King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

He sped up, took a right and then a quick left. The SUV mimicked his maneuvers. He pushed the pedal down and risked being pulled over for speeding. He eyed up ahead, then looked to his left.

To the left looked promising for three reasons: traffic, a traffic light about to go from green to red, and, most important of all, a tractor-trailer about to make a wide turn.

He cut the wheel and made the left. He punched the gas, eyeing the rearview at the same time. The SUV was coming on strong. They were probably planning to end this little chase right now. But Wingo had a few seconds. He would need every single one of them. He gauged the traffic light timing, the cars aligned on all sides, and the big rig making a left.

The light turned yellow. One car zipped straight through the intersection, beating it. Wingo didn’t want to go straight. He wanted to go left. And he wasn’t waiting for the rig. In fact, he was gong to jump to the front of the line.

He punched the gas as he saw the yellow light flickering.

Red here we come.

He laid the gas pedal flat to the floor and cut his wheel hard to the left.

He shot through the intersection in front of the rig, blocking it. The truck driver slammed on his brakes, cut his wheel to the right, and laid on his horn. The semi slid sideways.

The light turned red. Oncoming traffic started up but went nowhere. The big rig was blocking the entire intersection. Horns started up from all quarters. The truck driver was no doubt delivering a few choice words in Wingo’s direction.

Yet Wingo was all smiles as he hung another right, then a left, and quickly made his way back to his hotel. And if they ran the plates, which he was sure they would, they would lead to a wreck at the D.C. impoundment lot.

This round to me.

CHAPTER

44

THE CHOPPER SWEPT OVER THE bucolic Maryland countryside.

Sean gazed out the window and then down below.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Michelle was sitting next to him. “What’s wrong? Don’t like flying in whirlybirds?” she said sarcastically. She well knew that as a Secret Service agent Sean had flown in more copters than just about anyone outside the military.

“I don’t like our particular destination.”

“Which is?”

“Camp David.”

Michelle shot him a glance, leaned over him, and looked out the window.

“Damn,” she said.

“I thought I already said that,” Sean shot back.

She flopped against the seat. “We’re going to see POTUS? He’s the man?”

“Apparently so.”

“Remember the last president you met with?”

“I’m hoping this one is a little better.”

The chopper landed and they were escorted to the main building of heavily fortified Camp David, named after Dwight Eisenhower’s grandson and situated in Maryland’s rustic Catoctin Mountains.

They sat in a large room with knotty-pine paneling.

“You ever pull protection detail at Camp David?” Sean asked Michelle.