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“Not a problem, sir.”
As they pulled away, Overholt asked Ballard, “What’s that new information about the Portland you wanted to tell me?”
She hesitated and pointedly looked at Connolly.
“It’s all right,” Overholt assured her. “Jeff is a former Navy SEAL, and his security clearance is almost as high as mine. He’s just pulling this duty for a few months so he can be closer to his family.”
“Kids?” she asked Connolly.
He shook his head. “My mother has been recovering from chemo. I’ve been helping out my dad.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.”
Overholt saw them make a connection in the mirror. He suspected that Connolly’s bare ring finger didn’t go unnoticed by Ballard.
“Back to the Portland,” he said to her, knowing she and Connolly would have plenty of time to banter on the way to NUMA. “Did you find anything that tells us who is operating it?”
“Nothing. I can’t find any record of the Portland. According to my research, the ship that sailed from Cape Town with our cargo was called the Norego.”
Overholt’s stomach went cold. That was one of the aliases Juan used for the Oregon.
Ballard continued, “We also discovered that the Norego took on containers from Stellenbosch that weren’t in our order. We now think they contained a load of twelve Exocet anti-ship missiles.”
“The same kind used to sink the Avignon.”
She nodded. It was looking worse and worse for the Corporation. Exocet missiles were part of the Oregon’s weapons complement.
“And you hope NUMA can help you track down the origin of the Portland?” Overholt asked. The National Underwater and Marine Agency had the most comprehensive database of ships in the world.
“I figured with an issue of this sensitivity, it was better to make the request in person.”
“Smart thinking.”
They’d been making good time along the parkway just as Connolly had predicted, but he suddenly hit the brakes as they approached the Chain Bridge Road exit. The highway narrowed temporarily to a single lane at the juncture, and a truck pulled out from the shoulder directly in front of them.
“What an idiot,” Connolly mutte
red. He laid on the horn, and the truck accelerated until they were back at highway speeds. But now it took up both lanes.
“You believe this guy?” Connolly asked. “Wait . . . What the . . . ?”
Overholt leaned forward and saw the rear door of the trailer snap up. In the darkness of the interior, he saw the points of two huge harpoons aimed at them.
“Get us out of here!” Overholt shouted. It was too late.
The harpoons fired and rammed through the front grille, embedding themselves in the engine block. Steam from the destroyed radiator gushed into the air. At the same time, a ramp extended from the back of the trailer.
Cables attached to the harpoons went taut and started drawing them toward the truck.
Connolly stood on the brakes. The tires squealed and smoked, but the cables pulling them were too strong and dragged them forward while they were careening down the highway. He wrenched the wheel right and left, the Suburban swerving side to side, to not much effect. Jumping out wasn’t a viable option, not at the current speed.
“Do you have a weapon?” Overholt asked Ballard. He could see her mind working overtime considering their options.
“No,” she said.
Connolly gave up on wrestling with the steering wheel, bent down and gave her the revolver from his ankle holster, before drawing a Colt semiautomatic from his jacket.
