The Curse of Medusa

President Grant looked crestfallen for a few seconds, and rubbed the blood from the corner of his cut, bleeding lip. Then he raised his chin and straightened his shirt before replying. “Then I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of the man driving that limo.”

The woman from Berlin smirked. “Sadly, once again you have misplaced your hope. Like your own vehicle, the decoy car is remote-controlled by a man in the center of New Orleans. He has orders to drive it as far from the underpass as he can until the Secret Service or police catch it or until it runs out of fuel, whichever comes first… by which time, you shall be tucked away somewhere nice and safe.”

Angelika barked some orders at Jakob who padded over to the President and grabbed him roughly by his collar.

“Best not resist, Mr Grant. Jakob Müller here was a former rhönradprofi — a wheel gymnast and a serious bodybuilder. He’s a good East German. He tells me he has the strength of five men, and few here have dared him to prove it.”

On Angelika’s orders, Jakob dragged Grant away from the relative safety of the limo and shoved him into the side of an old GMC van idling just inside the entrance to the factory. A moment later, Partridge was hauled off the floor and thrown in the back beside him.

* * *

Now, President Grant sat in the back of the windowless van in silence. Either side of him was an armed man, and opposite was the German woman and the man she had called Jakob.

After half an hour of driving mostly on the straight he felt the van lurch to the right and descend what could only be an off-ramp. Judging by the turns at the start of the journey he guessed he was somewhere to the north of New Orleans, but couldn’t be sure. Instead of speculating, he focussed on what would be by now the largest manhunt in history as his team scrambled to rescue him.

A couple more turns and the van came to a juddering stop. A few seconds later Jakob grinned at him and the side door swung open. “Get out.”

Grant climbed out of the van and blinked in the sunlight. He was standing in the middle of a vast industrial landscape, littered with countless buildings and chimneys all covered in pipes and air-conditioning ducts. It looked like they were in some kind of processing plant, but by the looks of things it was clearly abandoned. Grant began to grow pessimistic.

Just beyond the parking area where they had pulled up in the GMC was a cleared area with a sparkling white Sikorsky S-76. Grant knew the model because he recognized it as the same as the one Donald Trump owned — and he’d had a flight around Manhattan in that one a few weeks ago so he would know better than most. If it weren’t obvious enough already, these people were well-funded.

Jakob stepped from the van and stood beside him. “Over there.” He nodded at what had clearly been the main entrance to the complex, but was now partly overgrown with weeds.

Grant bristled, unaccustomed to being talked to like this, but kept silent. It wasn’t every day the President of the United States got kidnapped — in fact this was the first time in history — so whoever was behind it was playing the highest stakes of all. It wouldn’t be wise to anger them before finding out what they wanted, and he knew from his many Secret Service briefings that he had to play for time.

Jakob shoved him hard between the shoulder blades and with his hands tied behind his back he struggled to stay on his feet, but just managed it. He gave the man a snarl of contempt and moved slowly toward the enormous factory complex.

CHAPTER SIX

Hawke fired at the men. In response, they dived for cover in the spruce trees, giving Jack Brooke enough time to unlock the door to the outbuilding. Seconds later they were inside what looked like a small aircraft hangar with a polished concrete floor and corrugated metal walls. Parked in neat lines were several rows of luxury vehicles, shining dully in the diffused lighting of the opaque skylights above.

“Nice collection!” Hawke said, spying the cars. “Can we take the Corvette?”

Alex gave him a look. “Great idea, Einstein… only you might wanna count the seats.”

“Eh?”

“There’s three of us but the Corvette is a two-seater.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you wanted to come.”

Alex rolled her eyes and slapped his shoulder. “We can take the Jeep to the airport if we can just get out it out of here without getting shot to pieces!”

“How far away is the airport?” Hawke said.

“A little under twelve miles,” Brooke said. “We go down Valley Road and then we hit 75. That takes us straight to Hailey and the airport.”

“And we definitely can’t take the Corvette?”

Alex gave him another of her looks. “Get in the Jeep, Limey.”

“Sure thing, Septic.”

Brooke and his daughter both turned to Hawke at the same time. “Huh?”

“Septic tank.”

“And…?”

“Septic tank, Yank.”

“Oh…” Alex said, confused.