Redemption (23 page)

The dash-mounted radio beeped.

‘Unit One. We have an RTA on the Anacostia Freeway, about three miles north of you. Recommend you take Frederick Douglas Bridge.’

‘Roger that. Frederick Douglas,’ the driver replied.
Anya
didn’t know his name, but it was the same man who had implanted her tracking device.

A big man, mid-forties, broad shouldered and muscular, probably ex-military judging by his appearance and body language. He had the relaxed, laconic air of a man who had been doing the same job for years and knew it inside and out. She suspected he was more used to intimidating people than fighting them, and probably wouldn’t be hard to take down.

Clicking off the radio, he glanced at Watts and made a face. ‘Same shit, different day.’

Turning off the freeway just as the traffic started to build, they headed north-west across Frederick Douglas Bridge, passing close to Washington Naval Yard with its solemn ranks of grey warships, before heading for central DC where they would connect with the Southwest Freeway.

‘Been with the Agency long, Mr Drake?’ the woman called Watts asked, twisting around in her seat and acting as if Anya didn’t exist.

Watts was in her mid-thirties, neat and efficient looking, and pretty in a way that didn’t draw too much attention. Anya caught the faint scent of her perfume. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn perfume.

Unlike the driver, this one didn’t come from a military background. She was college educated, probably not to degree level, but still bright and motivated. She would have been through the Agency’s marksmanship and advanced unarmed combat programmes – Anya had helped develop both, and knew their limitations.

By the looks of her, she trained a couple of times a week in the gym, supplemented by morning runs every few days. She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink to excess,
probably
didn’t eat much junk food. But she trained to look good rather than because her job demanded it. There was a softness, a complacency about her that Anya found mildly irritating.

Of more interest was the weapon Watts carried in a shoulder holster on her ride side. The movement had caused her jacket to open a little, exposing the side arm. A Glock Model 22, chambered with .40 Smith & Wesson ammunition. Effective range, up to 50 metres. Standard issue for Agency security personnel.

Drake had spotted it too. Anya saw his eyes light up as they caught sight of the weapon, yet at the same time his look of tension and worry increased. What was he thinking?

‘About the last four years,’ he replied.

‘We don’t see many of our cousins from over the water working at Langley,’ she remarked, her smile easy, almost playful. She was flirting with him, giving him an opportunity to talk about himself.

Accustomed as she was to reading tiny variations in posture and nuances of expression, Anya could see the almost imperceptible change in the woman’s body language. She had become subtly more open, relaxed and friendly. She doubted Drake had noticed though. Aside from being a man and therefore oblivious to such subtleties, he had other things on his mind.

‘Friends in high places,’ Drake replied with a weak smile.

Mistaking his reticence for lack of interest, Watts turned back around, concentrating her attention on the satellite navigation unit mounted on the dash. She didn’t have to do anything to it, Anya knew, but she needed a distraction to cover up the minor awkwardness he’d created.

They were almost at the freeway. Stopping at an intersection, they waited for the lights to turn green before pulling away again.

Just 20 yards behind them in the second Grand Cherokee, Dietrich leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath and trying to still his wildly beating heart. He was pale and perspiring, shivering despite the warm weather. His head pounded. His fists were clenched, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

He swallowed, but his throat was so dry it made no difference.

‘Dietrich, you okay, man?’ Keegan asked.

He blinked, returning to himself. ‘What?’

‘You look like shit. You all right?’

Anger welled up within him. Who was this arrogant little fuck to be telling him he looked like shit?

‘Keegan, why don’t you—’

His sentence was cut short by the jarring, shuddering impact as their Grand Cherokee slammed into the side of an articulated truck that had suddenly backed out onto the road. Dietrich grunted as he was thrown forward and jerked to a stop by his seat belt, jarring his neck in the process.

Such was his shock and surprise, it took him a few moments to collect his wits. Blinking several times, he shook his head and looked around.

He was surrounded by broken glass and equipment torn loose by the impact. Up front, a jet of steam blasted from the ruptured radiator, billowing out through holes in the buckled engine bay.

Their car had been totalled.

Suddenly there was a commotion of screeching brakes and honking horns behind them. Twisting around in her
seat
, Anya watched as a dump truck reversed out onto the main road from a side street, blocking the traffic behind them. Their backup car was nowhere to be seen.

A moment later the radio sparked up. ‘This is Two. We’re in an RTA. Some asshole just backed up onto the road!’

Shaking his head in anger, the driver reached for his radio. ‘Copy that, Two. You okay?’

‘No major injuries, but the car’s fucked. Recommend you hold position until backup gets here.’

‘Understood, Two. We’ll wait at the next intersection.’

Already they were slowing down, getting ready to pull over.

Just then, Drake’s phone started ringing. Anya could hear the soft vibration of it in his pocket. Instantly his muscles tensed up, his breathing started to come faster, his jaw clenched tight.

He was readying himself for something.

‘Hey, Watts,’ he called.

The woman twisted around in her seat again. As before, her jacket parted a little to reveal the Glock.

‘What is it?’

He was going for it. Anya knew in that instant what he was planning. What she didn’t understand was why he was doing it.

She could have called out a warning, could have put Watts on her guard in a heartbeat, yet she did nothing. She watched, and waited.

With a sudden, violent movement, Drake reached out, closed his fingers around the butt of the weapon and yanked it from its holster.

Watts was a trained security operative, used to responding to threats and reacting quickly to dangerous
situations
, but this was different. Drake was one of her own. He was an ally, a comrade. She had perceived no threat in him, and it took her half a second to realise what he was doing.

It was half a second too long.

‘What the—?’

At the same moment, the driver started to turn, alerted by the noise.

‘Don’t move! Either of you!’ Drake yelled, levelling the weapon at her forehead. His gaze snapped between the two of them, looking for any sign of resistance.

‘Take out your phones and weapons. Do it now!’

Both operatives reached into their pockets, withdrawing their cellphones. The driver also produced a Glock similar to the one Drake was brandishing, holding the weapon loosely by the trigger guard.

‘Throw them on the back seat.’

Again they complied with his order, moving slowly and carefully. Neither was going to provoke him in a situation like this, not when he had the drop on them. They knew better than that.

Watts glared at him. All trace of her former warmth was gone now. ‘Drake, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—’

‘Shut up!’ Drake snarled before turning his attention to the driver. ‘You – drive. Get us out of here. Turn left at the next intersection.’

Glancing at Watts, the driver sighed, threw the big vehicle into gear and pulled out onto the road. It wasn’t hard to get out. Traffic was still backed up behind the dump truck, leaving the road almost empty.

Within seconds, they were off.

Drake’s heart was pounding, his mouth dry, a trickle of sweat running down his back. In an instant, he had
destroyed
his entire career, turned himself into a wanted man, put his very life on the line.

The driver wasn’t about to try anything stupid – not with a loaded weapon trained on the back of his head. Turning left at the intersection, he cruised along at a steady 30 miles per hour, keeping within the speed limit.

Anya said and did nothing. She was just sitting there, watching him with interest but not the slightest trace of alarm.

Drake allowed them to cover 100 yards or so, then selected an area in front of an empty retail unit. ‘Pull over here.’

Again, he did as ordered without resisting.

‘Keys. Give me the keys for her cuffs.’

Chewing her lip, Watts reached into her pocket and tossed him back the handcuff keys he’d parted with earlier.

‘All right. Fuck off, both of you,’ Drake instructed. ‘Leave the engine running.’

‘You’ve lost your mind,’ Watts said, still trying to come to terms with what was happening. ‘You’re in central DC, for Christ’s sake. You won’t make it two miles.’

‘Go!’ Drake yelled, waving the pistol in her face.

She wasn’t about to get killed over something like this. Opening her door, the woman slid out, slamming it shut. The driver did likewise.

Snatching up both cellphones and the spare weapon, Drake tossed them all into the passenger footwell, then clambered over the centre console and into the driver’s seat. With a screech of skidding tyres, they were off, leaving the two security operatives in their wake.

In the rear-view mirror, Drake could see Watts running for the nearest passing civilian, no doubt looking for a cellphone. It wouldn’t be long before the people at Langley figured out what had happened.

Chapter 32

‘THIS IS FUCKED
up,’ Frost decided, glancing around at the heavily congested road as cars struggled to fight their way past the accident scene. The blare of horns and the roar of engines was deafening.

Their own Grand Cherokee was a total loss. The impact had crumpled the engine bay, reducing it to so much scrap metal.

Dietrich rubbed his neck, still aching from the crash.

One of the agents poked his head out of the dump truck’s cabin. Dietrich thought his name might have been Riley, though he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t been paying attention when the man introduced himself. ‘No sign of the driver, sir! He must have cleared out just after we hit him.’

Dietrich glanced at Keegan, standing a few feet away. The older man’s sudden look of worry mirrored his own thoughts. This was no accident.

Jesus, why now?

He had to do something. He might have been reduced to the role of specialist – and an unpopular one at that – but he’d been a leader once, and part of him still remembered that. Limping forward, he reached into the cabin of their crashed vehicle and seized up the radio. ‘Unit One, this is Two. What’s your situation?’

His request was met by static.

‘Unit One, respond.’

Frost picked up on his urgent tone straight away. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

‘You tell me.’

At that moment, their driver’s cellphone started ringing. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, he answered it.

‘Yeah? Watts, what the—?’ The driver’s face froze in shock. ‘You’re shitting me!’

Wasting no time, Dietrich snatched the phone from him. ‘Watts. Report.’

‘It’s Drake!’ The anger and shock in her voice plain to hear. ‘He hijacked the vehicle and forced us out. He’s got the prisoner.’

‘Tell me this is a joke.’

‘Does this sound like a goddamn joke? He pulled my own gun on me!’ the woman hit back. ‘Your man’s been compromised.’

Dietrich looked away for a moment. This day was fast turning into a nightmare for all of them. ‘Where are you right now?’

‘Delaware Avenue.’

‘Which direction did he go?’

‘West.’

‘Okay, sit tight. We’ll get someone to pick you up.’

‘Copy that.’

Shutting down the phone, Dietrich tossed it back to the young man he’d taken it from. ‘Call this in right now. You’ve got a hijack situation on your hands. Suspect name is Ryan Drake, last seen heading west on Delaware Avenue in a stolen Grand Cherokee. Move!’

Drake’s phone was ringing again. ‘All right. I did what you asked. Now what?’

‘Good work, Drake. Maybe you’re more useful than you look,’ Munro remarked. ‘Where are you right now?’

Drake’s eyes swept the road signs around them. ‘Delaware Avenue, heading south-west.’

‘Perfect. Turn right on Canal Street. You’ll see an underground parking lot about a hundred yards further down. Go inside. Call me on this number when you get there.’

Closing down the phone, Drake glanced at the woman in the rear seat. She was watching him in silence.

‘Here.’ He threw the handcuff keys into her lap. ‘Unlock yourself.’

‘Jonas, say again,’ Franklin ordered, holding one hand against his ear to drown out the din of half a dozen other people all talking over each other. Confused reports were filtering in from the Agency’s Office of Security that Drake’s convoy had been hit en route to Langley, but nobody seemed to know what exactly was going on.

The situation wasn’t helped by his limited communications with their ground teams. He was still airborne, having taken a later flight back to DC so he could finish up his preliminary report. They had just started their descent towards Andrews and were a good thirty minutes from landing.

‘It’s Drake,’ Dietrich growled into the phone. Judging by the blare of car horns in the background, he was struggling to hear as well. ‘He hijacked the vehicle and took the prisoner hostage. He’s on the run. I repeat, we
don’t
have his location.’

At that moment, Franklin’s blood turned to ice. It couldn’t be. He’d known Ryan Drake for years. He owed his very life to him, in fact. Never had Drake given him cause to question his loyalty.

‘You’re absolutely certain of this?’

‘Both agents in the car confirmed it – he pulled a gun on them and forced them out.’ He paused a moment. ‘And someone backed a dump truck into our car so we couldn’t pursue him. This fucking thing was planned.’