True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(58)
“Woo-wee!” Ronnie roared.
The bold, propulsive music he was playing was the perfect score for the action. For a moment, she almost forgot that she was watching live TV and not a Hollywood & the Vine rerun.
“Oh my God,” the anchorman said. “The driver is a lunatic.”
The anchorman’s astute observation snapped Margo back to reality, or at least what was passing for it lately. Ronnie’s car disappeared briefly from the chopper’s view under the freeway overpass, then reappeared speeding south toward Ventura Boulevard.
“You thought going the wrong way down a freeway on-ramp was a better idea than simply taking the next exit?” Margo said.
“It was definitely more fun,” Ronnie said. “It was also the unpredictable thing to do, which is always the right choice if you don’t want to get caught.”
“You could get yourself and a lot of other people killed,” she said. “I know you’re fleeing from the police but you can do it responsibly.”
“Loosen up, Hollywood. You’re stiffer than my uncle Oak and he’s a tree.”
Cross watched the assault from Doric Thane’s POV as the assassin and his two men entered Ronnie’s brightly lit house and moved into the entry hall, which was a two-story atrium with a staircase on the far end. It was a big space, open to the second floor. The three men were completely exposed. If an ambush was coming, it would be here and now. Ludlow and French, armed with AK-47s, could mow them all down from above or drop a couple of hand grenades and splatter them on the walls.
Thane’s men were well aware of their vulnerability. They pointed their weapons up, covering their leader as he made his way to the stairs. It was very tense and everyone was silent in the situation room.
Cross’ phone vibrated in his jacket, startling him. Nobody called him on this phone unless it was priority Blackthorn business. What could be more important than what was happening right now? There could be a crisis somewhere involving a major client, like one of the third-world dictators they were propping up. Or perhaps it was something involving the president’s imminent secret executive order. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore the call. He took the phone out of his pocket and answered it.
“Cross,” he said.
“Hello, Willie. This is Ian. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
Ian’s voice hit Cross like a gut punch. This call was the ambush. It had to be. But what was the trap? He didn’t know if the call was being recorded or broadcast so he’d have to choose his words wisely. Cross snapped his fingers to get Victoria’s attention and replied more loudly to Ian than he needed to.
“I just wanted to express how much I enjoy your spy thrillers, Mr. Ludlow, even if they are a bit far-fetched.”
The instant Victoria heard Ludlow’s name, she got the message to trace the call and she urgently typed commands on her keyboard.
“But lately my stories have been so true to life, don’t you think, Willie?” Ian said. “Like that plane crash in Honolulu, for example. It’s almost as if I’ve written the day’s news myself.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Ronnie drove westbound in the eastbound lanes of Ventura Boulevard, straight into oncoming traffic, pursued by a posse of police cars, their sirens wailing and lights flashing to warn drivers about what was coming at them. He swerved around the oncoming cars, occasionally drifting into the center turning lane, then back into traffic again. The stunned TV anchor team, a man and a woman, and their Sky 2 chopper pilot provided ongoing commentary, frequently stating the obvious just to fill the airtime.
“Wayne, is that a spike strip they are laying down?” the anchorwoman asked the pilot. “I see some activity in the top corner of the screen.”
The chopper’s camera view shifted from Ronnie for a moment to the road ahead and zoomed in. The police had blocked traffic at the intersection with Reseda Boulevard and were laying a spike stripe across Ventura Boulevard in both directions.
“Yes, it is, Trixie,” the chopper pilot said. “This is a very dangerous driver who has to be stopped.”
He would be, too, if he didn’t have Margo watching out for him. She spoke into the phone. “They’ve put a spike strip down across all the lanes at Reseda.”
In response, Ronnie made a sudden, hard left onto a residential side street. One of the police cars tried to follow him and clipped a truck, sending both vehicles spinning and causing a chain reaction pileup.
“Yee-haw,” Ronnie yelled, leaving the destruction in his wake, but not his pursuers. The police cars at the Reseda intersection quickly peeled off, joining the chase. One LAPD chopper and three from local TV news stations also followed him overhead. And, according to ratings released by the Nielsen Company the following week, eight hundred thousand Los Angelenos were watching him, too.
Doric Thane reached the top of the stairs, his two men behind him, covering his back. The second team remained outside, guarding the perimeter in case the targets tried to escape. But the intel Thane got in his earpiece from the Blackthorn situation room confirmed that Ludlow and French were still in the two bedrooms at the end of the hall. And the surveillance drone circling the house was still sensing their body heat and pinging their driver’s licenses. The drone even sensed that the Ding Dongs, potato chips, and dry salami that they bought at Target were still in the kitchen. All that remained to do was kill them and grab a Ding Dong for the road.