He decided not to head away from the bridge into unknown territory. The woods he saw in the distance might be a dead end.
Baltazar’s men had pulled him back onto the bridge. He screamed at his men to get Austin. Half a dozen guards advanced across the bridge. Austin retrieved the lance he had discarded. He angled the point out as if he were in a tilt, drove away from the gorge, then spun the wheel around and aimed for the bridge.
Baltazar saw the Bentley speeding toward him and ducked behind the tilt barrier, but the lance swept his men from the bridge like crumbs being brushed off a table.
When Austin had gained the other side, he discarded the lance and nailed the accelerator. The wheels spun on the grass, but Austin kept the fishtailing car under control and drove onto the road that led back to the tents.
He glanced in his rearview mirror. An SUV was on his tail. Someone had radioed ahead because another SUV came directly at him. Austin aimed the Bentley at the oncoming vehicle and pressed his hand down on the horn.
The SUV driver must have figured the heavier vehicle would win the game of chicken. At the last second the Bentley swerved aside. The SUV crashed head-on into the chase vehicle.
Austin breezed past the entrance to a driveway that led to a big house in the distance. He stayed on the road for another mile until he came to a gate and guard post. He slowed the car, in expectation that a guard would pop out of the shelter, but he drove up to the gate without being challenged. Austin guessed that the gate guards had been given permission to desert their post for the joust.
He got out of the car and went inside the hut, where he punched the button that would open the double cast-iron gates.
As he stepped out of the guardhouse, Austin heard the sound of motors. A convoy of black SUVs was speeding toward the gate. He drove through the open gates, stopped the car, and went back into the guardhouse. Then he closed the gates, picked up a heavy chair, and hammered the controls with the chair leg until they were useless.
The convoy was less than an eighth of a mile away.
Austin climbed a tree and crawled out onto a thick branch that extended over the fence. He dropped to the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs, but quickly recovered. He scrambled back into the Bentley and mashed the accelerator in a jackrabbit start.
He was speeding along an open road flanked by green pastures and agricultural fields. Farm silos rose in the distance. No one was on his tail. He glanced at the cloudless blue sky, and it occurred to him that Baltazar might have access to a helicopter.
The bright red car would make an easy target from the air.
He turned onto a narrow lane. The closely grown trees on either side formed a thick canopy that shielded the car from above.
He noticed a car pulled over onto the shoulder. A man in a dark suit was leaning against the fender, and he looked up from the map as the red car blasted his way. As Austin flew by, he caught a fleeting glance of the man’s face. He hit the brakes, put the car into a fast backup, and slammed to a reverse stop.
“Hello, Flagg.” Austin said.
The CIA man looked out of place in his dark suit and tie. When he saw Austin, a half-moon grin crossed his face. His heavy-lidded eyes took in the Bentley and Austin’s mail jacket.
“Fancy wheels. NUMA must be paying you big bucks. Suit’s nice too.”
“They’re not mine,” Austin said. “I borrowed them from Baltazar. What are you doing here?”
“I found out Baltazar’s got a place around here. I was nosing around.”
Austin jerked his thumb to the rear. “It’s back there a few miles. Where are we?”
“Upstate New York. What about your lady friend?”
“I couldn’t get to Carina. How fast can you line up some muscle?”
“Police might be faster.”
“Th
e local gendarmerie wouldn’t stand a chance against Baltazar’s mercenaries.”
Flagg nodded and pulled a phone out of an inside pocket. He punched in a number and talked for a few minutes before hanging up. “Got a ‘go’ team coming out of Langley. They’ll be here in two hours.”
“Two hours!” Austin said. “It might as well be two years.”
“Best they can do,” Flagg said with a shrug. “How many bad guys you say there were?”
“About three dozen, counting Baltazar.”