Page 102 of Edge of Honor

Radioing McGee, he said, “That’s it. He’s not opening the gate.”

“Five seconds,” the ex–CIA director replied.

His voice was calm, a stark contrast to the anxiety that was building in the center of Harvath’s chest. Of course that was easy for McGee; he was on the right side of the heavy gate and not facing down an armed security agent.

Suddenly there was an eruption of flashing lights—strobes of bright blue and red that cut through the darkness and cast shadows across the wrought iron of the gate.

“Now!” McGee ordered over the radio.

Harvath slammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Mercedes lurched forward. The strobe light suspended beneath Nicholas’s drone mimicked the rhythm of a police cruiser’s lightbar, fooling the gate’s strobe-light sensor into believing it was an emergency vehicle and opening wide.

The gate began to retract as the guard radioed his colleagues, wondering what was going on. But by then it was too late.

The gap in the gate was wide enough and the exit was clear.

“Hit it!” McGee insisted. “Go!”

Scot punched the accelerator and the big sedan rocketed through. Behind him there was no sudden burst of gunfire. The guard had no idea who was in the vehicle and would not have risked killing a member of the Willis family.

The car’s headlights sliced through the darkness and the tires squealed as they bit into the pavement of the main road. In less than three and a half seconds, Harvath was already doing sixty miles an hour.

But even with the gate falling farther behind him, he knew better than to think they were in the clear. He wasn’t safe yet. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER 52

CHILDREN’SNATIONALHOSPITAL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAYMORNING

Joe Carolan looked at his watch and stood up from the conference table. “That’s it. I’m calling it. He’s not coming.”

In the next room, monitoring everything via an array of hidden cameras and microphones, the FBI SWAT commander relayed the order over the radio that they were shutting down.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give him a little more time?” Fields asked.

Carolan looked at her. “If your child had a terminal illness and you were trying to get him into a clinical trial, when a slot opened would you be late to sign all the paperwork? No. Of course not. You’d be so damn grateful you’d be in the hospital lobby the minute you got the call.”

“He did sound grateful when we spoke with him last night.”

“That was last night. This is today, and he’s over two hours late. He’s not even answering his phone.”

“Maybe he got in a car accident,” said Fields.

“Or maybe he got abducted by aliens. I don’t care. The fact is he isn’t here. Let’s pack it in.”

Gathering up the paperwork, Carolan placed everything in his briefcase, thanked the SWAT team, and headed downstairs to thank the agents who were at the magnetometer posing as uniformed security.

He thanked the hospital administrators who had agreed to work with the Bureau on such short notice and then thanked the agents in the parking garage who would have tagged and wired Russell’s vehicle for sound.

With his obligations as the operation’s lead agent complete, he and Fields got into his car and, without another word, exited the hospital grounds. But instead of heading back to headquarters, he drove them in a different direction.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Fredericksburg,” he replied.

“We’re going after Russell, aren’t we?”