck!” I yell.
Deacon quickly lowers herself as a round snaps through the rear liftgate window. I push the accelerator down harder. Standard operating procedure to evade a shooter is to weave, but if I get off this hard-packed gravel road, I might get us bogged down in the soft forest floor.
The Tahoe bucks and rises as we burst through the woods and onto a dirt road. I turn left and the car skids, and dust is tossed up, but I get the Tahoe straightened out and hit the accelerator again.
“Any idea where we’re going?” Deacon asks.
“Right now, out of the kill zone,” I say, speeding up as much as I dare on this narrow road.
I turn a corner, and there’s a Chevrolet Suburban nearly blocking our way, but its front hood is emitting steam, two of its tires are flat, the windows are shattered, and the Suburban’s body is pockmarked with what I’m sure are .50-caliber rounds. Lying on the dirt next to it is an armed man; what’s left of his head is dangling over a drainage ditch.
I slip by the shot-up Suburban and keep driving. Deacon has her nine-millimeter pistol in her lap. I think that’s a good idea, and I tug my coat aside to have easy access to my Glock.
In the rearview mirror, I see a blur, and there’s a heavy thump as another black Chevrolet Suburban rams our tail. Deacon and I bounce forward against the seat belts, and the Suburban rears back and starts accelerating again.
Up ahead, the dirt road widens into an area big enough for a snowplow to turn around, and I glance up at the rearview mirror and see the Suburban racing up on our tail again. I swerve over to the wide part of the road, hit the emergency brake, and downshift into low.
With a cloud of dust, the Suburban races past us, and I release the emergency brake, shift into drive, and go hard and fast to catch up to the SUV. When the Tahoe’s front wheels are aligned with the Suburban’s rear wheels, a guy with a pistol leans out of the passenger side. I swerve to the left, into the right rear bumper of the Suburban, and accelerate as the Suburban’s rear wheels lose traction. This is what’s called a PIT maneuver, and nine times out of ten, it will cause the other vehicle to spin out and lose control.
Which it does, spectacularly. We speed past, and in the rearview mirror I see the Suburban flip over at least twice before coming to a stop, ejecting the man who was trying to shoot us in the process.
He ends up roughly hugging a pine tree.
We turn a sharp corner. Two men step out into the middle of the road, aiming assault rifles right at us, and again I say, “Duck,” and Deacon says, “What the hell?”
I’m planning to slide down in my seat, punch the accelerator, and hope for the best, but it turns out that’s not necessary. Even with the windows closed, I hear two booming cracks coming from up the hill behind us, and both men crumple to the ground. They’re wearing full body armor, but a .50-caliber round from a Barrett rifle can punch through that like an icepick through tissue paper.
Thankfully, there’s enough room to drive between, not over, the two bodies, and I say, “Damn, you’ve got to admit that’s some fine shooting Gary gave us.”
“Agreed,” she says.
I keep driving. The dirt road is straight and empty. “Nice to have friends, don’t you think?”
Deacon’s hand is tight on her pistol. “I wouldn’t know,” she says.
Chapter
73
General Wayne Grissomis concluding another unsatisfactory meeting with the task force, and most of the time was spent on a discussion of all the shootings and bombings that took place during the president’s address to the nation last night.
“Look,” he finally snaps, “we all know what happened during the president’s talk. The terrorists were sending a message that they can strike anywhere and at any time. Besides spreading terror, it was a taunt. Agent Mahoney, what’s the latest from the FBI?”
Like everyone else at this meeting—which this time is held in a conference room deep in the Department of Labor building—he looks tired and jumpy.
He says, “We’ve arrested one person involved in the shooting of a Black Lives Matter meeting in Chicago and two people who were part of the attack on a white separatist group in Idaho. Our initial interviews were…puzzling.”
“Puzzling how?” Grissom asks.
“Before they shut up and demanded counsel, they gave us similar information on their funding source and who supplied them with weapons and explosives,” Mahoney says.
Doris Landsdale from Homeland Security says, “You have a name? An organization?”
Mahoney says, “No, but they used the same phrasing. A number of months ago, they were approached via encrypted e-mail and text messages by someone claiming to be a supporter of their cause. Each group took advantage of the offer.”
The people in the crowded and warm conference room are silent.
