The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(9)

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I heard it. I—” He stopped himself, then hissed: “There’s someone outside our window.”

“Look, Kenny,” I said. “There’s nobody outside the window.”

But he wouldn’t settle down until I checked the window. I pulled up the blinds and squinted through the glass, resting my hands on the sill. I turned my head toward the top bunk.

“See, Kenny? There’s nothing—”

Suddenly, the window exploded inward, just like it would in a horror movie, when the teenager turns and says, “See, there’s nothing there.” Two large, black-gloved hands shot through and grabbed my wrists. I was dragged through the broken window before I could even make a sound.

8

I saw a flash of night sky, a swaying tree branch, and the lawn as it rushed up to meet me. I landed face-first in the grass and something hard pressed into my lower back. I heard someone screaming; I guessed it was Kenny. I had fallen with my mouth open, and now I could taste grass and dirt as a voice whispered hoarsely in my ear.

“Don’t fight me.”

I twisted to my right, bringing my left elbow up and back, a glancing blow to the guy’s head as he leaned over me. He fell away and I pushed myself up, and then he was back on me, throwing his forearm across my neck, pulling back hard, cutting off my oxygen. Black flowers bloomed before my eyes.

He dragged me toward the back corner of the house and whipped me around.

“Settle down!” he hissed. “Settle down!”

He held my arms behind my back and pushed me toward a dark convertible sports car parked by the curb.

He threw me into the passenger seat and brought his face close to mine. I got a heavy dose of spearmint.

“Hey, Al,” Mike Arnold said.

I couldn’t believe it: Mike Arnold, the OIPEP agent who had betrayed the knights and nearly gotten me killed. Abby Smith had told me they fired Mike for turning double agent. So this wasn’t an OIPEP operation. And if this wasn’t an OIPEP operation, what was it?

He raced around the front and leaped into the driver’s seat of the Porsche Boxster. The car gave a throaty roar and Mike punched the gas. My head snapped back against the headrest. He whipped the car into a U-turn, the back tires locking up and squealing, sending plumes of smoke boiling into the air.

“What’s going on?” I yelled. He swerved into the right-hand lane, making for the on-ramp to the interstate.

“This is what’s known in the trade as an ‘extraction’!”

Mike had cut his hair since I last saw him in Merlin’s Cave, wearing it now in a buzz cut, like a marine. He still dressed like a frat boy, though: Lacoste shirt, Dockers, the New Balance running shoes. I could see his 9mm Glock tucked into his belt.

There was hardly any traffic in the westbound lanes of I-40, and Mike pushed the car up to ninety, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. I glanced behind us. Somebody wearing a black jumpsuit was pacing us on a motorcycle.

“Who’s following us?” I shouted over the wind.

“Well, it ain’t the Publishers Clearinghouse Prize Patrol!” His lips pulled back and he showed me his big white teeth.

He ran up on the bumper of a lumbering Chevy Suburban, whipped us into the emergency lane with less than an inch to spare, and floored the accelerator.

“Excuse me, Al,” he said. He pulled the Glock from his waistband, swinging his right arm in my direction. I ducked, his arm pivoted over my lowered head, and I heard the sharp pop-pop-pop of the gun as he fired at the rider behind us.

We jounced over the rough pavement as the speedometer needle hovered around a hundred. I looked behind us again, but the black motorcycle was nowhere in sight.

“You lost them!” I yelled.

He barked out a laugh and cut back into the right lane, right in front of a Best Buy semitruck. Up ahead was the exit for the highway that connected Knoxville and Alcoa.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Safe house!”

“A house safe from what?”

He faded onto the exit ramp, going way too fast for the curve, and I grabbed on to the door handle to keep from flipping over the door. The highway was deserted, and Mike took the opportunity to push us to 120. My eyelashes felt as if they were being torn from my lids.

“Slow down, Mike!” I yelled.

I heard a rumble that sounded like thunder behind us: two big black attack helicopter gunships came straight at us, screaming out of the night sky, their sleek bodies glistening in the glow of the streetlamps.

“We’re not going to make it!” I shouted.

He gave another of those sharp barking laughs. Tall hills rose on either side of the highway; we were heading due south, toward the Smoky Mountains. About a mile ahead the hills parted, allowing the Tennessee River to pass between them.

As soon as we reached the bridge, Mike slammed on the brakes. We went into a skid, spinning clockwise until his door smashed against the three-foot-high concrete wall separating the edge of the road from the hundred-foot drop to the water below.

“Here we go!” he shouted as he scooted over the back of the car and ran to my side. Suddenly the night lit up all around us: the gunships were training spotlights on the bridge. They had dropped to only a hundred feet or so above the ground as they bore down.