Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,111
Land Rover, so loud and sudden that she screamed. The black helicopter reappeared and shot over the SUV, barely twenty feet above her roof, creating a downdraft that forced her to cling hard to the wheel to avoid driving off the highway. Ahead of her, two SUVs sped toward her, going the wrong way in the northbound lanes, blocking her passage. She slowed as the SUVs wheeled to a stop, angled across both lanes of the freeway directly ahead of her.
When she glanced in her mirror, she saw two more SUVs approaching from behind and blocking the road from the other direction.
All Abbey could do was stop.
Men with assault rifles poured from the four vehicles, and she screamed again. They were dressed in helmets and paramilitary gear, and they had their guns pointed directly at her. Spreading out, and keeping a safe distance, they surrounded the Land Rover. Meanwhile, the unmarked helicopter drifted to the ground barely fifty yards away, kicking up a fierce cloud of dust in the dry land just beyond the freeway guardrail. The engine cut off, and the whirling rotors slowed.
A voice on loudspeaker boomed from the helicopter.
“Abbey Laurent! Open the door, and keep both hands visible as you exit the vehicle!”
Terrified, Abbey undid her safety belt, pushed open the driver’s door of the Land Rover, and stretched out her arms into the warm air as she got out of the SUV. She kept her arms up, her fingers spread wide, as she inched away from the truck.
“Get on your knees! Hands on top of your head!”
Abbey sank to the ground on the hot blacktop and laced her fingers together on her head. “I don’t have any weapons!” she shouted. “I’m alone, and I’m unarmed! He’s not with me!”
The men approached her slowly, squeezing the circle tighter. Half of them closed on the Land Rover, checking the undercarriage and then pointing their guns in the windows. The other men came close enough to Abbey to brush the barrels of their rifles against her body. One, a large Hispanic man with charcoal smeared under his eyes, shouldered his weapon, then shoved her facedown onto the highway lane. He gave her an invasive pat-down while she lay on her stomach, and then he flipped her over and repeated the process on her front, digging his fingers into her breasts and between her legs.
“Having fun?” Abbey hissed.
The man said nothing.
“I told you, I’m unarmed,” she went on. “I know you’re looking for him. He’s not here.”
She lay on her back, her skin burning where her flesh touched the hot pavement. As she watched, the men searched the Land Rover, and when they’d cleared it, one of them relayed a message to the helicopter. A voice responded on radio, but Abbey couldn’t make out the words. A moment later, the Hispanic man yanked her off the ground and secured her wrists behind her in cuffs.
“Go,” he ordered, pushing her forward with a hard shove. Abbey stumbled, then righted herself and walked across the freeway lanes, with the rifles of the guards following her. They led her to the steel railing, and she climbed awkwardly over it, accompanied by half a dozen men. Footing was treacherous on the rocky ground, and when she slowed, she felt the jab of a gun in the small of her back.
They pushed her toward the helicopter.
As she got closer, the passenger door of the machine opened, and a man got out into the desert.
It was Nash Rollins.
The Treadstone agent leaned on his cane and clutched a fedora in his other hand. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She’d first met him in Quebec City only a few days ago, but somehow he looked older now. The men with guns pushed Abbey forward until she was standing in front of Rollins, and then he dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. The military men retreated, and the two of them were alone by the helicopter.
“Ms. Laurent,” Rollins said. “I’m pleased to see you again. Let’s make this quick. Where is Jason Bourne?”
PART FOUR
THIRTY-EIGHT
BOURNE walked along one of the dozen crowded piers that stretched into the heart of Nassau Harbor. Hundreds of boats bobbed in the pale green water, ranging from beat-up fishing charters to sleek two-hundred-foot yachts. Two soaring highway bridges arched over the inlet’s narrow channel, and the pink towers of the Atlantis resort loomed over the white-sand beach of Paradise Island. From where he was, he could see several cruise ship behemoths docked