Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“A million, maybe two—lots more over a period of weeks and months. It’s simply but ingeniously designed. The builder would have sent drawings of various machined parts to several suppliers, who wouldn’t know the purpose of their work. Then they would have assembled the device in a safe house somewhere. They could have brought it here in a van, a station wagon, even, or a light airplane.” He looked around the room. “Unless we find these people, they could do it again in a matter of weeks.”

—

Hamish McCallister’s aircraft stopped at the gate. His briefcase was already in his lap, and the moment the flight attendant opened the door he got up, strode forward, and walked into the boarding tunnel, and looked for the door. It was dead ahead, at the first turn. He opened it and looked outside; no stairs, but a white van with a yellow flashing light on top was parked immediately below. To his right, people with guns were running down the tunnel. Hamish took a deep breath and jumped, landing on top of the van and rolling off onto the tarmac. He got up, opened the passenger door, and got inside.

Mo was at the wheel, and he drove away quickly. “There’s a gate about a quarter of a mile away,” he said.

“Are you armed?” Hamish asked.

“Yes.” He handed Hamish a pistol. “Here’s one for you.”

“If necessary, shoot anyone who impedes our progress.”

Mo drove on. A gate loomed ahead, one man in a small guard booth.

Mo stopped and flashed some sort of ID card. The guard nodded, and the gate slid open slowly.

“Not too fast,” Hamish said.

“Right.”

“Where do we exchange cars?”

“A couple of miles, at a rest stop on the Van Wyck.”

“Good.”

—

Lance Cabot jumped from the boarding ramp onto the tarmac below, spraining an ankle. He raised his gun to fire, but the van had disappeared behind another airplane. Lance grabbed at the radio on his belt. “Seal the airport,” he said. “Intercept a white van with a yellow flashing light. I need transport at gate ten right now!”

59

Lance leaped into the front passenger seat of the black SUV. “Nearest exit gate!” he yelled. Two more of his people, carrying submachine guns, jumped into the backseat.

“Got it,” the driver replied, stomping on the accelerator.

“Lights!” Lance yelled, and the car lit up.

“Gate dead ahead,” the driver said.

“If that jerk in the booth doesn’t open it, knock the fucking thing down!”

The driver increased his speed, and the gate rolled open just in time for him to miss it. He screeched to a halt. “Which way?”

“Van Wyck! They’ve gotta be headed for the city.”

The driver made the turn and accelerated. “Do we want the NYPD?” he asked.

“No,” Lance replied, sounding calm but determined. “This guy is ours.” He pointed ahead. “Half a mile up there,” he said. “Flashing yellow light. Turn off our lights.”

The driver did so.

“Try not to kill any innocent bystanders,” Lance said, “but I don’t give a shit what you do to the guys in the van.”

“Look, they’re pulling over,” his driver said.

“Car switch. Block it!”