SIXTEENTH STREET NW
Cal turned off the siren and flashers and seamed back into traffic as he turned right off Sixteenth onto U Street. “We’re close, maybe five minutes to Nyland.”
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.
“Hold on!” Cal slammed down on the brakes, sending them into a spin. The SUV slammed into one of the construction blocks, sending smoke pouring from under the hood. They all stared beyond at the overturned Camry. The driver’s door was shoved open and Basara, blood streaming down his face, rolled out and came up to his knees. He saw them on the other side of the concrete blocks, cars stacked around them at an angle, their blaring horns filling the air.
He raised his gun but saw they were blocked in, and ran across the traffic circle toward the Lincoln Memorial and its crowds of tourists.
Sherlock and Kelly were out of the SUV, running after him, weaving through tourists and traffic. Kelly held up her creds and yelled, “FBI agents!” every few steps, but a father didn’t jerk his small child out of Kelly’s path fast enough. She tripped and went down. Sherlock was ahead of her, saw Basara running toward the Lincoln Memorial, people parting in front of him at the sight of his gun and the blood running down his face.
Please, don’t let him grab a hostage.
She yelled, “Everyone down!”
Basara heard her, stopped, and she knew he was going take a teenage girl standing on the steps, but in the last instant, he turned, deaf to all the screaming people, and his eyes met Sherlock’s. He fired three shots, and the last one hit her in the chest. Sherlock staggered back with the god-awful pain. For an instant she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees, wondering blankly if her ribs were broken under the Kevlar. She flattened herself onto her stomach and forced herself to calm, held her Glock steady with both hands, her eyes never leaving him. Before he could fire again, she got off three shots. She watched them strike his neck, his shoulder, his chest. He froze on the wide step for a moment, his eyes locked to hers before he collapsed and tumbled down the steps.
She jumped to her feet and yelled, “Stay back!” as she ran to him, kicked away his gun that had fallen to the first step. He was lying sprawled on his back, at an angle on the steps, his chest heaving, blood fountaining out of his neck. She dropped to her knees beside him.
She heard Dillon shouting, but she didn’t look away from Basara.
His eyes were filming over, but still he whispered, his words thick with blood, “I wanted to bomb you to hell.”
“That didn’t work out for you, did it?”
He licked the blood off his lips. “I can’t die. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
His head fell to the side and his eyes stared up at the sky, seeing nothing now. He was dead. It didn’t make up for Nasim’s murder, but it was all they’d get. Sherlock stared down at him, aware now of a dozen people beginning to crowd around her. She heard Dillon’s voice ordering them back. Kelly came running up to fall on her knees beside Sherlock, Cal on her heels.
Sherlock rose slowly, Basara’s blood covering the front of her white shirt, and felt Dillon’s arm go around her.
It was over.