Orson Card - Empire

He scooped up Rube’s Mollie vest because it held the ammo for the M-240 and the pistol. Then he ran to the sports car. The guy he had hit in the hand was halfway out of the car, holding a pistol—he had a pistol all along, the idiot!—but it wasn’t his good hand and he hadn’t practiced with it that way. Cole shot him in the face so the bullet wouldn’t damage the car. He tossed the Mollie vest and the M-240 through the window and then ran around to the driver’s side. He could see now that the driver’s door of the van was open and there was a dead body draped down onto the asphalt.

He turned around as he went for the sports car’s door. He could see two humvees coming up the canyon at a high speed. So they had already called for backup.

The sports car was still running. He swerved out around the van just as the light changed and civilians started trying to turn into the lane he was driving in. He held the pistol in his left hand and showed the weapon out the window. They stopped honking at him. He ran the light and didn’t hit anybody.

Now he had some power going up the hill. The Humvees really weren’t built for this.

But they were undoubtedly calling somebody else to intercept him. How many military people were involved in this conspiracy?

No. No, these humvees were regular soldiers. Loyal guys who had got a call through military channels. No doubt they had described Cole as a dangerous assassin who just killed an officer, a civilian employee, and shot or killed multiple agents in a shootout in the Pentagon. There was no way—there would be no chance—for Cole to identify himself to them and wave the letter from the President. Besides, he didn’t have that letter. It was in Rube’s pocket. Probably about to be used as evidence to embarrass President Nielson.

The cellphone rang. It was Drew.

“I’m on Oregon,” Cole said immediately.

“Pass Western and then jog right on Wyndee, then left again. You’re back on Beach but it isn’t one-way. Turn left on the East-West Highway.”

“I’m not in the PT Cruiser anymore,” said Cole. “I’m now in a Corvette C6, black. I’ve got an M-240 and a pistol.”

“Good,” said Drew. “I was afraid you didn’t know how to Rambo this.”

“The point is I’ve got some speed now.”

“Then when East-West splits, stay right and then turn right on Connecticut. It’s the first big street. One more light and it clover-leafs onto the Beltway heading west, toward Virginia. If you see the Mormon temple you went the wrong damn way.”

“I don’t think I should try to get to that Borders.”

“No, no. You can’t stay on the Beltway long. It’s going to be clogging up pretty bad and now that you’ve got speed, you want lonely side roads. But do you still want to meet up with us, or get up to Gettysburg?”

“I don’t think I’ll make it to Gettysburg without help,” said Cole. “They’ve called in the Army against me now.”

“Some of the roads are one-way the wrong way in the morning,” said Drew. “Best route—take the MacArthur Road exit. Heading west. It curves around past the Great Falls Park and then it joins River Road, which is Maryland 190.”

“You know these roads that well?”

“I’m looking at Google Maps on my laptop, what do you think? But I’ve driven all these roads. Stay on 190 a long way. Till you have to turn right onto Edwards Ferry Road, and stay on that up to 107. By then we should have Babe with you, he lives out that way. He’ll guide you the rest of the way to a rendezvous on the Maryland side of the Leesburg bridge.”

“If you think I memorized this—”

“Call me as often as you want. But I’m hanging up now to go get in my car. No more laptop. Sorry.”

By now Cole was doing the ramp up to 495. Whereupon he found himself stopped cold behind traffic waiting to merge, as the humvees came up behind him. There were a couple of cars between them and him, but these guys weren’t going to stay in their lane or even in their vehicles.

Cole debated between getting out and commandeering somebody else’s car, or betting on the gods of traffic to help him. He could imagine himself stuck with an M-240 on the side of the road, unable to shoot without hitting civilians, choosing between surrendering or running into the nice little jogging park where snipers could take him out at leisure.

The traffic gods came through. The car ahead of him moved. A couple of aggressive Maryland drivers fudged their way into traffic and things broke free. He checked the rear view mirror and saw that the first humvee left two of its guys behind and the second one didn’t stop for them. They looked pissed off. That’s what you get for leaving your transportation without first ascertaining the enemy’s intentions and capabilities.

Except he was the enemy, and they were the U.S. Army.

Now he was moving with traffic, driving the Corvette into gaps so small that other drivers not only honked at him, it looked like they wanted to ram him. But he didn’t show the pistol again. No reason to cause extra panic. He’d just look like an asshole in a sports car, which was exactly what people expected anyway. A normal day of driving in Maryland.

Now he had time to make another call. The one he hated worst. But he had to make it, not just because Cecily had a right to know, but because he needed her to get Nielson to help him from the other end. Call off this chase if he could.

He knew her cell number—he had memorized it, of course—and she answered on the first ring.

“Cecily,” said Cole. “This is the worst call you’ll ever receive in your life, but I need help desperately. So get near someone so they can take over this call if you can’t continue it.”

“He’s dead,” said Cecily.

“DeeNee shot him and he’s dead. There is no hope that he survived.”

“DeeNee… ”

“She was working for them. She turned over the plans to the terrorists. Cecily, are you still with me? I’m being pursued by regular Army troops. I need the President to call them off. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Call off pursuit.”

“I’m in a stolen black Corvette C6. The two humvees following me are to let me go and not follow me. No other pursuit is to be permitted. Do you have that?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry, Cecily. You know I’d have taken the bullet for him if I could have.”

“Do you have the PDA?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then get back here alive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m at the President’s door. Stay on the line if you can.” He heard talking.

Then Nielson was on the line. “This is Cole?”

“Yes, sir. Major Malich is dead. The secretary set up a trap and she pulled the trigger on him herself. After I left the Pentagon I killed the first wave of pursuers—they were definitely rebels. But the guys chasing me now are regular Army. They’ve undoubtedly been told lies about who I am and what happened in the Pentagon.”

“I’ll take care of it, son,” said Nielson. “That’s what Presidents are for.”

The connection broke. Cole ended his side of the call.

He had to give the humvee drivers credit. They did a good job of keeping in hot pursuit through traffic. Once he got on the open road, he could open up the Corvette and leave them in the dust.

Cole had no idea how long it would take Nielson to call off the chase. It would be so stupid to get killed—or to kill somebody else—during these minutes waiting for the word to filter down. Battle of New Orleans all over again.

MacArthur Road was packed coming toward him, but there was nobody going his direction. The trouble was, if he did overtake somebody, there was no way to pass on the left with all those cars. And, sure enough, he came up behind a farmer’s stake truck and watched the humvees come up behind him.