The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,185
major arteries he needed to reach. Heading north would only take him deeper into the tangled grid. But if he turned south at the western end of I Street, he would emerge on Maine Avenue. From there, he could follow the road north-west past the Washington Monument directly to 17th Street – and then it was a straight run north to the Eisenhower Building.
Where Sternberg was waiting.
The thought galvanised him. He wiped more blood from his eye and accelerated, weaving past trundling traffic. The junction was just ahead.
And Baxter was behind.
Like the Mustang, the last Suburban had lost a headlight. The cyclopean glare in the mirror was briefly lost to view as he made the turn south, then returned, closing in.
Adam swung right and poured on the power to make a sweeping entry on to Maine Avenue. He forced his way into the traffic, leaving a trail of swerving and skidding cars in his wake.
Reed navigated them all, the SUV’s siren howling a warning for other drivers to clear the way. Baxter brought up his MP5 again. The laser’s dot darted over the surrounding vehicles as Adam wove the Mustang through the shoal.
The speedometer rose – sixty, seventy. But the Suburban was keeping pace – and the shudder through the steering column was getting worse, the Mustang twitching and wavering.
Laser flare in the mirror as the SUV found a gap in the traffic and swung in behind the speeding Ford. There was a car to Adam’s left, forcing him to go right to evade – directly across Baxter’s line of fire.
The red glare was overpowered by stuttering muzzle flash. More shots struck the Mustang – then the entire windshield imploded, crystalline fragments flying back into Adam’s face in the eighty-mile-per-hour slipstream.
He instinctively shut his eyes to protect them from the hard-edged cascade, then forced them open again. He had to squint into the slashing wind – and the first thing he saw was a set of tail lights rushing at him.
He swerved – finding another car already there.
The two vehicles caromed off each other with a crunch of metal, the second car bounding up over the central reservation. Adam hauled the wheel again to slot into its space, missing the slower vehicle ahead by a hair.
The road dropped into a tunnel beneath the Southwest Freeway. He pulled back into the rightmost lane, putting the car he had just passed between the Mustang and the Suburban. That gave him a few seconds’ respite.
He would need it. There was a tight turn coming up.
The Mustang emerged from the underpass – and immediately shot through a red light. Adam spun the wheel, bringing the car screaming through the traffic crossing the intersection and down the exit to the left, tearing alongside the monolithic block of the Federal Communications Commission. The road rapidly merged back on to another section of Maine Avenue . . . one leading to 17th Street.
Only a mile to go.
The Suburban reappeared behind him, barging a car aside. Baxter was getting increasingly desperate to stop him, putting civilians at risk. Harper’s part of Adam’s psyche tried to defend the collateral damage: the ends justify the means. Adam didn’t accept that, but in this case he had no choice but to do whatever was necessary to reach Sternberg.
The road passed under two bridges. Another red light ahead, cars slowing in all three lanes—
Despite knowing the damage it could cause, Adam swerved up on to the central divider to get past them. The Mustang’s suspension protested with a loud bang – then there was another crack of metal as the car hit a street sign, shearing its pole off at the base. He flinched as the sign flew at him, flipping up over the shattered windshield and clanging off the roof.
He veered right to avoid a street light and crashed back on to Maine Avenue. Baxter’s SUV followed. The illuminated spire of the Washington Monument pierced the night sky above the trees ahead.
The vibration grew worse. One of the Mustang’s wheels was definitely damaged. But he had to keep going. Back up to sixty, weaving through the traffic.
The laser swept through the car—
Pain exploded in his right arm.
Adam screamed. More bullets clattered against the Mustang as it veered out of control and ran up on to the grass. A tree loomed in the headlight beam. He somehow found the strength to overcome the agony and turned the wheel. The trunk whipped past.
Off the road, without street lights, he couldn’t see the wound.