The Midas Code

Sherman didn’t like being cornered like this, but he didn’t have a fallback position. He discouraged Crenshaw from circling around by firing two more shots. He was running out of ammo.

“Are those gunshots?” the operator said.

Good God. “Yes! He’s shooting at me. That’s why I need the police. Now!”

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes. I’ve been shot in the leg. Have you got my signal?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Well, hurry up, dammit!”

After a pause, the operator said, “I’ve got you. Five two nine Business Parkway in Hagerstown.”

“What state?”

The operator didn’t skip a beat at the odd question. “Maryland. Near the intersection of I 70 and I 81. State and local police are on their way. They should be there in minutes.”

That would put him right between Pennsylvania and Virginia. I 70 was a straight shot to DC, and I 81 led to Philadelphia and the Northeast Corridor. Crenshaw could be in one of a half-dozen major cities within hours with his radiological bomb.

But that wasn’t Sherman’s biggest problem right now. He had seen the barrel next to his cell. He couldn’t tell what was inside, but wires from it led to another barrel, and then another. He could see at least four of them.

Obviously the warehouse was rigged to explode, which would destroy all evidence of Crenshaw and Orr’s operation.

And if Crenshaw escaped, he’d set them off before the police arrived.

Sherman pocketed the phone without turning it off. He had to see what Crenshaw was doing. He gritted his teeth and hopped up onto his one good leg.

He slid the door’s portal aside, but he couldn’t see Crenshaw. Where did he go?

At that moment, the semi’s engine cranked up.

Crenshaw was making a break for it.

The external door of the warehouse was opening too slowly. Crenshaw had the truck in gear ready to go, but the door rose at a maddening rate.

He glanced out the window and saw General Locke staggering toward him, his gun pointed at the cab. Two bullets pierced the door just above his lap, smashing into the dashboard. Crenshaw returned fire.

His first two shots missed, but the third hit the general in the chest. He couldn’t tell how crippling a shot it was, but the general went down in a heap, the gun flying to the side.

The garage door was almost fully open, and Crenshaw could hear the distant wail of sirens. The general must have called the police with Phillips’s phone. No way Crenshaw was going to stick around with this mess.

The original plan, now literally shot to hell, had been to leave one of the Muslims they’d kidnapped in the wreckage of the burned-down warehouse and bring the other with them to leave at the scene of the explosion.

But Crenshaw couldn’t corral one of the Muslims and drive the truck, not without Phillips. So instead the Feds would have to think that a third bomber had gotten away in Manhattan. Same difference. They’d still pin the attack on Al Qaeda.

Crenshaw took one last look at the general, who was still motionless on the concrete floor. He put the truck into gear and roared out of the warehouse.

No cars were around to see him exit. He turned onto Business Parkway and built up speed, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure the general didn’t make a last-second escape through the open garage door, which was now closing behind him.

The aptly named road was lined with other small warehouses and industrial workshops. None of their residents had any clue that amid the distribution centers and manufacturing buildings was an operation that would change history.

Crenshaw could see two police cars approaching. As long as they didn’t notice the bullet holes in the side of the door, they’d never suspect that he was coming from their destination.

They raced by him. Crenshaw was now a half mile away, with plenty of space between him and the warehouse. He flipped open the safety on the detonator and pushed the button.

A huge orange fireball erupted behind him, followed almost immediately by the noise of a tremendous blast ripping the air. Even though he was ready for it, the size of the explosion startled him. He grinned as he realized that he’d used far more of the explosive than he needed.

The police cars skidded to a stop behind him. One of the officers got out to look at the shattered building, but they never glanced back at him.

Crenshaw turned onto Greencastle Pike, which was only a block from the interstate. Ninety seconds later, he was on I 81 heading to New York. He breathed easier when he’d gone another two miles and the only emergency vehicles he saw were three fire engines speeding in the other direction.

FORTY-NINE

A t an outdoor cafe along Via Chiaia in Naples, Orr checked the tracker signal while Gaul ate a slice of pizza. When he saw where the tracker was, he nodded with satisfaction. His plan was working out perfectly.