Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

He took his eyes off the road for an instant and glanced at Maeve. She was pressed back in the seat, her head tilted up slightly as if to inhale the air rushing over the windscreen. Her eyes were half closed and her lips partly open. She looked almost as if she were in the throes of sexual ecstasy. Whatever it was, the thrill, the fury of the sounds, the speed, she was not the first woman to fall under the exciting spell of adventure. And what such women desired on the side was a good man to share it with.

Until they came into the outskirts of the city, there was little Pitt could do but crush the accelerator pedal with his foot and keep the wheels aimed alongside the painted line in the center of the road. Without a speedometer, he could only estimate his speed by the tachometer. His best guess was between one-ninety and two hundred kilometers per hour. The old car was giving it everything she had.

Held by the safety belt, Maeve twisted around in the bucket seat. “They’re gaining!” she shouted above the roar.

Pitt stole another quick peek in the rearview mirror. The chase car had pulled up to within a hundred meters. The driver was no slouch, he thought. His reflexes were every bit as fast as Pitt’s. He turned his attention back on the road.

They were coming into a residential area now. Pitt might have tried to lose the Cadillac on the house-lined streets, but it was too dangerous to even consider. He could not risk running down a family and their dog out for a late night stroll. He wasn’t about to cause a fatal accident involving innocent people.

It was only a matter of another minute or two before he would have to slow down and merge with the increased traffic for safety’s sake. But for the moment the road ahead was deserted, and he maintained his speed. Then a sign flashed past that warned of construction on a county road leading west at the next junction. The road, Pitt knew, was winding with numerous sharp curves. It ran about five kilometers through open country before ending on the highway that ran by the CIA headquarters at Langley.

He jerked his right foot off the accelerator and jammed it on the brake pedal. Then he spun the steering wheel to the left, snapping the Allard broadside before tearing down the middle of the road, the tires smoking and screaming across the asphalt. Before the car drifted to a stop, the rear wheels were spinning and the Allard leaped onto the county road, which led into the pitch-black of the countryside.

Pitt had to focus every bit of his concentration on the curves ahead. The old sealed-beam headlights did not illuminate the road as far ahead as the more modern halogen units, and he had to use his sixth sense to prepare for the next bend. Pitt loved corners, ignoring the brakes, throwing the car into a controlled skid, then maneuvering into setting up for a straight line until the next curve.

The Allard was in its element now. The heavier Cadillac was stiffly sprung for a road car, but its suspension was no match for the lighter sports car, which was built for racing. Pitt had a love affair with the Allard. He had an exceptional sense of the car’s balance and gloried in its simplicity and big, pounding engine. A taut grin stretched his lips as he threw the car into the curves, driving like a demon without touching the brakes, downshifting only on the hairpin turns. The driver of the Cadillac fought on relentlessly but rapidly lost ground with every turn.

Yellow warning lights were flashing on barricades ahead. A ditch opened up beside the road where a pipeline was in the midst of being laid. Pitt was relieved to see that the road carried through and was not blocked completely. The road turned to dirt and gravel for a hundred meters, but he never took his foot off the accelerator. He reveled at the huge cloud of dust he left in his wake, knowing it would slow their pursuer.

After another two minutes of her exciting breakneck ride, Maeve pointed ahead and slightly to her right. “I see headlights,” she said.

“The main highway,” Pitt acknowledged. “Here is where we lose them for good.”

Traffic was clear at the intersection, no cars approaching from either direction for nearly half a kilometer. Pitt burned rubber in a hard turn to the left, away from the city.

“Aren’t you going the wrong way?” Maeve cried above the screeching tires.

“Watch and learn,” Pitt said as he snapped the wheel back, gently braked and eased the Allard around in a U turn and drove in the opposite direction. He crossed the junction with the county road before the lights of the Cadillac were in view and picked up speed as he drove toward the glow of the capital city.

“What was that all about?” asked Maeve.

“It’s called a red herring,” he said conversationally. “If the hounds are as smart as I think they are, they’ll follow my tire marks in the opposite direction.”

She squeezed his arm and snuggled against him. “What do you do for your finale?”

“Now that I’ve dazzled you with my virtuosity, I’m going to arouse you with my charm.”

She gave him a sly look. “What makes you think I haven’t been frightened out of any desire for intimacy?”

“I can climb into your mind and see otherwise.”

Maeve laughed. “How can you possibly read my thoughts?”

Pitt shrugged cavalierly and said, “It’s a gift. I have Gypsy blood running in my veins.”

“You, a Gypsy?”

“According to the family tree, my paternal ancestors, who migrated from Spain to England in the seventeenth century, were Gypsies.”

“And now you read palms and tell fortunes.”

“Actually, my talents run in other directions, like when the moon is full.”

She looked at him warily but took the bait. “What happens when the moon is full?”

He turned and said with the barest hint of a grin, “That’s when I go out and steal chickens.”

Maeve stared warily into the blackness as Pitt drove along a darkened dirt road on the edge of Washington’s International Airport. He approached what looked like an ancient, deserted aircraft hangar. There was no other building nearby. Her uneasiness swelled and she instinctively crouched down in the seat as Pitt pulled the Allard to a stop under dim, yellowed lights on a tall pole.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

He looked down at her as if bemused. “Why, my place, of course.”

Her face took on an expression of womanly distaste. “You live in this old shed?”

“What you see is a historic building, built in 1936 as a maintenance hangar for an early airline long since demised.”

He pulled a small remote transmitter from his coat pocket and punched in a code. A second later a door lifted, revealing what seemed to Maeve a yawning cavern, pitch-black and full of evil. For effect, Pitt turned off the headlights, drove into the darkness, sent a signal to close the door and then sat there.

“Well, what do you think?” he teased in the darkness.

“I’m ready to scream for help,” Maeve said with growing confusion.

“Sorry.” Pitt punched in another code and the interior of the hangar burst into bright light from rows of fluorescent lamps strategically set around the hangar’s arched ceiling.

Maeve’s jaw dropped in awe as she found herself looking at priceless examples of mechanical art. She could not believe the glittering collection of classic automobiles, the aircraft and early American railroad car. She recognized a pair of Rolls-Royces and a big convertible Daimler, but she was unfamiliar with the American Packards, Pierce Arrows, Stutzes, Cords and the other European cars on display, including a Hispano-Suiza, Bugatti, Isotta Fraschini, Talbot Lago and a Delahaye. The two aircraft that hung from the ceiling were an old Ford Tri-motor and a Messerschmitt 262 World War II fighter aircraft. The array was breathtaking. The only exhibit that seemed out of place was a rectangular pedestal supporting an outboard motor attached to an antique cast-iron bathtub.