Mistress

Chapter 87

Ward Place is a short, narrow connecting street, so I’m maybe halfway down before the SUV rights itself and motors down toward me. From the north sidewalk, I jump the curb onto the street and then hop onto the curb on the south side. Their guy with the machine gun is on the right, on the passenger side, so he won’t have an angle on me from that direction, he’ll have to switch sides, any time I can buy is precious-

Must have the precious, they stole it from us, sneaky little hobbitses.

– Come on, 22nd, come on, 22nd, come on-

Chunks of brick explode off the building over my head, they don’t have a good angle but it’s not going to stop them, someone is shouting and WHERE THE HELL IS THE CAR TRAFFIC, nothing’s stopping these guys, every second they’re closer, closer, closer, Closer is one of my favorites, Natalie Portman in a pink wig in a strip club-

– Focus, dumbshit-

– Jessica Alba in Sin City-

– and now the machine-gun fire is nonstop, splintering buildings and smashing car windows and pummeling metal-

– Closer, please, Hannibal Lecter to Clarice-

Clo-ser!

And I swerve left into the final bend on Ward Place as bullets ricochet off the columns on the corner building. The SUV can’t turn as nimbly and smashes into a parked car, costing them a few seconds, I’ll take any seconds I can get, because 22nd is just up here-

I make the left turn onto 22nd, heading south down a northbound one-way street. I ride under a hotel awning, upsetting a concierge and some arriving guests, as I hear tires screeching and horns honking and-smash-metal crunching, and I dare to look back and, yes, the SUV has collided with an oncoming car as it turned onto 22nd, but it will right itself soon enough and refocus, like that creepy Terminator who got blown to pieces but then re-formed-

Have you seen this boy?

Pandemonium on a busy street, the asshole in the black SUV going the wrong way, every car letting him know it with their horns, but ultimately, no driver wants to play bumper cars, and they’ll get out of his way.

Time, I need time, where is it, where is it, I’m on 22nd, where the fuck is it-

My legs are burning, sweat fills my eyes, horns are honking, and tires are squealing as the SUV stops and starts, stops and starts, weaves around oncoming traffic, but I can hear them, I can hear them, and now all the cars seem to get it, and they’re pulling over to get out of the way of the asshole SUV, like the Red Sea parting, so now I have Charlton Heston as Moses in my head, this better not be the last image in my brain before I die-

They have a clear path to me, the engine guns forward as they close the gap, only seconds now, only seconds-

Bullets spraying buildings and cars and windows, people ducking for cover, where is it, where is it, where the fuck-

As I reach the intersection with M Street, gigantic green military trucks converge from both directions on 22nd, cutting off the intersection, followed by black sedans and some MPD squad cars. A helicopter appears overhead, seemingly out of nowhere.

Finally.

I skid into a left turn onto M Street, out of the line of fire, as I hear another set of tires skidding-the SUV’s, as it approaches the intersection. I ride behind the barricade to stay safe and watch.

The SUV has stopped about fifteen, twenty yards short of the barricade at M Street. Behind it, another set of cars, sirens blaring, is speeding down 22nd to form a back end to the barricade.

I stand over my bike, panting with relief. The Russians are surrounded.

People on the streets scurry for cover. Soldiers in full combat gear jump out of the trucks and aim their weapons at the black SUV. MPD police officers draw their weapons and do the same. Everyone is shouting at the Russians.

Turn off your engine! Drop your weapons! Place your hands on your head and exit the vehicle!

(And from now on, be nice to Ben Casper!)

Nobody’s approaching the vehicle. Not yet. Everyone is standing their ground. The helicopter looms overhead, maybe fifty feet or so in the air.

The police are directing bystanders to clear out, forcing cars to the south of the barricade to U-turn and get some distance. I get pushed away, too, but about a block down, I climb onto the roof of a parked car so I can watch. I think I’ve earned that right.

Several agents in plain clothes have joined the fray, talking into radios and, like everyone else, aiming their weapons at the bad guys. These guys are Secret Service. They’re here courtesy of the two magical words I used in my 911 call.

White House. I told the operator the car was headed for the White House. It tends to get the government’s attention.

The SUV remains idling in the middle of 22nd Street. Government agents continue to shout orders at the Russians, but so far, no movement in the SUV.

A standoff.

Every minute that passes brings additional law enforcement vehicles to the scene. There’s got to be twenty of them by now.

“Party’s over, guys,” I say to myself. “Give it up.”

And then the black SUV bursts into a ball of orange flame, an internal combustion so powerful that the doors, the roof, everything blows apart. The last things I see, before the force of the blast topples me from the roof of the parked car, are the green military trucks flying backward, bodies hurtling through the air, glass sailing in every direction.

And then I hit the pavement hard, facedown, followed closely by the clang of metal crashing to the ground and the unforgettable whump of human bodies landing in the street.