moments later Dirk drove the Chrysler out of the covered car deck and into the bright sunshine. Crossing over the ferry ramp, he drove down a long pier, then turned out of the ferry complex and onto Vashon Island.
Situated on the lower end of Puget Sound, Vashon Island is a thirty-seven-square-mile scenic haven located just minutes from the congested hubbub of Seattle and Tacoma. Reachable only by boat, the island has maintained a quiet, rural tranquility far removed from metropolitan neighbors. Strawberry and raspberry fields dot the lush wooded landscape, which is inhabited by a bohemian mix of writers and computer intellectuals seeking a slower pace than that of city life.
Lowering the convertible top so that they could better enjoy the sights and smells of the landscape, Dirk drove south along the Vashon Highway, away from the ferry terminal at the northern tip of the island. Observing in his rearview mirror, he watched the black Cadillac exit the ferry terminal and fall in line behind him, maintaining a half-mile cushion behind the old car. They continued motoring south for several miles, past quaint cabins and farmhouses interspersed among thick groves of pine trees.
“This feels marvelous,” Sarah gushed, stretching her arms above her head and feeling the cool wind rush through her fingers. Dirk smiled to himself, having known too many women who despised riding in a convertible because it mussed up their hair. For him, driving fast in a convertible was like riding a storm out at sea or diving on an unexplored wreck. It was a little added serving of adventure that made life more fun.
Spotting a road sign marked burton, Dirk slowed and turned east off the highway, backtracking a short distance on a small side road that led to the tiny hamlet. They meandered past a small group of houses until the road petered out at the drive of a quaint Victorian inn situated right on the water. Built as a summer estate for a Seattle newspaper tycoon at the turn of the century, the three-story structure was agleam in pastel shades of green and lavender. Bright flowers sprouted in large pots and flower boxes were wedged everywhere, throwing a vast array of colors to the eye.
“Dirk, it's beautiful here,” Sarah beamed as he parked the car next to an ornate gazebo. “How did you discover this place?”
“One of our scientists has a summer home on the island. Claims they have the best king salmon in the state here and I aim to find out.”
Dirk led Sarah to an intimate restaurant at one end of the lodge that continued the Victorian decor theme. Finding it nearly empty, they took a table next to a large picture window that faced east across the sound. After ordering a local Chardonnay, they admired the view across Quartermaster Harbor to a smaller island named Maury. To the southeast, they could see Mt. Rainier standing majestically in the distance.
“Reminds me a little of the Grand Tetons,” Sarah said, fondly recalling the craggy peaks of northwest Wyoming. “I used to ride horses for miles around Lake Jackson at the base of the Tetons.”
“I bet you're a pretty fair downhill skier as well,” Dirk ventured.
“I banged up a few sets of skis growing up,” she laughed. “How'd you know?”
“Jackson Hole is right around the corner. Skied it once a few years ago. Terrific snow.”
“I love it there,” Sarah gushed, her hazel eyes glistening. “But I am surprised to hear that you have been to Jackson. I didn't think that a NUMA special projects director was allowed to leave sight of the ocean.”
It was Dirk's turn to laugh. “Only on my annual vacation. The Gobi Desert happened to be booked that year,” he grinned. “So tell me, how did a nice girl from Wyoming end up working at the Centers for Disease Control?”
“It's because I am a nice girl from Wyoming,” she cooed. “Growing up on my parents' ranch, I was always nursing a sick calf or mending a lame horse. My dad always said I was a softie, but I just loved being around animals and trying to help them. So I studied veterinary medicine in school, and, after bouncing around a few jobs, was able to snag the field epidemiologist job with the CDC. Now I travel the world preventing disease outbreaks and helping sick animals, and I even get paid for it,” she smiled.
Dirk could tell her compassion was genuine. Sarah had a warm heart that seemed to resonate through her. If not employed by the rDC she would probably be off running a dog shelter or helping a wildlife rescue, with or without a paycheck. With her gazing at Dirk ith tender eyes, he was glad she was here with him now.
A waiter appeared to spoil their intimacy, but brought a gourmet meal to the table. Dirk enjoyed a mesquite-grilled king salmon filet, while Sarah dined on Alaskan weathervane scallops she deemed so tender they melted in her mouth. After sharing a fresh raspberry cheesecake for dessert, they took a short stroll hand in hand along the water's edge. Dirk kept an eye out for the two men in the Cadillac, whom he finally observed parked a few blocks away in Burton.
“It's gorgeous here, but I guess we should be getting back,” Sarah said with disappointment. “We should have the blood test results on your sick crewmen by now, and Hal probably has your bomb canister analysis completed.”
As they approached the car, she turned and hugged Dirk.
“Thanks for a lovely lunch,” she whispered.
“”Kidnapping beautiful women in the afternoon is a specialty of mine,' he smiled, then took her in his arms and gave her a long passionate kiss. She responded by wrapping her arms around him, squeezing the back of his waist tightly.
Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dirk meandered slowly down the one-lane thoroughfare of Burton. He glared as he drove by the Cadillac parked in a side alley, the two men waiting for them to pass. As he watched in the rearview mirror, he was somewhat surprised to see the black sedan turn and follow immediately behind him. There was no more pretense of an invisible tail, Dirk thought, which was not a good sign.
The Cadillac followed behind until they reached the intersection of the Vashon Highway. As he stopped to turn, Dirk glanced again in his mirror. He could see the passenger with the goatee reaching down at 'is feet and pulling something out of the leather case.
A sick feeling hit him in his stomach and, without an instant's hesitation, he mashed down on the accelerator. With tires squealing, the Chrysler whipped onto the highway and sped north.
“Dirk, what are you doing?” Sarah asked with a bewildered look as she was pushed back into the seat.
In an instant, the Cadillac screeched onto the highway behind them, sending a spray of gravel flying through the air. This time, the Cadillac was not intent on following behind the old Chrysler but nosed into the vacant oncoming traffic lane in order to pull alongside.
“Get down on the floor!” Dirk yelled at Sarah as he watched the': black car approach in his side mirror. Confused but comprehendin| the tone in his voice, Sarah slipped down into the cavernous footwej of the Chrysler and rolled into a ball. Dirk eased off the accelerater and looked to his left as the Cadillac pulled rapidly alongside. The passenger window was rolled down and the young tough grinned sardonically at Dirk. Then he raised an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun from his lap and leveled it at Dirk's head.
The gunman may have been younger but Dirk's reflexes were faster. By the time the killer's finger pulled the trigger, Dirk was already standing on the brakes. A short burst of fire ricocheted harmlessly across the hood of the Chrysler as it suddenly fell back of the speeding Cadillac in a cloud of burned rubber. The Chrysler's narrow tires screeched in protest as the wheels locked up for a moment before Dirk eased off the brakes. He paused a second, waiting for the Cadillac to react, then saw what he was waiting for. As the brake lights of the Cadillac lit up, he punched the push-button automatic transmission into second gear and stomped the accelerator to the floorboard.
A flood of raw gas charged down the throats of the Chrysler's twin four-barrel carburetors, spraying a gush of combustible fuel to the hungry 392-cubic-inch hemi motor. Packing over 380 horsepower, the Chrysler 300-D was the fastest and most powerful production car in the country in 1958. Showing no signs of its age, the big Chrysler got up and roared off down the road like a charging rhinoceros.
The would-be assassins were caught off guard by the suddenly accelerating Chrysler and swore at each other as the big green car shot by like an arrow. The gunman made an attempt to fire another burst but was too late with his aim, emptying the clip of the burp gun uselessly into the woods. With no oncoming traffic, Dirk cut to the left lane after passing the Cadillac, making it more difficult for the passenger-side gunman to aim his weapon.
“What's happening? Why are they shooting at us?” Sarah cried from the floor.
“Some relatives of our old pals in Alaska, I'm betting,” Dirk yelled over the roar of the engine as he upshifted into third gear. “Been following us for some time now.”
“Can we escape?” Sarah asked with fear in her voice.
“We can hold our own on the straight aways but they'll gain on us in the curves. If we can get close to the ferry landing and more people, they should back off,” he replied, hoping his words would hold true.
