Chapter 5 - The Highway Intercept
The 1972 Corvette flew down Interstate 64 toward Norfolk Executive Airport, its twin exhaust pipes screaming into the midnight darkness.
The thallium in my system was continuing to wreak havoc. My hands trembled against the wood-grain steering wheel, and cold sweat dripped into my eyes, but the DTPA chelating agent was slowly doing its job, stabilizing my vitals enough to keep me conscious.
I glanced at the dashboard clock: 1:20 AM.
Vivian and Marcus Vance's private charter was scheduled to take off at 2:00 AM.
Through the rearview mirror, I suddenly saw two sets of bright LED headlights rapidly approaching behind me.
Two black full-size SUVs were weaving aggressively through the light late-night traffic, closing the distance at over ninety miles per hour.
I pressed down on the gas pedal. The Corvette's heavy V8 responded instantly, surging forward to one hundred miles per hour, but the modern turbocharged SUVs were relentless.
A window opened on the lead SUV.
A man leaned out, holding a heavy suppressed submachine gun.
Putt-putt-putt-putt!
Sparks erupted off the Corvette's rear bumper, glass shattering as the left side-mirror was blown to pieces.
"Not on my watch!" I roared, gripping the wheel.
I stomped on the heavy mechanical brakes, pulling the emergency brake lever while spinning the steering wheel forty-five degrees to the right.
The Corvette executed a flawless tactical J-turn—a maneuver I had practiced a hundred times on military skid-pads in California.
The heavy vintage sports car swung around, facing backward on the highway while sliding sideways at eighty miles per hour.
I pulled the SIG Sauer P226 from my belt, aimed through the open driver's window, and fired four heavy 9mm rounds directly into the front left tire of the pursuing SUV.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The SUV’s tire exploded violently. The heavy vehicle veered wildly out of control, slamming sideways into the concrete highway barrier in a massive shower of sparks and metal before flipping onto its roof.
The second SUV swerved frantically to avoid the wreckage, sliding into the grassy median and coming to a dead stop.
I flipped the Corvette back into forward gear, slammed the accelerator to the floor, and roared away toward the airport exit, leaving the burning wreckage behind in my rearview mirror.
As the airport tarmac towers appeared in the distance, my phone mounted on the dashboard vibrated.
It was Special Agent Robert Vance from NCIS.
I hit the speakerphone button.
"Commander Bennett!" Agent Vance's authoritative voice filled the cockpit over the roar of the engine. "This is Vance! I have Samuel Reed sitting in my office right now with your father's encrypted USB drive!"
"Agent Vance," I breathed, my voice tight. "Did you decrypt the files?"
"We did," Vance replied, his tone filled with absolute disgust. "It’s all here, Claire. Offshore accounts, international wire transfers, toxicological procurement records from Baltimore, and signed confession notes from Dr. Whitmore's nurse. Federal arrest warrants have just been issued for Vivian Bennett, Marcus Vance, and Dr. Alan Whitmore for attempted murder, high corporate fraud, and military treason!"
"They're at Norfolk Executive Airport," I told him, turning the Corvette onto the airport perimeter road. "Hangar 4. Private charter bound for Zurich."
"Federal tactical teams are ten minutes out!" Vance warned. "Do not engage alone, Commander! You are severely poisoned and outgunned!"
I looked down at the brass ignition key resting in my father's car.
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"I have seventeen years of naval command, Agent Vance," I said softly. "Ten minutes is an eternity. I'm securing the perimeter."
I hung up the phone, crashed the Corvette directly through the airport perimeter chain-link fence, and roared across the open tarmac toward the glowing lights of Hangar 4.
