Day of Wrath

“Should I evade them?” the other man asked, hunched forward over the steering wheel now.

Reichardt shook his head. They were on an isolated country road — far from the useful camouflage of the noise, chaos, and confusion of city streets. The chances of successfully evading a police pursuit were nil. And Ibrahim would not thank him for drawing so much unwelcome official attention so close to the Arab’s own home.

Perhaps Brandt had been speeding, or had fallen afoul of some minor technicality in the state’s arcane traffic laws. It didn’t really matter. “Pull over, Johann,” he instructed. “We shall play the poor lost German tourists, accept our ticket or warning with good grace, and then proceed.”

Obedient as ever, Brandt braked gently and then brought the Lebaron to a full stop on the narrow shoulder. He tapped the button to roll down the driver’s side window. Driven by a soft, whispering breeze, the cool night air rushed in — carrying with it the scent of pine and damp moss.

The police car pulled in behind them, its single roof-mounted light still flashing.

“Step out of the car! The driver first! And keep your hands where I can see them!” a commanding male voice barked.

Reichardt frowned. This wasn’t the procedure for a routine traffic stop, was it?

He nodded briefly to Brandt, signaling the other man to obey.

Perhaps the Virginia police were more cautious on such roads at night.

Certainly, there wasn’t any point in being spooked into foolish resistance to the authorities — not when Caraco’s lawyers could smooth out any minor misunderstandings.

Brandt popped the door open, put one foot on the ground, and then froze as another voice yelled out, “It’s a trap, Wolf! Run!”

They heard the sound of a muffled blow.

Mcdowell! The scales fell from Reichardt’s eyes in one sickening instant. Thorn and that damned woman were coming for him! He snatched his leather briefcase off the floor and whirled toward Brandt. “Kill them!”

Thorn saw the Lebaron’s driver throw himself headlong through the open door and roll frantically across the road — trying to get out of the light and into cover. Flame stabbed out of the pistol in the other man’s hand as he fired while still rolling.

The Ford’s windshield shattered. Fragments of safety glass cascaded across him.

Damn it. Thorn folded sideways — out of the line of fire. He grabbed for the passenger side door handle.

“Wolf dropped out the other side!” Helen warned him. “He’s in the woods!” She already had the right rear passenger door open and Farrell’s 9mm drawn.

“Got it.” Thorn shoved the door open and rolled out onto the gravel-strewn shoulder — staying prone close to the car. “You take him.

I’ll take the driver!”

Another round slammed into the Ford, smashing through one of the side windows and out through the roof in a shower of torn metal and fiberglass. Helen dropped onto the ground right behind him — leaving a moaning Mcdowell slumped over in the back seat.

They had been too confident they had the FBI traitor under control, Thorn realized. Despite the risk involved if they’d been stopped by the police themselves, they ought to have tied Mcdowell up. Well, it’ll serve the little bastard right if a stray bullet hits him, Thorn thought coldly.

With a quick nod, Helen sprinted into the trees — careful to stay low.

Keeping the car between her and the unseen gunman, she angled off in the direction Wolf had taken and disappeared into the darkness and dense undergrowth.

Thorn yanked the SIG P228 out of the shoulder holster he’d appropriated from the FBI agent, spun around, and crawled rapidly toward the back of the Taurus.

A split second before he got there, another round ripped through the right rear tire, sprayed dirt and gravel in all directions as it hit the ground, and then ricocheted away into the forest. Thorn rolled away from the can-into the brush and tall grass bordering the road.

Jesus. If he’d moved a little faster, his head would have been right in the line with that bullet.

Wolf’s driver was good — maybe too good.

Thorn edged even further back and then belly-crawled to his left snaking away from the two parked cars while staying parallel to the road. He stopped beside a small boulder that lay half buried amid the weeds. With his pistol out and braced in both hands, he studied the black, forbidding treeline on the other side-his ears cocked for the slightest sound, the first indication of any movement.

All sounds trailed away. Even Mcdowell’s Low, sobbing groans had faded to nothing.

Questions about the man he was facing raced through Thorn’s mind as he lay absolutely still, trying to blend with the boulder and the shadows.

Was Wolf’s driver a former soldier used to fighting in wooded country?

Or was he a former Stasi thug more at ease in an urban setting?