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"So it would appear."
Giordino gazed at Pitt through squinted eyes. "The Wolfs?"
"Who else?"
"They must want the relics badly."
"Without them, they have no hallowed symbols to rally around."
"Not like them to play games. They could have just as well put down anywhere between Mexico and Virginia."
"Without Karl and Hugo at the family helm," said Pitt, "they either got sloppy or else they knew they'd be tracked all the way from Veracruz and chased by Air Force fighters if they attempted to deviate from the flight plan."
"Should we take over the controls and head for Andrews?" Giordino asked.
"Better to wait until we're on the ground," said Pitt. "Busting into the cockpit while the pilot is flared for touchdown might cause bad things to happen."
"You mean a crash?"
"Something like that."
"That's life," mused Giordino. "I had my heart set on a marching band and a parade through the city."
Seconds later, the wheels gave a brief screech as they smacked the asphalt of the landing strip. Staring through one of the windows, Pitt saw an armored truck and a pair of ML430 Mercedes-Benz suburban utility vehicles converge and follow in the wake of the aircraft. Quick sprinters with 268-horsepower V-8
engines, they were about as close to European sports sedans as a four-wheeler could get.
"Now's the time," he said briefly. He pulled his Colt from the duffel bag as Giordino retrieved his P-10.
Then Giordino effortlessly kicked open the cockpit door and they rushed inside. The pilot and copilot automatically raised their hands without turning.
"We were expecting you, gentlemen," said the pilot, as if reading from some script. "Please do not attempt to take control of the aircraft. We cut the control cables immediately after touchdown. This aircraft is inoperable and cannot fly."
Pitt stared over the console between the pilots and saw that the cables to the control column and foot pedals were indeed sliced where they disappeared into the flight deck. "Both of you, out!" he snapped, as he dragged them out of their seats by the collars. Àl, throw their butts off the plane!"
The aircraft was still moving at twenty-five miles an hour when Giordino ejected the pilot and copilot through the passenger door onto the asphalt, taking satisfaction in seeing them bounce and roll like rag dolls. "What now?" he asked, as he reentered the cockpit. "Those tough-looking Mercedes SUVs are only a hundred yards behind our tail and coming fast."
"We may not have flight controls," replied Pitt, "but we still have brakes and engines."
Giordino looked dubious. "You don't expect to drive this thing down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House?"
"Why not?" Pitt said, as he pushed the throttle forward and sent the aircraft speeding across the taxiway and onto the road leading from the airport. "We'll go as far as we can and hopefully reach heavy traffic where they wouldn't dare attack."
"You're why cynics outlive optimists," said Giordino. "The Wolfs are so desperate for the relics, they'd shoot down a stadium full of women and children to get them back in their dirty hands."
"I'm open for suggestions--"
Pitt broke off as the thump of bullets into the aluminum-skin aircraft sounded inside the cockpit. He began hitting the right brake and then the left, sending the plane zigzagging down the road to throw off the aim of the gunners in the Mercedes.
"Time for me to play Wild Bill Hickok," said Giordino.
Pitt handed him his .45. "You'll need all the firepower you can get. There are extra clips in my duffel bag."
Giordino lay down beside the open passenger door with his feet toward the rear of the aircraft and sighted over the tail section at the pursuing SUVs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bullets stitch through the port wing and open the fuel tank. Luckily there was no fire, but it was only a question of time before an engine was struck and flamed. He took careful aim and fired when Pitt turned from zig to zag.
Pitt literally threw the plane up the on-ramp leading to the Branch Avenue Highway that ran into the city. With both jet engines screaming, he soon had the airplane hurtling nearly a hundred miles an hour down the right lane and shoulder of the highwa
y. Startled drivers gaped openmouthed as the plane shot by them, then watched, stunned, the gun battle between a man shooting out the passenger door of the aircraft and two Mercedes-Benz SUVs that chased in and out of traffic from behind.
