by Martha Carr
“Everyone’s okay, Theo. But I have to go.” I stood up. “You understand me?”
“Yes, I will help my teacher.”
“Great. Knew I could count on you.”
I made eye contact with the teacher, who put on her best stoic look. “You’ve got this,” I said to her in a soft voice. “You’ll get this done.”
She gave me an almost imperceptible nod, then began to usher the children toward one of the playgrounds, away from the burning school.
I ran through the parking lot, and in a matter of seconds I was behind the wheel. I put the monster—it was a Hummer 1, the stripped-down, civilian version of a military High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, better known as the Humvee—in gear, and tore through the parking lot. I cut across the park, plowed through a row of shrubs, yanked at the wheel, barely missed one of the benches, and flew over the sidewalk.
The Hummer dropped hard onto the street. Thankfully, there was no traffic in my lane. I stepped on the gas and glanced up ahead. My fiery eyes locked onto the target: the Mazda SUV had just made a right turn, about seventy yards up ahead.
You’re not getting away with this.
My foot flattened the gas pedal, and the Hummer barreled along the street. I swerved around a slow van doing the speed limit—thirty kilometers per hour, as per the signs in the school zone—then climbed the sidewalk to get around a taxi cab. I cut through a half-empty parking lot, then yanked hard at the steering wheel. The Hummer fishtailed, and turned into the road, following the Mazda.
The distance between us was now maybe fifty yards, but there were a few cars between us. I slammed my fist on the horn, but the small sedan in front of me did not move out of the way or pick up speed. I resisted the strong urge to crash into its side and send it flying onto the sidewalk. Instead, I steered to the left, over the yellow dividing line. I honked again, then hit the gas and drove into the oncoming lane.
A truck was coming toward me, but it was far away. I passed the sedan and came near the next vehicle, a grayish van. My horn blared again, and the van driver got the message. It moved over in its lane, and came very close to the sidewalk. I steered close to it as the truck barreled to my left, inches away from the Hummer.
I glanced at the Mazda, twenty yards away. Its driver and the passenger had noticed me, and the Mazda picked up speed, blew through a red light, and zipped through the intersection. It almost crashed into an incoming city bus, but the driver was able, at the last moment, to twist the wheel and make the turn.
I slammed on the brakes so that I wouldn’t plow into the rear of the truck in front of me. Then I veered to the left, and headed toward the intersection and into oncoming traffic. My palm rested on the horn, as I tried to wiggle my way through the slower moving vehicles.
An SUV’s tires screeched as the driver struggled to stop before slamming into the Hummer. A taxi crashed into the SUV’s back. A third vehicle slid and crashed into the traffic-light pole, while avoiding hitting a pedestrian attempting to cross the road.
I bit my lip, and turned the steering wheel. I headed back into my lane, which was now clear. The Mazda had increased the distance, so I needed to catch up to it.
I shifted in my seat and pressed on the gas. The Hummer roared forward and rocketed down the street. I began to gain on the Mazda, and there were now no vehicles between the Hummer and my target.
Before I could celebrate my small victory, a head popped out of the Mazda’s rear window behind the driver. Then followed a hand with a pistol aimed at the Hummer.
So, I jerked the wheel.
The bullet thumped against the Hummer’s hood. I didn’t hear the noise, but saw the sparks. A second bullet struck the door, as I drove in a zigzag pattern. I moved closer to the sidewalk, and away from the line of fire. I wished I had my Sauer P229 pistol with me. But, I’d had no idea things would go sideways. Fifteen minutes ago, I was dropping off my nephew at school.
The next bullet pierced the windshield, sending a spray of glass at my face. They were the granular pieces, not likely to cause permanent injury, but still quite sharp. None of them got into my eyes, but the eruption reminded me that the windshield was not bulletproof. And, I doubted the Hummer had run-flat tires. If one of them blew out, the chase would be over.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Steering to the right, I climbed over the sidewalk. It was a stretch of the road without any pedestrians or trees. I gained about ten yards on the Mazda.
The shooter had noticed my maneuver. His head appeared in the other window. Before he could fire a round, I turned the wheel, dropping back onto the road.
I pushed the Hummer hard, hoping to reach the Mazda in the next couple of seconds. But another bullet pierced the windshield. This one whizzed just past my head, and the hail of pieces almost blinded me. I cursed the gunman firing at me through the Mazda’s rear window.
I dropped my head to just a few inches over the steering wheel. A volley of bullets shattered what was left of the windshield. Geysers of glass granules passed over my head. I lookedup for a split second, and pulled hard on the steering wheel. That maneuver avoided a head-on collision with a white utility van. I stepped on the brakes and stayed in my lane.
No more bullets hissed over my head or struck the Hummer, but I kept my head down. The shooter was waiting for me to make a move; he’d fire at that exact moment. That’s what I would do, if our roles were reversed.
Loud horns came from my left, then an SUV plowed into the side of the Hummer, by the rear wheels. The impact sent the other vehicle spinning, but I didn’t mind. I glanced up to get my bearings. The Mazda careened through the next intersection, and made an illegal left turn.
I spun the Hummer around, but not fast enough. A taxi hit the front, but the Hummer’s crash guard took the brunt of the collision. My head jerked backwards and hit the seat, but the seatbelt kept me buckled in.
My eyes turned toward the intersection, and my hands twisted the wheel again. I forced my way between the taxi and a streetlight, then headed toward the intersection. The lights had changed and traffic was rushing back and forth. There was no way I could make my way through without some major crashes.
I cursed the Mazda driver, then honked the horn in frustration. Turning the wheel, I moved out of the lane, and took a side street. If my intuition was right, I knew where the Mazda was going: headed toward the highway a few blocks to the east.
Traffic was almost nonexistent in the narrow street, passing a church building and a park. The first right turn came up pretty fast. My eyes flitted in that direction. No Mazda.
The Hummer picked up speed as I shot up the street.
As I came near the next right turn, I eased up on the gas, and made the turn. The Hummer drifted, and I barely missed a garbage can set next to a streetlight. I honked to clear the street of a few children who were crossing carelessly. Then I honked again, louder and longer, as I drew near the next intersection.
Contrary to my thinking, not everyone had heard or cared about the horn.
I slowed down but not enough.
A Smart car slammed into the left corner of the Hummer that was jutting out into the road. The car crumpled as if made of tinfoil. A grayish SUV came to an abrupt halt in the next lane. I forced my way into the intersection, then waited for a city bus to whoosh by before following closely behind.
The wind was blowing around the cabin now that I had no windshield. I peered hard and looked for the black Mazda SUV.
Found you.
The Mazda was up ahead and almost a hundred yards away. The driver was going toward the overpass linking to the highway.
You’re not gonna make it.
I hit the gas so hard I thought my foot went through the mat. The Hummer barreled down the four-lane street. I sideswiped a small truck, then knocked the mirror of a sedan off, while gaining speed and driving at times over the yellow dividing line.
The distance between the Hummer and the Mazda was getting smaller.
I scraped the side of another truck, whose driver honked the horn and made a rude gesture. Shrugging, I kept my foot on the gas. I swerved to the right of a large truck and drove over the sidewalk. Only the left wheels were on the road as I squeezed my way toward the Mazda.
I returned to the lane in front of the truck. Its driver was not able to stop in time. It slammed onto the back of the Hummer, but I was expecting the crash. The Hummer veered out of the lane, but only for a moment. I regained control and entered the overpass.
My crazy maneuvering had paid off. The Mazda was in the left lane, perhaps thirty yards away.
Now’s the time.
The Hummer thundered as I pushed it to the extreme. As there were no vehicles in front of me, I had a clear path to the Mazda.
But its driver had noticed me.
The familiar head popped out the window.
I knew what was coming next, so I gripped the steering wheel, floored the gas, and slipped down in my seat.
Bullets whizzed over my head for a couple of seconds.
Then came the ear-splitting crash.
My head hit the steering wheel. I looked up in time to see the Mazda roll over the low guardrail. A moment later, it landed on the highway thirty feet below, with a deafening metal-hitting-the-asphalt noise.
I stepped out of the Hummer and walked to the guardrail. As my eyes fell upon the mangled wreckage, it erupted into a gigantic explosion. I shielded my face with my hands and turned around as metal and plastic pieces rained all around me. Then the burning smell invaded my nostrils along with the black smoke billowing from the scorching hulk.
I sighed and walked back to the Hummer. The traffic on the overpass had stalled, and drivers were getting out of their vehicles. Many of them were giving me frightened looks, while others were gazing at the burning Mazda.
My phone vibrated, then rang with the unique ringtone I had assigned to Tiffany, Theo’s mom. Oh, no. I shook my head, then picked up the phone. “Yes, Tiffany, how are you?” I said in as calm a tone as I could muster.
“I’m doing fine, Justin. How did it go?”
She was asking about my dropping off Theo at school. I moved the phone away from my mouth, let out a deep sigh, then said on the phone, “Tiffany, let me tell you what happened.”
Ethan Jones began by writing the wildly popular Justin Hall spy thriller series, quickly becoming an international bestselling author.
Since then, along with the Justin Hall series, Ethan continues to write two other successful series:
The Carrie Chronicles - which features Justin Hall's partner, Carrie O'Connor, in solo adventures and The Jennifer Morgan suspense series - filled with romance, danger and intrigue.
The latest series, Javin Pearce, will be coming out in early 2018! This series, like the Justin Hall and Carrie Chronicles, is a spy thrill keeping you on the edge of your seat the whole time.
Make sure to check them all out!
Ethan is a lawyer by trade, and he lives in Canada with his wife and son.
If you want to learn more be sure to visit Ethan’s Exclusives at eepurl.com/cAj7iP for insider information, new releases, and a free spy thriller.
Eleven
Green Lake Bones
By A.C. Fuller
Seattle, Washington
Mia’s phone chirped as she shuffled into her apartment, nudging the door closed with her heel and kicking off her T-strap Manolos on the way to the kitchen. She dropped a bag of groceries onto the counter, pulled the phone from her purse, and looked down at the caller ID: Alex Vane.
She rolled her eyes and pressed "Ignore,” then slowly began unpacking the groceries, mostly cartons of prepared foods from the hot bar at Safeway.
Alex was her boss at The Barker, the online media company where Mia spent sixty hours a week coaxing seventy employees into following her fine-tuned office systems. Alex's management style oscillated between laissez faire and micromanaging. A call at seven p.m. on a Tuesday—only an hour after she'd left the office—was not going to get a response.
After unpacking the groceries, she pulled off her shoes and flopped onto the couch, phone in one hand and a warm plastic tub of macaroni and cheese in the other. But before she could take her first bite, her phone dinged with a text.
Alex: Call me ASAP.
She set the phone face down on the coffee table and dug into her dinner. She’d skipped lunch and, after a ten-hour day during which she'd overseen a computer emergency, a bookkeeping emergency, and a coffee pot emergency, she deserved a night off from Alex’s demands.
Then her landline rang.
No one called the landline other than her mother, whose early calls every Saturday morning served as Mia’s alarm clock. She slid the macaroni next to her phone and jogged across the room, one hand reaching out to the phone, the other unfastening her bra in the back. If Alex had bothered looking up her home number, it must be urgent.
She grabbed the old cordless off the wall and returned to the couch, stretching her legs so her toes pressed into the armrest. "Gah! What Alex?"
"Are you at home?"
"No, you called my landline and caught me on the train."
"Right, right. Sorry. How far do you live from Green Lake?"
"Half a mile."
"We need you over there. Now."
Mia sat up. Alex’s voice was tense and she knew right away that he was in story-breaker mode. The Barker wasn’t The New York Times. Hell, it wasn’t even The Huffington Post. It ran a mixture of celebrity gossip, clickbait listicles, and blog posts on a wide range of social and political topics. It rarely broke news and never broke important news. But, from time to time, Alex got a tip on something local and sent his staff to chase it around the city.
Mia said, "What? I mean, what's going on?"
Alex sounded like he might fall into the phone out of sheer excitement. "He sent out another message. The bones are in Green Lake!"
“Alex, c’mon.”
“Seriously. Bird is gonna head down there, too, but if you run over you might beat everyone. Even the cops.”
Mia let the phone drop away from her ear a little, but not because she was surprised. She was exasperated. “Do I really need to do this, Alex? This whole story is probably BS.”
“Mia, c’mon, take your iPhone. We’ll throw you a bonus worth a day’s pay and, if you get pictures and text them to me in the next half hour, a week’s. That’s a lot of shoe money.”
This perked her interest a little. She thought of the shoes she’d bought on credit, and what if the bones actually were in Green Lake?
“What else did he say?” she asked, already up and out of her black slacks and white dress shirt and sliding into a pair of black jeans that had been hanging over the back of her couch.
“Nothing. Just sent another letter to all the Seattle news outlets.”
“And he counted The Barker among them?”
“Well, no, we didn’t get the letter. But Bird got the scoop from a friend.”
Mia wiggled into a pair of running shoes without untying the laces. “Green Lake is big, Alex.”
“I know. I guess that’s part of the adventure.”
Mia grabbed her cell phone and shoveled a large bite of macaroni and cheese into her mouth. “I’ll go,” she said through the mouthful of food.
“Text me when you get there.”
Despite being put out by the fact that she was still working past seven p.m., Mia trudged down Fourth Avenue toward the eastern shore of Green Lake. She was just two inches over five feet tall and of average build but, for her, exercise meant the miles she walked around the loft-like offices of The Barker six days a week. She was trying to convince herself that it was alright because she needed the exercise. Plus, the summer sun was still warm and she was getting paid. So, even though this was likely a colossal waste of time, she decided to make the best of it.
For the last week, Seattle media had been on edge. Exactly seven days ago, an unsigned, two-page letter had arrived at
The Seattle Times, Seattle Weekly, The Stranger, and five or six other local papers, plus the newsrooms of all the network affiliates: ABC, NBC, CBS, and Fox. The sender claimed to have knowledge of the exact details of the infamous skyjacking of D.B. Cooper, including how he died and where his bones lay. The sender also claimed that, within a week, all the details would be revealed to the media.
Cooper’s case had dominated the news in the early 1970s and remained one of the great unsolved cases in U.S. history. The basics were simple: A man calling himself Dan Cooper—who later became known as D.B. Cooper due to a journalist’s error that stuck in the public consciousness—boarded a flight from Portland to Seattle on November 24, 1971. After a few sips of bourbon and a quick cigarette, he sat a flight attendant down next to him, claiming to have a bomb.
Cooper demanded--and got--$200,000 in cash and a full tank of fuel, then released all the passengers and ordered the crew to fly to Mexico. After the plane took off, he opened the aft airstair and parachuted out into the night.
Long story short, despite one of the largest search operations in U.S. history, he was never found. Over the years, hundreds of theories circulated. Many thought he’d died on impact when trying to parachute out. Others thought he escaped. The media went nuts covering the story and the investigation. After forty-five years of dead ends and useless theories, the FBI suspended its investigation.
The sun was just beginning to set over the trees that surrounded Green Lake as Mia entered the path, which ran a three-mile loop around the lake. Right away, she knew she’d been beaten to the scene by at least four others. First, she noticed the team from KOMO 4 News—Sam Roberts, Brady Doyle, and Victoria Black, a reporter/cameraman/producer team that only covered sensational local news. Mia didn’t watch local news anymore, but she imagined that they’d been hyperventilating for a week over this story.
Next she spotted Gabriela Verduna, a Seattle Times reporter who had survived the layoffs of the last fifteen years through her contacts with every police officer in Seattle. Mia knew her to be brilliant, ambitious, and relentless. So, it didn’t surprise her that Gabriela wasn’t on the shore next to the TV crew.
