Nova jerks the wheel hard, taking us around a tractor-trailer, and ahead of us there is a straight stretch of no traffic and after a moment more bullets rain down on us.
Despite clipping in my seat belt seconds ago, I now undo it. I lower my window and lean out, bringing the M4 with me.
Nova takes us from the far left lane to the far right, and I aim the rifle at Black Hawk, pull the trigger only three times, just a warning, a fruitless attempt because it only provides maybe a second or two of relief until the door gunner returns fire.
We speed under an overpass, an exit flashing past us, Nova cursing and saying, “I should have taken that.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He gives me an angry look, says, “I’m a little fucking busy right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Another straight stretch, another opening of no traffic, and the Black Hawk dips lower.
Atticus says, “I’ve reviewed the upcoming highway exits and attempted to calculate a proper escape, or at least some way to ensure you more time.”
“Yeah,” Nova says, “and?”
“And I’m sorry to say right now it doesn’t look very good. Tell me, Nova, what kind of soldier are you?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“A simple one. Would you consider yourself selfish or selfless?”
We’re out over the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge now, right above the Potomac, passing cars and trucks, Nova leaning on his horn to try to clear the way. The Black Hawk is still on our ass but the door gunner hasn’t fired at us in the past several seconds.
“Well?” Atticus says.
We swerve around another tractor-trailer and there is yet another open space ahead of us. The door gunner opens fire again, some of the bullets this time striking the top of the cab, whizzing down between us into the bench seat.
Cursing, Nova says, “Just get on with it. What’s your plan?”
“The objective here is saving Walter’s children, correct? And the only way to do that is ensuring Holly can get away safely with the flash drive intact.”
Nova glances at me. I glance at him. We stare at each other for a moment. Then Nova nods and says, “Screw it, what’s your plan?” and when Atticus tells him, he says okay and presses the gas down even more, speeding us across the bridge, the speedometer going up to one hundred five, one hundred ten, one hundred fifteen. Seconds later the Maryland side of the bridge appears and for some reason I’m expecting there to be an army of police cars. There isn’t. Nova veers us off the exit, the Black Hawk having to pause in midair to follow our progress. Nova leans to his left as he veers us around the off-ramp, passing a few cars in front of us, the pickup feeling like it might tip over. Then we’re around the entire way and entering the Anacostia Freeway, the Black Hawk dipping low again, and Nova punches the gas.
The highway is two lanes now, making it more restrictive than before. Trees stand tall on both sides of the freeway. We pass over another bridge and the door gunner fires at us again and some of the bullets strike the hood, Nova cursing and clenching his fingers around the steering wheel.
Driving faster, swerving from lane to lane, he says, “Holly, can I tell you something?”
He says, “If we both make it out of this alive, you’re buying me a new pickup.”
He says, “A real fancy one, too, all the bells and whistles.”
He says, “Got it?”
“Yeah,” I say, as the freeway splits with a large divider, trees everywhere, “I’ll buy you the most expensive one. Satellite radio and GPS and everything.”
“Good,” Nova says, moving over to the right lane, “just so we’re in agreement,” and then he cuts the wheel hard to the left, steering us across the two lanes, taking us over the grass median and into the stand of trees, Nova’s headlights picking out an open space, and as he goes between them he has to slow, the terrain rocky, and that’s when I start to open my door but pause when Nova says my name, Nova pulling out his Beretta, handing it to me, and I take it and push open the door and jump out right before a tree slams the door shut, all the trees now tearing the pickup apart, the Black Hawk trying to follow his progress, until he reaches the freeway and the gunfire starts again and he punches the gas and heads back in the direction he came, the growl of the pickup’s engine massive until it fades away into a whisper and then is gone.
Sixty-Two
For the longest time I don’t move. I just stand there in the shadows of the trees, traffic speeding back and forth, the chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of the Black Hawk fading away just like Nova’s pickup. I still have the transmitter in my ear and can hear Nova, cursing, talking to himself, cursing some more. Then, suddenly, his voice cuts off.
“Atticus, what just happened?” Thinking that the door gunner finally got him.
“I severed the connection between your transmitters.”
“Why?”
“The last thing you need right now is more distractions.”
Right, so now instead of knowing what’s happening to Nova, my imagination is making it up, creating different scenarios that all end with Nova taking a bullet in the head.
“I will keep you informed,” Atticus says.
I still have Nova’s Beretta in my hand. I drop the magazine, make sure it’s fully loaded, slap it back in. I holster it and ask Atticus what time it is.
“Four eighteen.”
Which means I have almost an hour and a half before Zane’s deadline. Which shouldn’t be a problem, now that I have the flash drive. But which still is a problem, because I have no way of contacting Zane and can only wait
