by Rob Jones
Angelika barked some orders at Jakob who padded over to the President and grabbed him roughly by his collar.
“Best not resist, Mr Grant. Jakob Müller here was a former rhönradprofi – a wheel gymnast and a serious bodybuilder. He’s a good East German. He tells me he has the strength of five men, and few here have dared him to prove it.”
On Angelika’s orders, Jakob dragged Grant away from the relative safety of the limo and shoved him into the side of an old GMC van idling just inside the entrance to the factory. A moment later, Partridge was hauled off the floor and thrown in the back beside him.
*
Now, President Grant sat in the back of the windowless van in silence. Either side of him was an armed man, and opposite was the German woman and the man she had called Jakob.
After half an hour of driving mostly on the straight he felt the van lurch to the right and descend what could only be an off-ramp. Judging by the turns at the start of the journey he guessed he was somewhere to the north of New Orleans, but couldn’t be sure. Instead of speculating, he focussed on what would be by now the largest manhunt in history as his team scrambled to rescue him.
A couple more turns and the van came to a juddering stop. A few seconds later Jakob grinned at him and the side door swung open. “Get out.”
Grant climbed out of the van and blinked in the sunlight. He was standing in the middle of a vast industrial landscape, littered with countless buildings and chimneys all covered in pipes and air-conditioning ducts. It looked like they were in some kind of processing plant, but by the looks of things it was clearly abandoned. Grant began to grow pessimistic.
Just beyond the parking area where they had pulled up in the GMC was a cleared area with a sparkling white Sikorsky S-76. Grant knew the model because he recognized it as the same as the one Donald Trump owned – and he’d had a flight around Manhattan in that one a few weeks ago so he would know better than most. If it weren’t obvious enough already, these people were well-funded.
Jakob stepped from the van and stood beside him. “Over there.” He nodded at what had clearly been the main entrance to the complex, but was now partly overgrown with weeds.
Grant bristled, unaccustomed to being talked to like this, but kept silent. It wasn’t every day the President of the United States got kidnapped – in fact this was the first time in history – so whoever was behind it was playing the highest stakes of all. It wouldn’t be wise to anger them before finding out what they wanted, and he knew from his many Secret Service briefings that he had to play for time.
Jakob shoved him hard between the shoulder blades and with his hands tied behind his back he struggled to stay on his feet, but just managed it. He gave the man a snarl of contempt and moved slowly toward the enormous factory complex.
CHAPTER SIX
Hawke fired at the men. In response, they dived for cover in the spruce trees, giving Jack Brooke enough time to unlock the door to the outbuilding. Seconds later they were inside what looked like a small aircraft hangar with a polished concrete floor and corrugated metal walls. Parked in neat lines were several rows of luxury vehicles, shining dully in the diffused lighting of the opaque skylights above.
“Nice collection!” Hawke said, spying the cars. “Can we take the Corvette?”
Alex gave him a look. “Great idea, Einstein... only you might wanna count the seats.”
“Eh?”
“There’s three of us but the Corvette is a two-seater.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you wanted to come.”
Alex rolled her eyes and slapped his shoulder. “We can take the Jeep to the airport if we can just get out it out of here without getting shot to pieces!”
“How far away is the airport?” Hawke said.
“A little under twelve miles,” Brooke said. “We go down Valley Road and then we hit 75. That takes us straight to Hailey and the airport.”
“And we definitely can’t take the Corvette?”
Alex gave him another of her looks. “Get in the Jeep, Limey.”
“Sure thing, Septic.”
Brooke and his daughter both turned to Hawke at the same time. “Huh?”
“Septic tank.”
“And...?”
“Septic tank, Yank.”
“Oh...” Alex said, confused.
They were startled back to reality by the sound of gunfire and the sight of half a dozen bullet holes being punched into the steel walls of the outbuilding. The light now shone through the holes in beams.
“We have to get out of here... right now.” Brooke ran his hand along the little board where he kept all his keys until he found the right ones for the Jeep. “Take these,” he said, tossing them at Hawke. Then he pocketed the other keys and grabbed a shotgun from under the bench. “Assholes aren’t chasing me in my own damned cars!”
Hawke climbed into the driving seat of the Jeep Grand Cherokee and fired up the 5.9 V8. A deep growling noise emanated from under the hood. He revved it and the entire vehicle rocked from side to side. A broad smile spread over Joe Hawke’s face.
Brooke climbed in the back and dumped the shotgun on the seat.
“Get us out of here, Joe!”
Hawke stamped on the throttle and the two-and-a-half ton vehicle jumped forward and raced toward the double doors. The Englishman instinctively covered his face as the Jeep smashed through the doors in a cloud of dust and bent metal and then he skidded it around to the right in the direction of the property gates. It sprayed an impressive arc of dust and dead pine cones up into the hot air as it went.
Behind them, a hail of bullets erupted from the two men who were still using the spruces for cover. Hawke watched in the rear-view mirror as the men sprinted into the outbuilding.
Brooke shook his head. “Those assholes better not hotwire any of my babies.”
“I think that’s the plan, Jack,” Hawke said, and increased the speed of the Jeep. “Only eleven miles to the airport now so let’s hope they’re not very good at hotwiring.”
Alex sighed. “You might want to try something a little stronger than hope, Joe. Check the rear-view.”
He checked the mirror and saw Brooke’s beloved Corvette skidding out onto the highway behind them. It didn’t take long for the gunmen to catch up with the much slower Jeep, and the three lanes of ID-75 meant Hawke had a much harder fight on his hands to keep the Corvette trapped behind them.
Brooke turned in his seat and stared forlornly through the rear window. “Oh crap, they’re going to wreck my baby.”
“I’m your baby, Dad.”
Without turning he raised his hand and patted his daughter’s shoulder. “I know you are, honey, and I love you.”
“Yeah, that’s not my shoulder, Dad.”
Brooke turned to see his hand was on Hawke’s shoulder and pulled it back fast.
“My apologies, Joe.”
“That’s okay, Dad,” Hawke said. “And I want you to know I love you too.”
Alex smiled, but Brooke simply returned his gaze to the Corvette, which was now accelerating and swinging to the right in a bid to overtake on the shoulder. Hawke responded by gripping the wheel and heaving the Jeep into the path of the flame-red sports car, but it was a feint. A second later the Corvette braked and skidded to the left, swinging out into the oncoming lane and rapidly accelerating alongside the Jeep.
The gunman in the passenger seat aimed a Remington 1100 tactical shotgun at them, leaning through the open window.
Hawke saw what was happening and hit the brakes.
The Corvette shot in front of them for a few seconds but the driver responded in a flash. He hit the brakes and raced behind the Jeep, swerving into the right-hand lane as he went. Before Hawke could respond they floored the accelerator and swung out into the path of an oncoming SUV narrowly avoiding a head-on collision as they overtook them once again. They were now in front of the Jeep.
Remington twisted around in his seat and leaned out the Corvette’s window. He pulled th
e long shotgun out of the car and lifted it toward the center of the Jeep’s windshield.
Hawke looked ahead and saw a massive Kenworth Road Train bearing down on them in the left-hand lane. He thought about skidding around it to the left but that would leave him in the fast-lane of the oncoming traffic, and the looming presence of the Kenworth meant he had no way to tell if there was anyone in that lane or not. He knew he could be a daredevil at times, but a head-on smash at nearly two hundred miles per hour was too much even for him to contemplate. Luckily Cairo Sloane wasn’t here to talk him into it, he thought.
The gunman raised the weapon to his eye and prepared to fire.
Hawke had only one play.
He pulled the wheel to the right and sent the Jeep hurtling off the road.
The gunman fired, and a puff of white smoke was followed by the sound of lead shot peppering the back left of the Jeep. Hawke struggled to control the vehicle as it skidded down an embankment and smashed through a low wooden fence which marked the boundary between the highway and a sunburnt wheatfield.
Brooke pointed at the crop stretching out in front of them. “Holy crap, Joe!”
Alex screamed and instinctively raised her hands to protect her face.
The engine over-revved wildly as the Jeep bounced over the rough-ground at highway speed and plowed through the long, dry grass like a combine harvester. Clouds of dried wheat heads and stems burst into the air and left a corn-yellow trail of dust in their wake stretching all the way back to the road.
Hawke winced. “This is definitely not how I was planning on spending today...”
*
From his base in New Orleans, Alan Pauling tapped the keyboard of his laptop and increased the power on the Northrop Grumman MQ-8 Fire Scout. He watched through the camera as the unmanned autonomous helicopter drone lifted away from the back of the flatbed truck and into the air. The Rolls-Royce M250 turboshaft engine roared to life as Pauling directed the Fire Scout higher and turned it one-eight degrees to face its target.
Driving the Presidential limo by remote control had been enough of a challenge, especially when being chased by the Secret Service Escalades, but flying an armed, stolen, military drone into the heart of the American capital was in another league completely.
Through the camera he saw the familiar skyline of Washington DC appear on the horizon and smiled as he accelerated the chopper toward downtown. The drone was loaded with a startling variety of weapons, including Viper Strike GPS-assisted laser-guided glide bombs and Hellfire missiles.
That should just about do it, Pauling thought as the capital got larger on his monitor.
And then some.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brooke pointed his shotgun through the window and got a shot off at the Corvette but it missed. The sports car was too far away now, up on the highway to their left, and accelerating out of sight.
“You think they gave up?” Alex asked.
“Maybe,” Hawke said.
Brooke sighed and shook his head as he reloaded the shotgun. “I doubt it.”
Hawke decelerated the Jeep as a line of Washington hawthorns rapidly approached them. The automatic box changed down to second and then first as he applied the brakes and drove down into a thicket where a narrow stream was running from west to east.
“Take her right through it, Joe,” Brooke said. “It’s not deep – I come through here with the horses all the time.”
Hawke crossed the stream and pulled the Jeep up the opposite bank. He took an appreciative look around the shady glen.
“Nice place for a picnic.”
“Damn it all,” Alex said and looked at him sarcastically. “I packed the psychotic gunmen but forgot the salad dressing...”
Hawke glanced at her and smirked. “You know what I mean.”
“I hate to break up what could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Brooke said. “But we have to get back on the road – look.”
They were now in an enclosed field, bordered on all sides by the edge of a larch forest. “We ain’t driving through there, believe me,” Brooke said. “It’s either back to the wheatfield or up to the highway.”
Hawke agreed. They were penned in down here. What might have been an escape route had made them fish in a barrel, so he swung the wheel to the left and plowed through what remained of the second field. Ahead of them was the highway, but the Corvette was still nowhere in sight.
They smashed the Jeep through the wooden fence and climbed up the embankment in a wild spray of gravel chips as the tires slipped to keep traction. Checking the way was clear, Hawke pulled the battered Jeep back onto ID-75 and headed south to Hailey.
Back on the highway now, they checked the GPS and saw they were only three miles from Hailey and the airport. In the first few seconds of peace since the attacks had begun, Brooke reached for his phone and cursed when he realized it wasn’t on him.
“Damn it! Must have left it back at the cabin...”
“Use mine,” Alex said, reaching for her own cellphone.
As she handed him the phone, the Corvette appeared in the mirrors once again.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Alex asked.
“They were waiting behind that billboard,” said Hawke. “How far from the airport are we now?”
“Less than two miles,” Brooke said, twisting in the rear seat to take a better look at his pursuers. “If only we knew what the hell was going on! Maybe we should stop and fight the bastards.”
“Are you crazy, Dad?”
“Alex is right, Jack. You’re too valuable.”
The Corvette accelerated and pulled up beside them on the passenger’s side.
“I need to make a call to my guys at the airport – Hawke get us away from these crazies!”
Hawke nodded. “Sorry in advance, guys.”
Alex looked at him, confused. “What for?”
Hawke spun the wheel to the right and smashed into the Corvette sending the much lighter vehicle careering off the road. It plowed into the shoulder, kicking up arcs of grit and gravel chips as the driver struggled to maintain control.
“Good work!” Brooke said, beaming as the Corvette almost lost control and spun around in a circle on the highway.
Hawke frowned. “But not good enough.” He watched the sports car regain control and power out of the skid. After a tremendous squeal of tires the Corvette emerged from a thick, black cloud of burnout smoke and resumed the pursuit.
“They’re determined little bastards,” Hawke said.
He stamped on the Cherokee’s throttle and the heavy vehicle lurched ever-forward along the highway. He pulled down the sun visor to protect his eyes from the bright summer light outside as they raced toward the airport. Behind in the mirror the same hot, white sunlight gleamed on the hood of the Corvette. He flicked his eyes away just in time to see the exit sign for the airport.
Brooke cocked his shotgun. “I don’t want these assholes following us all the way to the airport.”
Hawke nodded his head. “Agreed. Assholes with guns and aviation fuel don’t mix.”
“Slow down a bit, will you? I can’t get a decent shot off at this speed.”
“Be careful, Dad!”
“Don’t worry about me, Alex. It’s like I always say – if you can’t shake ’em off, you gotta pick ’em off.”
“Wasn’t that your campaign slogan?” Hawke said.
Brooke didn’t reply. His look said it all.
After a few seconds, both men laughed, but Alex was less amused. “I mean it, Dad.”
And she did. She hadn’t spoken to her father for so long she could barely remember when they had fallen apart. She and Hawke had shared the cabin for weeks now, but her father, one of the busiest men on the planet, had only joined them for the last few days. It was the most time she had spent with him in years.
They had argued at first, but having Joe Hawke and his no-nonsense attitude to life had helped bring them together. She had even started t
o wonder if they could go back to the way things used to be – before the Great Jack Brooke had walked out on his wife and kids. Before the straight-talking Idahoan had destroyed her family for a woman half his age, pathetically citing pressures of the job. In her heart, she was unsure if she could ever forgive him for that, but she knew one thing – she couldn’t lose him now.
“Relax, darling,” Brooke said, and flashed that crooked smile at her. “No asshole with that much product in his hair is going to take me out of the game.”
Alex watched her father turn in his seat to face the rear as Hawke decelerated the Jeep, keeping one eye on the mirror at all times. Ahead, ID-75 bore off to the right and they began to drive into the northern reaches of Hailey. It looked like a great town – all white picket fences and horse paddocks. Hawke hoped it would still look like this by the time they flew out of it, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You have to take them out before we get into the main town,” Hawke said. “We can’t risk killing any innocent people.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Brooke said, squinting into the sights of his shotgun. “It won’t take long now they’re right behind us... but it breaks my heart to do this to poor old Sally.”
Hawke looked at Alex and mouthed the word “Sally?”
“The car,” she whispered back, a look of apology on her face.
Brooke fired a shot and missed, but then a second and third shot followed immediately afterwards. They both hit the Corvette, the first on the windshield and the second on the driver’s front tire.
The sports car responded as Brooke expected, skidding violently to the left and leaving the road in a hurry. The passenger tried to get a shot off through his open window, but then he saw a high white fence rapidly approaching as the Chevrolet raced uncontrollably toward a field of horses.
