Zhao must’ve sensed them behind him because he pivoted and looked their way. Then he shifted directions and returned to the street.
Max brought up his carbine and aimed at Zhao. June aimed, too, but there were civilians in the background, and they couldn’t take a shot without risking serious injury or death to them. As Zhao retreated, Max and June followed. Max anticipated a clear target, but Zhao disappeared behind a truck. Max looked over his shoulder and saw Tom. Behind his brother came Pepper and a cluster of agents.
A sound-suppressed gunshot sounded from Zhao’s direction. Max looked to see what happened, but he couldn’t see. He advanced toward the truck and maneuvered around to find a policeman lying still in the street, bleeding from his head.
Although traffic leading up to the site of the accident had jammed up, the eastbound lane flowed away from the accident, faster and freer. A red Ford Mustang buzzed around the wreckage and clipped Zhao, knocking the Playmate cooler out of his hand. Another car hit the cooler, and it tumbled deeper into traffic.
Max hoped Zhao would go for the cooler. If a car didn’t kill Zhao, Max would.
Zhao abandoned the cooler and hopped into the dead policeman’s car.
Max aimed, but he didn’t have a clean shot.
“Somebody secure that cooler,” Max called out. “Young said the anthrax is in a cooler.” He sprinted after Zhao, but Zhao drove away in the patrol car.
“I’ve got the cooler,” Pepper replied.
Max scanned his surroundings for a vehicle he could “borrow.” A hipster stood beside his little white two-door hatchback smart car, taking pictures of the wreck with his cell phone. Max thought about taking the man’s subcompact car but worried how he’d be able to keep up with a police car. Even so, the more time he wasted thinking, the more distance Zhao would put between them. Max closed in on the smart car and was pleased to hear that the engine was running. Maybe this was meant to be. He brushed past the hipster, opened the door, and sat in the driver’s seat.
The man stopped taking pictures, lowered his cell phone, and shouted, “What’re you doing?!”
Max locked his door before the man could grab the handle. June got in the passenger seat and locked her door, too.
“That’s my car,” the man yelled.
Tom ran up from behind. “Hey, what about me?” he called out.
The two-seater was already crowded for just Max and June, and Zhao was getting farther away. “Stop whining and find a car!” Max snapped.
The hipster banged on the window. “Give me my car!”
Max shifted into drive, stepped on the gas, and drove off after Zhao. The space inside the smart car was too tight for Max to use his rifle properly, but his pistol fit fine, so he drew it and pressed it against the front window, but there was a car between him and Zhao, so he lowered it. June had her pistol out, too, but she had no straight shot either.
Zhao made headway east with Max and June on his tail. An ambulance, fire truck, and police car approached them in the westbound lane. Max hoped the police were coming to aid with the chase, but the patrol whizzed past, heading to the scene of the accident. Max used the opening created by the emergency vehicles as a passing lane. He weaved around the car in front of him and squeezed in behind Zhao.
A muzzle flashed slightly and glass spit out of Zhao’s back window. It had to be challenging for Zhao to drive forward while trying to shoot accurately to his rear. None of the shots seemed close to hitting Max and June, but Max wouldn’t bet his life that the next shots would fly so wild.
Zhao sped toward a red light where a pedestrian in a tan suit crossed the intersection. When Zhao didn’t slow for the light, the pedestrian leaped away, and Zhao narrowly missed hitting him and a blue sedan. Max raced through the red light, too, and weaved around the sedan that now stopped in the intersection.
Zhao’s police siren switched on, and cars pulled over and let him pass. At another intersection, he hung a left, and his tires squealed as he cut in front of oncoming cars and drove the wrong way on a one-way street. A white van with a plumbing logo displayed on the side advanced toward them, and Zhao drove partway onto the sidewalk to avoid smacking the van head-on. Max did the same. On the opposite sidewalk, a bearded man paused and stared while the guy next to him hurried away from the mayhem.
After passing the van, Zhao and Max returned to the street, still driving the wrong way on the one-way street. A guy was about to open the door of his car parked next to the curb when Zhao accelerated in his direction. The guy hugged his vehicle and closed his eyes. A convertible with the top up screeched to a halt in front of them, and Zhao drove around it, this time speeding across the grassy grounds of a church. Zhao’s wheels flung clods of dirt and grass into the air. Max pressed his pistol against the windshield, aimed, and shot at Zhao, but the movement of both vehicles and aiming with one hand made the shot difficult, and Max missed. June missed, too. Two holes with minor cracking around them marked the windshield. They fired again, and Zhao ducked. Max hoped one of his shots would penetrate Zhao’s seat and strike a fatal blow, but Zhao continued to evade them.
Zhao’s patrol car rounded the church, and as he left the church grounds, a woman cried out. Just then Zhao narrowly missed striking an oncoming Ford Mustang GT in the left lane of a two-lane road. Max didn’t spot the screaming woman, but he did see a black truck behind the Mustang. From the low perspective of the smart car, the truck appeared massive. Thankfully, the truck driver slammed on the brakes, giving Max an opportunity to cross in front of it and into the right lane. The truck driver honked his horn.
June used her comms to report their location to Tom, but he was nowhere in sight and didn’t reply.
Cars pulled over and stopped for Zhao’s lights and siren, giving him the space to push through the streets. Max stayed hot on his tail, the little smart car’s engine straining.
Zhao’s brakes squealed and his tires smoked as he skidded into a left turn and took off along another street. Max followed. There were pedestrians in the area, but they wisely kept out of the way. It was a relief to travel with traffic instead of against it, but the cars didn’t pull over fast enough for Zhao, so he swerved onto the sidewalk and passed them. As Max chased the patrol car, more drivers honked their horns.
Both Zhao and Max dodged vehicles until they turned left onto another road. In Max’s rearview mirror, he was pleased to see a DC patrol car arriving to help. He returned his attention to the road in front of them, pleased when another clear shot at Zhao presented itself. Max aimed and fired. The police behind Max didn’t take kindly to Max shooting at a police car, however, and a hole popped through the smart car’s rear window, accompanied by the sound of gunshots.
“Damn it,” Max exclaimed. While his concentration was on the rearview mirror and the squad car behind him, he fishtailed. Just as he shifted his eyes forward, he sideswiped a car in front, knocking off the smart car’s front bumper.
Zhao hit a bicyclist. The rider flew through the air, and Zhao ran over his bike. The cyclist landed in front of Max, who cranked hard on the steering wheel in an effort to avoid hitting the man. Max’s car barely missed him. The police car couldn’t run over the bicyclist like Zhao or squeeze through traffic like the smart car. In the rearview mirror, Max watched the police come to a screeching halt.
Zhao turned again, and Max pursued. There was construction in one of the lanes, but Zhao barreled through orange cones and a barricade. Construction workers dove out of the way, and Zhao whipped around a parked yellow tractor. Max avoided the tractor, too.
Zhao showed no sign of giving up, and Max hoped to stop him soon. “If Zhao’s police car reaches an open stretch of highway, he’ll easily outrun us,” Max said.
Zhao blasted through another red light, causing two cars to run into each other, but Zhao was unscathed. Max cranked on the steering wheel, and the smart car’s tires screeched as he avoided the wreck in front of him. A busted car panel lay in the street in front of him, and he swerved a
round it, so the panel wouldn’t derail the little smart car.
At the next light, Zhao headed the wrong way down another one-way street.
“Where you think he’s headed?” Max asked.
“Now he’s going northeast. Could be aiming for a bridge over the river. He’s hauling his butt out of DC.” She used her comms to update their position and where she thought Zhao was headed.
Pepper’s voice transmitted: “Inside the cooler, we’ve got two Coke cans that appear to be the delivery devices for the anthrax. I contacted bomb disposal and am securing this until their arrival. Agents and police are on their way to your location.”
“Roger,” June said.
“Pepper, is Tomahawk with you?” Max asked.
“No, he’s not,” Pepper said.
“Where the hell are you, Tomahawk?” Max called for his brother.
“I’m looking for a shortcut to head Zhao off,” Tom’s voice came back.
Zhao fishtailed as he hung another turn.
The road widened and straightened out, giving Zhao a straightaway that Max didn’t want him to have. “You better hurry, Tomahawk,” Max said. “We’re losing Zhao.”
On the bright side, the straightaway gave Max and June a clean shot. They fired. But Zhao didn’t slow.
“He’s pulling away,” June said.
“I’m stomping it to the floor,” Max said.
“Where are you now?” Tom asked.
“Heading northeast on Bladensburg Road,” June replied. “Coming up on Mount Olivet Road.”
“I’m on Olivet, coming up on Bladensburg,” Tom said. “Zhao is going down.”
37
Tom intended to smash his cherry-colored Chevy full-size pickup truck into Zhao. He pressed the accelerator into the floorboard and touched his seat belt to make sure it was secure. Then he leaned back against the seat so he wouldn’t get whipped around like a rag doll. He tried to relax his muscles to prevent injury, but he was too tense to relax. C’est la vie.
The road came up faster and faster, and Tom shifted his hands to the four and eight o’clock positions on the steering wheel, preparing early for the shotgun blast of the airbag. At least, he hoped there was an airbag in this truck. He drove through the intersection of Olivet and Bladensburg.
“I see Zhao’s patrol car,” Tom said. “If it isn’t Zhao, there’s going to be one angry cop.”
Tom feathered the brakes so he wouldn’t overshoot the turn or speed so fast that the turn would cause the truck to roll over. Then he drove over a low median and pressed into the wrong lane of oncoming traffic—the correct lane for stopping Zhao. He didn’t want to strike the patrol car squarely head-on and risk killing himself, so he aimed for the corner of the vehicle. Tom applied the brakes to lessen the impact, and his tires grasped at the asphalt with a shriek.
The cop car’s tires screamed back. Zhao must’ve seen Tom. The patrol car attempted to turn out of Tom’s way. But it didn’t turn fast enough.
Just before they collided, Tom smiled at how ludicrous his big brother looked in his little smart car chasing a cop car—like a fly chasing a fly swatter. Before Tom could crack a bigger smile, the driver’s side of his vehicle cracked into Zhao’s driver side. Everything decelerated violently, and the airbags popped. The world seemed hazy, and he could do nothing as his truck spun slowly in unison with the cop car. Car debris seemed to float in the air.
Tom’s rifle was on the floorboard. When the spinning stopped, he reached for it, but his ribs ached, and his upper body couldn’t budge. The steering wheel was pinned to his chest, and his seat seemed pinned to something behind. The pressure of the steering wheel made it difficult to breathe, but he didn’t think he’d cracked a rib.
He looked down at his legs, where the truck wrapped them like a cocoon. As much as he stretched his arm, his fingers couldn’t reach his rifle. He attempted to move the seat back to give himself room, but his fingers couldn’t touch the lever. Even if he could reach the lever, his seat seemed as if it had been knocked back as far as it could go.
Tom reached for his weapon again, but it was no use. He drew his backup weapon, his customized compact Colt .45.
“You okay, Tomahawk?” Max’s voice asked in his ear.
“I’m alive,” Tom said.
The engine had stopped, and he tried to start it again, but it wouldn’t turn over.
A faint puff of light emitted from Zhao’s car, and a single bullet snapped Tom’s windshield. This wasn’t the spray and pray of an undisciplined terrorist or inaccurate suppressive fire; this was the intent of a trained assassin to kill him.
Tom returned fire with his .45.
Zhao bailed through the passenger side of his vehicle and ran. Something must’ve spooked him.
Tom checked his rearview mirror, and Max and June appeared. The three of them administered the word of God to Zhao—their muzzles full of fire and fury. In spite of being such an ass sometimes, Max did have his moments, and this was certainly one of them.
Zhao disappeared between a pair of buildings.
Max and June chased after him.
In the street, cars slowed down and people stared at Tom’s wrecked truck and the crumpled police car. A bus and other vehicles drove around, avoiding the sprinkle of glass and pieces of vehicles.
Tom pushed and pulled against his vehicle to free himself until there was a metal click. It sounded like something broke or gave way. He hoped it wasn’t a bone breaking.
38
Max and June jumped a fence and chased Zhao onto the grounds of the National Arboretum, but he vanished into the forest. They slowed to examine their surroundings.
Max said to her, “I was wrong about something. You’re much better than average. Ever since Hanoi, you’ve contributed to this mission.”
She smiled. “I’ll increase the radius of our search for Zhao.” She separated from him.
On the ground ahead of Max was a crushed leaf and more broken leaves beyond that one. The pieces of leaves were close together, untouched by wind, and they seemed recently broken. Although such small disturbances in nature were hardly noticed by most people, for Max, they stuck out like trail markers pointing in Zhao’s direction. Max followed the markers.
The density of trees increased for a time, but then the growth thinned. Zhao’s tracks crossed over a brick path and the tracks ceased. Max froze. Are you watching us? Something didn’t seem right. He looked around for signs of Zhao but didn’t spot any.
He realized he might have followed a false leg created by Zhao to throw off a tracker. Max returned to the brick path, crouched close to it, and examined it once more.
When he rose from his crouch and looked for June, she was gone. He wanted to radio to her, but if Zhao was nearby, he didn’t want to alert him to his presence.
Although Max couldn’t perceive a disturbance, his instincts told him to follow the brick path, so he did. He followed the walkway around to an area of pruned azaleas, their flowers long gone. Thin bark peeled from crape myrtle trees, revealing different shades of color beneath. Peculiar whitish-colored pines with mottled camouflage patterns stood out. But there was no sight of Zhao.
Off in the distance a crow cawed, and Max followed the bird’s cry. The trees surrendered to a meadow, and Max stayed with the few trees that remained, hoping to conceal his movement from Zhao’s sight and maintain cover from his bullets. When Max completely ran out of trees, he jogged across the meadow. He passed a curious collection of Corinthian columns that seemed like they’d be more appropriate at the Capitol building than out here in the middle of nature where there was no building to hold up—only a sky that didn’t need holding.
He used the columns for protection as he listened intently for sounds of movement, but all he could hear was a babbling brook and voices of people in the distance. The voices exhibited no sounds of distress, so Zhao wasn’t there harassing them.
Max checked his six, hoping for Tom’s help on this one, but Tom wasn’t there. When
he brought his eyes back around to the front, he noticed June at his three o’clock, less than two hundred meters away. She was moving tactically, using trees for cover and concealment, but she was moving so fast that she hadn’t seen Max. And if she didn’t see him, she wouldn’t see Zhao either—until it was too late.
Max broke radio silence and whispered, “June, slow it down.”
There was no reply.
“June just break squelch once if you can hear me,” Max said.
Nothing. Maybe his transmitter was busted or her receiver was broken.
“If anyone can hear me, break squelch once. I need backup.”
Still nothing.
Shit.
A crow cried again, and Max focused his attention to the woods where the cry came from. The crow was upset about something—or someone—Zhao. He hoped he could get to Zhao before Zhao got to June. Max dashed out from the columns that shielded him and across a street. As he did so, he felt terribly exposed. With his eyes on the protection of trees ahead, he ran across a patch of dying grass—still vulnerable. Just need to make it to that first tree.
As he entered the woods, a slight wind blew, and the trees made a rustling sound. A kaleidoscope of yellow, orange, and red leaves gave up their ghosts and fell. He leaned against a tree; the hardness of its bark against his body and its fresh fragrance somehow reassured him. The thick trunk stood up straight and rock solid like some ancient sentinel watching over him. He peeked around it. Nothing. He slipped past more sentinels. His legs brushed against fern fronds as he ventured further. Witch hazels cast golden blossoms below, and somewhere above him, a crow cawed for the third time. The crow that told him where Zhao was now warned Zhao where Max was, and he wanted to shoot the black betrayer. He stopped his progress and took refuge behind the nearest tree.
His adrenaline kicked in, jacking up his senses so high that he strained to sort through the overload of information. He snuck a peek to spot anything that didn’t fit. The man-made lines and solid darkness of a Capitol police officer’s uniform would stand out against the natural lines and varied shades of the forest, but Zhao wouldn’t be so foolish as to expose so much of himself. Max just needed to spy a glimpse. But now he had the horrible feeling that instead of hunting Zhao, Zhao was hunting him. He pulled his head back behind the tree to expose less of himself.
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 22
