The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,183
to trigger the airbag with a gunshot bang of compressed gas, catching Adam as he was flung against the steering wheel. Even cushioned, it still felt like he had been punched in the face. Dizzied, he sat up. The Mustang was swerving back to the right, towards the divider. He straightened out.
Something sliced through his peripheral vision to the left, very close. The Suburban drew alongside – then sideswiped the smaller vehicle and forced it into the barrier.
Sparks flew from the Mustang’s side as it ground against the concrete. Adam tried to steer away, but the SUV was too heavy, pinning him. He looked round. Spence was in the Suburban’s front passenger seat, leering down at him.
Raising a gun—
Adam slammed on the brakes.
The Suburban shot past, trim ripping away from its flank as the two vehicles separated. It swerved towards the barrier – then swung sharply to the left as its driver fought to regain control.
The Mustang accelerated again – and hit it.
Adam had deliberately aimed to swipe the SUV’s rear quarter. The impact hurled the Suburban into a spin, sending it broadside-on into the left lane—
An oncoming truck smashed into it.
The SUV was thrown into the air like a toy, tumbling over the barrier in a shower of glass and plunging to its doom in the river below.
Adam didn’t look back, all his focus on the vehicles ahead. He was over halfway across the bridge, but the accident would cause a concertina effect, backing up the approaching traffic. He flashed his lights again. Startled drivers cleared his path, giving him just enough room to straddle the white line and pass between them.
He squinted through the headlight glare. There was still a steady stream of cars coming out of DC even at this late hour; the capital did not clock off at five. A brief sidelong glance told him the reason for the build-up of northbound traffic, a car’s flashing hazard lights marking a breakdown. Beyond the obstruction, the road was clearer. Only a couple of hundred yards more, and he would be off the confines of the bridge . . .
A bus occupied one lane ahead, the driver resolutely refusing to give him extra space. He had no choice but to continue anyway, blasting the horn in warning. The cars alongside the bus opted to let him through, the thought of insurance excesses swaying their drivers’ minds. Squeals and shrills of metal against metal as the Mustang rasped along the bus’s side, then he was through.
Off the bridge. Clear to navigate. He swung back on to the proper side of the road and accelerated.
Mirror. The tac team’s strobe lights were still visible on the bridge, but they had fallen back. This was his chance to lose them, while they were still picking their way through the confusion.
The Nationals’ baseball stadium passed on Adam’s right as he raced up Capitol Street. He visualised DC’s street map. Harper’s experience helped him pick out a route, decades of working inside the Beltway as useful as any satnav. Follow Capitol, then cut diagonally across the street grid on Washington Avenue before heading west along the south side of the Mall until he reached 17th Street. The Eisenhower Building was then just a few blocks due north. About three miles. Even though the streets were still busy, he was only minutes from his objective . . .
Pulsing lights in the distance ahead warned him that he would have to change his route. A police car was tearing down Capitol Street towards him.
N Street crossed Capitol at the next intersection. The cops were still a couple of blocks away. He took a left, screeching through the junction. The road was much narrower than the one he had left, but at least this time there was no traffic. Small two-storey houses flicked by. He needed to turn back to the north—
A pickup truck backed out of an alley directly into his path.
Parked cars on each side left him nowhere to turn. He braked hard, the tyres leaving smoking black lines along the asphalt. But they still couldn’t stop him in time—
The Mustang was doing about fifteen miles per hour when it hit the pickup. The impact threw Adam forward. With the deflated airbag hanging limply from the steering wheel, there was nothing to stop him from cracking his head against the hub. He slumped back into the seat, dazed by pain.
The engine stalled. He tried to focus, putting a hand to his aching head and feeling