Nemesis (FBI Thriller 19)

Sherlock’s cell sang out “Born to Be Wild” and she put it on speakerphone. “Dillon, we’re five minutes out. What’s happening?”

“Salila’s cell rang with a call from Basara, probably to confirm their meeting, so he could be close. I didn’t risk letting Salila answer it. Keep a low profile as you approach. We still don’t know what kind of car he’s driving. Hurry, guys.”

“Turn left here on Pritchert, Cal,” Sherlock said, after Savich punched off. “It’s the locals’ way to Nyland and the Gilmore.”

When Cal turned right onto Nyland, Sherlock said from the backseat, “The condos are two blocks up, on the left. There’s Griffin now, trimming bushes. He looks good. Basara wouldn’t spot him for a Fed.”

Kelly sucked in her breath, not wanting to believe it. “There he is! Ten o’clock, Cal, a Toyota Camry. He’s driving slow, studying the street. Let’s get him!”

Cal hit the gas only to see an ancient Chevy Impala pulling out of a driveway directly in front of him. He slammed on the brakes, barely missing the driver’s door. At first he thought there was no one driving the Impala, then a curly gray head and a terrified white face appeared above the steering wheel.

Basara looked back at the sound of screeching brakes and spotted them. He threw his cell phone out the window and hit the gas, barely avoiding an elderly man with a walker who’d stepped out onto the street. Griffin dropped his cutter and took out his cell as the Toyota two-wheeled around a corner and headed south, toward 29.

Kelly yelled, “I don’t know Washington, where’s he going?”

“Don’t know yet,” Sherlock said. She unfastened her seat belt and sat forward between the front seats, her Glock in her hand. “No, wait, he could take 29 east into D.C. or try to cross the Key Bridge into Arlington.”

Cal turned on his siren and flashers again as he swerved past a dozen cars and a Silverado flatbed stacked with tires, to the sound of blasting horns and shouted curses. He was only three cars behind when the Camry swerved around a Cadillac onto the Key Bridge. “He’s not a bad driver,” Cal said, “but he’s at a big disadvantage because he doesn’t know Washington.”

Kelly said, “What’s this way?”

“Arlington National Cemetery, if he keeps heading south,” Cal said. “He’ll see the sign soon enough and realize he doesn’t want to get caught in that maze. Hang on!” He swerved around a black limo with government plates, two startled faces staring at them as they whipped past. Cal slipped back into his lane with feet to spare to the horrified face of the Mustang driver headed directly at him. “No,” Cal said, “Basara’s not going to the cemetery, he’s headed onto 66 and that’ll take him back across the Roosevelt Bridge into D.C. I wonder if he knows that. Hey, isn’t that Dillon’s red Porsche behind us?”

Sherlock looked back. “It sure is. Ruth’s with him.” She looked back to the thick traffic ahead of them. “Basara has no idea what he’s getting into once he gets to the other side, Cal. If he exits out of this traffic, he could be dumped onto the traffic circle at the Lincoln Memorial. He won’t get through there without stopping, not with all the cars circling, not to mention all the tourists around it.” She started to tell him to be careful, but she didn’t. Cal was in Dillon’s class. She turned to see Dillon’s red Porsche on their bumper, Ruth leaning out the passenger window, her Glock in her hand. Dillon was letting them take the lead.

This is madness, Kelly thought, as she shot a look down at the Potomac flowing fast beneath them, to what the sign had informed her was Theodore Roosevelt Island on her left. She looked over at Cal, saw his eyes were focused and calm, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He knew what he was doing. She felt her heart pounding loud and fast, not in fear, but in exhilaration, and saw herself at seven years old, skiing down a black diamond, her mother screaming at her from behind. She stared again at Basara, weaving in and out of bridge traffic six cars ahead of them.

Cal followed the Camry off onto Constitution Avenue, watched it veer right again toward the river at the first access road. Sherlock was right, he had no idea he was headed straight for the Lincoln Memorial and its traffic circle right up ahead. Cal roared up behind the Camry, barely missing an oncoming car, sitting on his horn in the circle. There was a construction site up ahead, cut off from traffic with big concrete blocks. He forced his way past two cars on the inside of the circle, calculated the speed he needed, and struck the Camry’s left rear panel. The Camry careened sideways into the concrete blocks and went airborne into the construction equipment. A couple workers nearby dove for cover. The Camry struck a backhoe, rolled once, and once again, spraying mud and splintering a construction horse.