The Holy Grail (Sam Reilly Book 13)

by Christopher Cartwright

  “I would have brought the Ferrari, but we needed the trunk space for our luggage. You know, the luggage that my friend Tom and I were bringing on our vacation.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Sam Reilly.”

  “No. What do you do here?”

  “I offer some consultancy into maritime issues relating to national security for the Secretary of Defense.”

  “And you drive a Rolls Royce?”

  “No. Like I said before, my dad does. I just borrow it from time to time.”

  “What’s your dad do?”

  “He owns a shipping empire.”

  Ben shook his head. “We’re going to be spotted in two minutes.”

  “Afraid so. But hey, it handles like a champ. You want to try it out?”

  Ben shook his head. “I think I’m going to have to keep you in the driver’s seat.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, and Ben climbed into the seat behind him. A smart move on Ben’s part. Sam closed his door, pressed the start button and the thumping V12 engine roared into life. He’d wanted to knock Ben out before they got much farther – it would be easier to sort things out if the guy were unconscious and not pointing a gun at Sam’s center mass – but it wasn’t meant to be.

  Now that Ben was sitting behind him, it was almost impossible to take him out. Geometry had never found a way to take out a guy sitting directly behind a driver. Not while that driver is moving. No way. Just not feasible. No kind of four-dimensional planning could achieve it.

  In fact, once again it struck him that Ben was far more aware of the situation than he should be. It wasn’t exactly a secret that it was hard to take someone out who was sitting directly behind you in a car, but it wasn’t exactly common knowledge, either.

  Was the guy a terrorist, or wasn’t he?

  Sam stared at Ben in the rear-view mirror. What he had thought at first glance in the hallway outside the Secretary’s office was definitely true.

  Ben Gellie had violet eyes.

  It was just barely possible that that didn’t mean anything. Violet eyes were rare, but not unheard of. Elizabeth Taylor had them. But they also showed up in a certain context.

  The Master Builders.

  An advanced civilization that had existed before Homo sapiens did, left some seriously strange, amazingly advanced technology behind – far more advanced than twenty-first century humanity had – and then…vanished.

  A few shreds of their genetic code remained, hiding inside humanity. The Builders must have been closely related to Homo sapiens, in order to be able to cross with them. And it was said that they left behind a tendency toward violet eyes…

  Elise, a computer whiz who worked for him, had purple eyes. As far as they could tell, she had one of the strongest genetic lines related to the ancient Master Builders. There had been others that he’d heard of, but if Ben Gellie shared the same genetics, that would make him only the second living person Sam had ever known to do so. It would also answer why his blood was so valuable – and why someone had illegally detained him.

  A pair of men in white shirts and black ties walked behind the car, talking to each other. Sam waited until they were past, then slowly backed out of the parking space.

  “Can we get a move on?” Ben said.

  Sam smiled at the two men, who had turned to stare at the expensive car, and waved. “Smile,” he said through his teeth. Then he pulled forward and drove slowly between the cars around him. This was not the best time to get into a minor fender bender.

  Fortunately, the VIP lot wasn’t that big, and it wasn’t packed with cars the way the other visitor lots were. Soon they were at the first exit gate. Sam waved at the guard at the booth, who wasn’t even looking – she was checking badges of the cars trying to get into the Pentagon, not the ones trying to get out.

  Something moved behind them, catching Sam’s eye. Someone was running out of the Pentagon toward them, holding a cell phone close to his face.

  Sam kept driving forward slowly. He had to pass the main visitors’ area and out the main gate before he could lose himself in the mess of streets around the Pentagon. Fortunately, at ten in the morning, the roads were about as clear as they would ever be during daylight hours.

  Just as they were about to drive through the last gate, two metal panels rose out of the road, blocking either side of the gatehouse.

  Lockdown.

  Sam glanced in his review mirror, debating whether or not there was time to reverse and try to drive through one of the security fences instead. A car pulled up behind them. Short of getting out and running for it, they had no options. And even if they did, they weren’t going to make it very far.

  A guard started walking from car to car, very obviously holding a semi-automatic rifle in both hands as he spoke to the drivers in line.

  Sam rolled down his window. The cool air nibbled at his ear, and his breath fogged up as he leaned out the window, handing out his day pass. “Good morning, sir.”

  The man took the day pass, casually running his eyes across the name, the face, before settling on the expensive car. He nodded. His voice curt, but respectful. “I’ll just be a minute, sir.”

  Sam watched the man return to the guardhouse.

  The guard went inside. A moment later, the metal plates were dropping back down to the road surface, and the line of cars slowly began moving through the gatehouse.

  The guard watched the car drive by.

  Sam wasn’t concerned.

  It was a Rolls Royce, after all.

  He shoved his foot on the accelerator and the Rolls Royce Phantom lurched forward.

  Behind them, someone shouted, “Stop that car!”

  Chapter Eight

  Sam accelerated hard out of the parking lot, dropping down a couple gears to manage the long and maddening series of loops and turned onto I-395 North. The traffic was light and he was able to floor it again. The plan was to get Ben Gellie across the border into Canada, but the first priority was to get out of Washington, D.C.

  He braked hard and swerved toward the inside lane, avoiding a slow-moving truck.

  Behind him, Ben said, “How long do you think it’s going to take them to shut down the highways?”

  Sam eased the Rolls Royce up to 110 miles an hour. “Not long. They’ll need to mobilize a lot of police to block all of them and right now, they don’t know which direction we’re heading.”

  “There’s an exit coming up,” Ben said. “You should take it!”

  Sam continued in the right lane, following I-395 North through Washington, D.C. “We’ll need to get off the highway soon, but I want to add some distance before we do.”

  “You’re gambling with my life here!”

  Sam smiled, ruefully. “I’m gambling with both our lives.”

  To the west he spotted the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles approaching in the distance. That meant they were still ahead of the first responders. But not for long. Up ahead, several cars started to brake. He cut out into the emergency lane and accelerated harder.

  He heard Ben fasten his seatbelt. “You really are gambling with both our lives!”

  Sam ignored him.

  Up ahead the traffic was slowing again.

  He merged to the right, taking the B2 exit, onto I-295.

  At this time in the morning, it seemed unusually quiet. On the open highway, Sam released the reins and the Rolls Royce eagerly picked up its pace.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, they had a clean run.

  As soon as Maryland City came into view on their left the traffic began to slow dramatically. Up ahead, Sam spotted a pair of flashing emergency lights just below the 198 overpass. Ben swore. “Take this exit.”

  Sam swerved to the right. “I’m on it!”

  The Rolls Royce raced down the exit ramp heading toward MD-198.

  Sam pressed the accelerator and then stopped – because 400 yards away, the road was blocked by a single highway p
atrol car, parked at a 45-degree angle, effectively blocking off the entire single lane exit ramp.

  Sam jammed on the brakes, coming to a momentary stop. His eyes darted between the police officer, who had already drawn his handgun, and Ben, who was sitting bolt upright in his seat next to him.

  Sam could hear the tension in Ben’s rapid breathing. “What do you want me to do?”

  Ben pointed the Glock at his face. “Get past him!”

  Sam revved the formidable V12.

  The cop’s eyes narrowed as he aimed the handgun right at him.

  Sam gritted his teeth and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The 412 cubic-inch, turbocharged V12 engaged, sending 563 horsepower to its rear tires, and causing the 5754.1-pound car to leap forward.

  The sound of several shots being fired in rapid succession filled Sam’s ears until the cop emptied his magazine.

  Next to him, Ben yelled, ducking down beneath the dashboard. The bullet resistant windshield splintered into a series of small stars. Sam kept his right foot planted firmly on the floor. The heavy Rolls Royce struck the rear axle of the smaller Ford Police Interceptor SUV at thirty miles an hour, smashing it out of its way in a shard of broken glass and a splinter of sparks.

  The Rolls Royce kept its momentum, scarred, but undeterred.

  Behind them, the police officer reloaded a second magazine and began emptying it at them. The shots hit their target, splintering the rear window into a series of glass stars before they were finally out of range.

  Sam edged the car up above 110 miles an hour.

  “Now what the hell do we do?” Ben said, his voice panicked. “Now they know where we are, they’ll send an army of patrol vehicles our way.”

  “Then we’ll have to get off the road entirely.”

  “How?”

  Sam turned off 198 and into a small side road. A sign next to him read, General Aviation Drive, Tripton Airport.

  Ben glanced at him through incredulous eyes. “You want to hijack a plane?”

  Sam shrugged. “Not at all. We couldn’t do it. This close to Joint Base Andrews, we wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in the air before their F16-Fighter Falcons shot us down.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  Sam pulled up in front of a small aviation hangar, where several helicopters were maintained for local joy flights.

  A Bell 206 JetRanger was on its helipad, with the rotors turning slowly.

  Sam grinned ruefully. “It looks like our ride’s ready for us.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sam waved his hands at the pilot. “Stop!”

  The pilot, a female in her early forties glanced at him through her aviator sunglasses. Her face was set with the typical concentration and determination during takeoff. The lines around her mouth registered annoyance, more than concern. She raised both her palms skyward and mouthed the words, “What is it?”

  Having stopped her from taking off, Sam didn’t wait. He moved in quickly and opened her side door. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re needed back at the office.”

  Sam saw her look over the two of them with a single, contemptuous glance.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Sam had to shout to be heard. “We need you to go back to the main office. There’s a problem with the flight plan that you filed.”

  “No there isn’t,” she said. “We’re a charter service that stays out of D.C.’s no fly zone. I’m running some routine maintenance tests without any passengers, so I don’t have to lodge any flight plans.”

  “Yes,” he said, emphatically, looking at the hilt of the handgun sticking prominently out of Ben’s belt. “There is.”

  Her eyes widened as she noticed the bulge sticking out of the front of Ben’s pocket. Her mouth tightened. “Okay!” she shouted. “I’ll get right on that.”

  She reached into the JetRanger to shut down the engine. Sam grabbed her wrist first, gripping it hard, and twisting it so that she couldn’t disengage the engine.

  He said, “That’s not necessary. This is going to be quick. Just move out of the area, please, ma’am.”

  “They’re waving at you,” she said, trying to keep her voice low, but still having to shout.

  “I know,” he grinned through gritted teeth. “I just wanted to go on a vacation. Plans change.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Never mind.”

  She nodded and walked past him. Sam turned to watch her go. She passed Ben without incident, not even looking his way.

  Sam said, “Get in.”

  Ben pointed the Glock at him. “You first.”

  Sam nodded and climbed up into the pilot’s chair. He buckled his harness and put on a pair of headphones. He ran his eyes across the series of instruments, taking their values in with a glance. The helicopter was full of fuel and it was ready to take-off.

  Ben came around the opposite side of the cockpit and climbed in, closing the door behind him. Sam handed him a set of headphones. Ben closed the door and latched it.

  His hand wavered for a second on the cyclic control. A moment later, he increased the throttle and the engine whined as its RPM increased to 95 percent of its maximum speed. The blades above thudded, drowning out all external sound. Sam placed his feet on the antitorque pedals, applying the slightest of pressure. His right hand adeptly gripped the cyclic control.

  In the distance were some flashing red and blue lights, heading toward them.

  Sam held the collective control, which looked similar to a handbrake in a car, and pulled it upward. The powerful JetRanger threw off the chains of gravity and took off into the air. He performed the delicate balancing act, managing the pedals, cyclic control, and collective. At an altitude of fifty feet, he dropped the nose downward, and headed off due north.

  He grinned.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Ten

  The Secretary of Defense sat at her recently appropriated desk, where she checked and signed off a series of routine reports. Her eyes glanced over a message regarding the search and rescue of the USS Omega Deep and leveled at a single statement she’d written by hand no more than a couple hours earlier during her debrief with Sam Reilly – There is a traitor in the Pentagon.

  For a moment, she wondered if there could be a connection to the hostage situation and the traitor. She made a mental note to find out more about the man who had taken Sam Reilly hostage. So far, she knew that the man had been taken in for questioning regarding something his parents had done during the seventies and had been told that the man had gone crazy and broke out of the interrogation room, stealing an FBI agent’s handgun in the process. She had searched the standard array of databases at her disposal but found little of interest on file about the man, and nothing about his parents.

  Who are you Ben Gellie?

  There was no doubt in her mind that someone was lying to her about his background. The question still remained in her mind, Who?

  She made a defiant decision to find out.

  Her next train of thought was interrupted by a curt knock at her door.

  The Secretary looked up to see Scott Williams, the director of the Pentagon Protection Force Agency waiting.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am.”

  “What did you find?” she asked without preamble.

  “We’ve located Sam Reilly and Ben Gellie.”

  “Where?”

  “Tripton Airport, Maryland.”

  The Secretary stood up. “The airport. What does he expect to do there, hijack a plane?”

  “He’s just stolen a JetRanger.”

  “A helicopter?” The Secretary of Defense made a wry smile. “Where the hell does he think he’s going to get in that?”

  “Beats me,” Williams replied. “F16s have already been scrambled from Joint Andrews Airforce Base.”

  The Secretary set her jaw. Turning to her aide, she said, “Get me the commander of the 113th Wing, D.C. Air National Guard at Joint Base Andrew
s on the line. I want to make myself emphatically clear, one of my best consultants is on board that helicopter, and unless it’s about to fly into the White House I don’t authorize anyone to shoot it down!”

  “Understood ma’am.”

  The Secretary picked up a phone on her desk and dialed a number by heart.

  A woman’s voice answered on the first ring. “12th Aviation Battalion.”

  “This is the Secretary of Defense. I’m on my way up; I need a helicopter ready to go right now!”

  “Yes ma’am,” came the immediate response.

  The Secretary of Defense stood up.

  Director Williams asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To catch up with that JetRanger. Someone’s doing something they’re not telling me about. I want to make sure that I get there before someone does something really stupid.”

  “That’s really not necessary…”

  She gave a curt wave of her hand to stop him. “I’m afraid it is. Someone’s lying to me. I want eyes on that target when the F16s intercept it.”

  “Understood ma’am.”

  She turned to Tom, who was waiting just outside her makeshift office. “Mr. Bower, you can come too. Maybe you can tell me why it appears Sam Reilly is helping this man escape.”

  Tom turned and raised his hands in supplication. “You know as much as I do, ma’am.”

  She set her cold, piercing eyes hard on him. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben Gellie forced himself to relax into the helicopter seat.

  He was terrified of flying and, if the news was anything to go by, helicopters held the worst safety record for forms of flight. As far as he was concerned the damned things went against the fundamental laws of physics. Not that he had a choice at the moment.

  He expelled a deep breath of air, his heart still thumping hard in his chest. He mentally searched a map of the eastern seaboard. If they flew in a beeline, the closest Canadian border would see them in Toronto in a little less than 500 miles.

  It might as well be the moon given their current location.