“The bad news is that Blue... Duncan, was already gone when they got there. It looks like a third party hit the site within the last few days.”
“Gone?” Bishop said, before King could respond. “Where is he now?”
King pointed ahead. “That’s the exit.”
Bishop grimaced in frustration, but steered right, onto the clover-leaf interchange. A toll gate loomed ahead and she steered through the EZ Pass lane. They didn’t have an EZ Pass, which meant that, as they passed through, a camera would photograph them and a fine would be issued, but a traffic violation was the least of their concerns right now.
King spoke again, this time to Deep Blue. “Who did it?”
“No way to know for sure, but it had to be someone with a sub and the resources to conduct Arctic ops.”
“So we were close. Damn. We should have flown in.” They had discussed, and ultimately rejected a plan to fly directly to Alert, not only because it would have been nearly impossible from a logistical standpoint, but also because a subsequent covert investigation of the site would have been impossible, and they had no real proof that Duncan was even there. “How was Queen able to make contact?”
“That’s the other development, and I don’t know if this is good news or bad. Admiral Ward picked them up.”
Bishop let out another gasp.
“They were captured?” King asked.
“Not exactly,” Deep Blue said. “He says he wants to meet with you. Time and place of your choosing, but ASAP. Queen seems to think the offer of a truce is genuine.”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” He turned to Bishop and said just two words. “Go. Fast.”
Bishop glanced at the speedometer. She was already doing seventy-five, matching the flow of traffic for whom the posted speed limit was merely a suggestion. She pressed the gas pedal to the floor and started looking for gaps in the traffic that would allow her to keep accelerating. Eighty-five mph didn’t feel that fast, but as the speedometer crept toward the century mark, it required more focus. One of the tires, evidently not balanced properly, began to shimmy ever so slightly. If they had a blowout or if, God forbid, her timing was off by a fraction of a second, they would end up rolling down the expressway. The trees lining the roadside were an indistinct blur, and the cars in the four lanes all around them were like fixed slalom gates. She tightened her grip on the wheel and tried to shut out everything but the road ahead.
She barely even heard Deep Blue’s voice in her ear. “A pickup just blew through the toll gate. That could be our guy.”
“Roger,” King said. “Anyone else suspicious?”
“I tagged twenty vehicles that went through the gate right after you. Let me check the next camera.” A pause. “Okay, that pickup is definitely trying to catch up to you. Everyone else is falling behind. Except for the motorcycles. Four of them.”
King craned his head around. “I see them. Bish, keep it on the floor. Just a couple more miles.”
She wanted to ask what would happen in a couple of miles, but at their current speed, she would barely have time to pose the question. Sure enough, after only about a minute, King told her to get ready to exit the highway. An overhead sign advised that Interstate 495, the Capital Beltway, was approaching. Bishop let up on the accelerator.
“Not that one. Keep going.”
Bishop had to swerve into the far left lane to avoid the congestion of vehicles taking the beltway exit. There was a sudden blast of air as King rolled down his window. From the corner of her eye, she saw him twist around and stick his head and arm outside.
“Next exit,” he shouted. “You’ll have to slow down. That’s when they’ll make their move.”
She whipped the SUV back into the right lane, and when she saw the sign for the exit—State Route 123 North—she let off the accelerator. As she veered toward the off-ramp, she saw a second sign, warning that the maximum safe speed for the exit was just thirty miles per hour.
She applied steady pressure to the brakes but they were still going almost fifty when the turn began. She allowed the vehicle to drift to the far left edge of the road, shedding another ten mph in the process. Then she cut the wheel hard. As the SUV started to skid in the wrong direction, she let off the brake and punched the gas pedal again. The vehicle shuddered and whipped back and forth for an instant, but then the wheels caught and she regained control.
There was a flash of light in the side mirror and then the source shot past her. A black racing motorcycle—what Rook would have called a ‘crotch-rocket’—slid past, hugging the left shoulder. Another bike passed on the right, and as it did, King opened fire.
Bishop didn’t hear the report from King’s suppressed pistol, but she saw the results. The rider on the right side jerked with the impact, pitching over the handlebars. Then suddenly both he and the motorcycle were cartwheeling across the road, right in front of them. Bishop had to jerk the wheel to avoid a collision. As bike and rider vanished off the side of the road, the motorcyclist who had passed on Bishop’s side shot out ahead of them, completing the loop and merging onto the northbound highway. Bishop kept accelerating out of the loop and was doing seventy again when she reached the highway. There was no sign of the motorcyclist.
She ducked reflexively in her seat as a hailstorm of bullets tore into the SUV from behind. The rear window was obliterated in an instant. Some of the rounds passed through the interior, striking the windshield, sending long cracks like lightning bolts across the glass. Something struck her in the back, just below her right shoulder blade. It felt like someone had jabbed her with a sharp stick, but she knew it wasn’t a serious injury. The bullet had probably been slowed down by all the things it had hit before reaching her, but with the window shot out, the next bullet might not be so forgiving.
“You going to do something about that?” she shouted.
King’s answer was to take up the machine-pistol she had captured at the warehouse and let loose an earsplittingly loud barrage through the SUV’s interior and out the hole where the rear window had been. Spent shell casings went everywhere, an added distraction she didn’t need.
With the noise, the rain of hot brass in her lap and the fact that she was hunched over to avoid getting shot, she didn’t see the motorcyclist that had passed them earlier until it was almost too late.
The rider had pulled off to the side of the road and was aiming his PP-2000 at them. He was a hundred yards away when Bishop saw a tongue of flame erupt from the muzzle off his weapon.
There was no time to warn King. She cut the wheel to the right, transfixing the gunman in her headlights. A few rounds sparked off the hood and gouged quarter-sized divots in the already damaged windshield. As soon as the shooter saw her change course, he let go of the trigger and leapt over his parked motorcycle, trying desperately to get out of the way. Bishop did not relent, though the gunman was not her primary target. At the last possible instant, she hauled the steering wheel to the left. The abrupt maneuver caused the rear of the SUV to whip around, striking the motorcycle like a horsetail swatting a fly. A sickening crunch of metal and fiberglass sounded as the motorcycle was punted into the concrete guardrail. Bishop couldn’t tell if the shooter had gotten clear in time, but either way, he wouldn’t be coming after them again.
King turned back around to look forward, his face a grim mask. He stared through the cracked windshield for a moment before speaking. “You hit?”
“No,” she said. It was mostly true. “You?”
He shook his head. “Stay on this road.”
Bishop kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor. She glanced in the side mirror to check on the pursuit, but a stray bullet had smashed it. The center rearview was gone as well, so she risked a quick look over her shoulder. A vehicle with only one headlight, presumably the pickup Deep Blue had identified, was matching their breakneck pace. “I don’t think we can outrun them.”
“We don’t need to. Just stay ahead of them for a few more minutes.”
&n
bsp; She knew he was up to something, but staying ahead of their pursuers was going to require all her focus. The number of lanes available to her had been reduced to two, making the job of maneuvering around cars that might as well have been parked and abandoned in their path, that much more difficult.
The next three minutes were a blur as she wove back and forth across the road. She cut through suburban neighborhoods, and blew through intersections and red lights, using the horn to warn of her approach but never once touching the brakes.
“Get ready!”
King’s warning snapped her out her trance. “Ready for what?”
“That!” he pointed to an official looking green highway sign. She tried to read the words printed upon it, but they were going too fast. All she caught were the words: GEORGE, CENTER and NEXT LEFT.
“Left!” King shouted.
Bishop saw the intersection looming ahead. The traffic light was green and cars were passing through in the opposing lanes on the far side of the grassy median. Beyond that, a road with bright yellow gates—open, fortunately—led into the woods.
Instead of easing off the gas and gradually slowing, she waited until she was just a few car lengths from the junction, then slammed on the brakes. The anti-lock-brake system kept the vehicle from going into an uncontrollable skid, but the SUV nevertheless left trails of rubber on the pavement. The brakes fought against inertia, the vehicle sliding halfway through the intersection.
Before the SUV could come to a complete halt, Bishop floored it again. She was afraid it might stall out, but after a slight lurch, the automatic clutch let go and the vehicle shot forward again. She punched the horn with the heel of one hand to warn oncoming traffic and shot toward the entrance. The headlights of unsuspecting drivers formed a crazy lightshow as they swerved to avoid hitting her, but a moment later she was through, racing down the seemingly deserted forest road.
She risked another glance back and saw the pickup and a pair of motorcycles, lit up by streetlamps and headlights, surging through the intersection after them. A quarter of a mile down the road, a well-lit structure, came into view. It looked like an oversized fast food restaurant drive-through over the roadway, but with one notable difference. Stretching across the lane was a two-foot high metal barrier.
“Keep going!” King urged. “Ram it!”
Bishop didn’t question the order. She kept her foot on the accelerator, steering straight for the security gate. As it was eclipsed from sight by the SUV’s hood, she let her hands drop from the steering wheel so the impact wouldn’t break her arms. Then she closed her eyes.
The collision hurled her forward at the same instant the airbag deployed, punching her in the face and knocking her senseless for a moment. A haze of smoke—burning oil, scorched wiring and other strange smells she couldn’t identify—filled the interior of the now motionless SUV. The engine, nearly overheated from the high-speed escape, was ticking like a metronome. Through it all she heard King, calling out to her.
“Stay down.”
She struggled to make sense of the command, and then she fought against the seat belt across her chest and the pieces of the dashboard that had crumpled around her like a protective cocoon. Then the sound of gunfire drowned out everything else, and she somehow found a way to do as King had said.
Bullets raked the SUV, each impact shaking the entire vehicle. She could feel the heat of rounds passing above her, distorting the air with the distinctive cracks of miniature sonic booms. Then almost as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped. She waited for something else to happen.
She gradually became aware of Deep Blue, shouting frantically in her ear, asking for a status report. She didn’t answer him. She had no idea what their status actually was. Another voice, louder and more immediate, sounded from somewhere outside the vehicle.
“You in the car. Show me your hands.”
Bishop almost laughed at the suggestion. She could barely move her hands. Still, the command had been given in unaccented English, which meant that the speaker was not a Russian Spetsnaz killer.
“Don’t shoot,” King called out, much closer. “We surrender.”
She allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Surrender was not good, but it was better than dead. She pushed up a few inches, raising her head just high enough to peek over the crumpled door panel. A squad of men wearing black battle dress uniforms, replete with body armor and Kevlar helmets, and brandishing M-4 assault rifles, had them surrounded. She raised up another inch and saw the body of one of the men from the warehouse lying on the ground nearby.
“King,” she said in a loud whisper. “Where are we? What just happened?”
“Didn’t you see the signs? We just tried to crash the George Bush Center for Intelligence, better known as the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“CIA?” Bishop said, incredulous.
“It might be a good idea to let me do the talking,” King said. “Blue, let Admiral Ward know that I’d be happy to meet with him. You can tell him where to find me. I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere for a little while.”
9
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
By any metric, the Burj Khalifa in Dubai was the tallest structure ever built. Topping out at just over 2,700 feet, it was nearly double the height of the Empire State Building in New York City. It was over a thousand feet taller than Taipei 101, the previous building to hold the record. If the ability to look down upon others—to be the lord of all that one surveyed—could be considered an appropriate symbol of power, the 155th floor of the Burj Khalifa would be the likeliest spot from which to rule the entire world.
As it happened, Catherine Alexander, the nominal occupant of the highest occupied floor of the Burj, was very close to doing exactly that.
Catherine Alexander was not her real name, of course, but it suited her well, invoking not one but two world domineers who had earned the epithet ‘the Great.’ To her mentor, the man who had given her that public name, and whom she thought of almost as a father, she was also ‘the Ice Queen.’ That name suited her as well. Perhaps even better, for it emphasized her cool intractable demeanor as much as it did her authority. She was not a queen in any formal legal sense, though her mentor had assured her that she was descended from royal blood many times over. Instead, she was a different kind of monarch—an empress ruling over an empire that transcended national borders. She was the Chief Executive Officer of the Consortium.
Like the location of its headquarters, the Consortium did not officially exist. It was at once, too big, too complex and yet also so very simple in its structure, to be quantified as an organization. Like the concentric tiers and spires of the Burj, the Consortium comprised several large multinational conglomerates across a variety of sectors—banking and finance, media, energy and consumables—which were in turn made up of thousands of smaller corporations. They formed a veritable pyramid of free enterprise. And Catherine Alexander was the capstone.
Many of the men assembled in the room were household names, from families whose influence and wealth extended back many centuries. Those who had not inherited wealth or title were nevertheless well known and highly regarded in their respective spheres of influence. All were immensely powerful, dictating international policy, raising national leaders or bringing them down as it pleased them. It had been no simple feat to unite them all, to bend them to a common purpose. With guidance from her mentor, not to mention the considerable resources made available to her by him, she had done exactly that. She had spied, manipulated, threatened and when necessary, killed to forge a broad cartel that insured success for all involved. The men who had come here today feared her, perhaps even hated her, but they also loved her, or at least loved being so close to the top.
She listened patiently as each man gave a detailed report on the state of their respective enterprises, carefully parsing their words and sentences for any hint of duplicity. It was human nature to try to conceal one’s shortcomings, and th
ese rich and powerful men were not immune to it. Indeed, they were perhaps more susceptible to self-delusion. Whenever she detected a bit of evasive language, she would give them one chance to recant and speak plainly. Bad news did not trouble her, but deception could not be tolerated. In the five years she had presided over the Consortium, only once had it been necessary to take things a step further.
She paid particular attention to the report from the CEO of Consolidated Energy who, in a Texas accent and a halting manner, revealed the bleak horizon for oil production.
“We’re hemorrhagin’ money ’cause the Saudis are overproducin’ and undersellin’. They think the writin’s on the wall for petroleum, and they don’t want to wind up with a fortune still in the ground, when the bubble finally pops.”
Catherine leaned forward. Oil policy was of particular interest to her. “Cheap gasoline increases consumer confidence in a petroleum-based future. That’s good for all of us. When prices at the pump are low, people are more likely to ignore fuel efficiency ratings and choose a luxury, gasoline-fueled vehicle, which means they’re locked into purchasing gasoline, no matter the price. It’s a feedback loop that works in our favor.”
“Be that as it may,” the oil man said, “most of our provable reserves are either in deep water, or in shale and tar sands. Those are mighty expensive. We can’t even break even, unless we get the price back up to at least eighty dollars per barrel. The Arabs—” He said it with the emphasis on the first vowel, Ay-rabs. “—know it. They’re doing this on purpose to keep us from exploiting those reserves.”
“The Saudis can’t sustain this gambit indefinitely.”
“They don’t need to. They just need to keep it up until folks wake up and smell the coffee about global warmin’. We can’t pull the wool over their eyes forever. If we don’t exploit those reserves and soon, then we all bought ourselves a pig in a poke.”
Catherine smiled patiently. “Our friend from Texas paints with cliché like a true artiste,” she said, addressing the room. “I can tell you only what I have told you so many times before. We are playing the long game. Though they don’t realize it, the Saudis are doing us a favor by keeping oil prices low. I promise you all that soon…”
Empire (A Jack Sigler Thriller Book 8) Page 8
