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ChapterThirty-Three
Reese
Now
“All stations, all stations, this is Special Agent Reese Theriot. Ranger located at Dulles International, runway one-two right. Ranger held hostage by former Special Agent Henry Ellis on India seventeen, Iranian diplomatic flight bound for Moscow. Converge on Dulles Airport for intercept. Immediate execute.”
I slam the radio down as Sheridan mounts the median on the Dulles direct parkway. He’s redlining the engine, lights flashing and sirens blaring, and we’re flying past traffic that’s already booking it. The speedometer says Sheridan has us pushing 140.
Will anyone come and back us up? I don’t know what my name means in the Service anymore. The FBI was hunting me ten minutes ago. Will my people respond when I need them?
I count down in sixty-second intervals. My hand squeezes and releases the grab bar next to my head, squeezes and releases. Sirens blare behind us, far away.
Sheridan blows through the toll booth outside the airport and swings us on two wheels onto the access road. We parallel the runway on the other side of a chain-link fence, blasting past terminals C and D until we get to the governmental hangars.
“There!”
Sheridan jerks the wheel, and we slam through the fence like it isn’t even there. Torn steel scrapes over the SUV. A long, thin line of razor wire ends up wrapped around our tire, unwinding from the top of the fence like a spool of thread as we haul ass across the tarmac.
India seventeen, the Iranian diplomatic flight, is lining up for takeoff. The plane is an old Boeing 707, a leftover from the seventies that was offloaded on auction to the third world twenty years ago, then resold at some point to Iran. She’s purposely plain, one long, white tube with a single green stripe running its length.
The radio squawks, Dulles tower issuing an immediate ground stop and halting all traffic. Every plane is ordered to freeze in place and power down, not move one inch. We’ve breached the airport perimeter, and everyone is shitting themselves.
Of course, India seventeen doesn’t listen. She rolls forward, slowly picking up speed as she turns onto runway one-two right.
“Do not let that plane take off,” I growl. “Whatever it takes.”
Sheridan pushes us past the redline. The engine is wailing, and the SUV is shaking so hard my bones hurt. We plow over a grassy median, and we’re airborne for four seconds before we skid out on the pavement of runway one-two right.
Six thousand feet in front of us, India seventeen starts her taxi.
Sheridan white-knuckles the steering wheel as I turn to the back seat. We keep our spare weapons under the bench, and I flip it up and pull out an MP5.
“Hold us steady,” I tell Sheridan as I roll down my window.
For ten years, I’ve qualified in the top 1 percent with every weapon in the Secret Service arsenal. I’ve hit bull’s-eyes dead center while standing in the footwell of the presidential limo as it travels at seventy miles an hour. I’ve shot a perfect score after a ten-mile run and fifty push-ups, when my arms were jelly and I didn’t think I could even squeeze the trigger.
I’ve never had to take a shot that mattered as much as this one.
“We’ve got company,” Sheridan shouts.
My gaze flicks to the rearview. Red-and-blues, and lots of them. They’re either coming to arrest us or coming to help us, and from here, I don’t know which. I guess we’ll find out if they start shooting.
“Be careful.” Sheridan hasn’t taken his eyes off the road, but for a moment, he glances at me. Our eyes meet.
I jam the stock into the meat of my shoulder and lean out the window. The wind almost knocks me back, but I push into it. Grip the barrel. Squeeze the trigger.
I’m too far for any real accuracy, but any pilot worth their wings will abort a takeoff when there are bullets flying toward them. For now, I keep my aim low and focused on the tires. The landing gear.
The thousands of feet between India seventeen and our SUV bleed away. She can’t get airborne without running us over, which the pilot may be reckless enough to try. I’d want to get in the air, too, if I had a kidnapped president on board.
The sirens are growing louder.
Closer, closer. Two thousand feet between us and India seventeen.
I stop firing and conserve my ammo. Fifteen hundred. One thousand. She’s almost on top of us. Seven hundred.
I open fire again.
