Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 5

Diaz bit into a Mcm.u.f.fin, then swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Got a letter from him last month. He and his mom were visiting her dad in Upstate New York."

"How old is he? Ten? Twelve?"

"Goin' on thirteen."

"Jesus! He was just a baby yesterday."

"Yeah. And I missed half his life," Diaz responded, with a touch of regret in his voice.

Traffic started picking up. Diaz scanned the area across the street in front of the emba.s.sy. James watched pedestrians, moving his eyes from the side mirror to the windshield.

"Eleven o'clock, coming this way, black leather jacket," Diaz announced.

James swung the binoculars just past the emba.s.sy, focusing on a tall man. "Whoa! He looks just like. . ."

"Yeah! Get the camera!"

James picked up the camera from the floorboard, adjusted the telephoto lens, then snapped two quick pictures.

Already surprised by what they saw, they were even more surprised as they watched him remove a rolled up newspaper from under his arm. He slowed his pace, letting a few pedestrians pa.s.s him before stopping in front of the emba.s.sy. Easing closer to the wrought iron gate, he bent down, quickly slid the newspaper underneath, and immediately started heading back the way he came.

"Boss and his instincts!" Diaz said. "DJ, you stick with him. I'll follow in the truck in case he's got a vehicle parked somewhere and we need to haul a.s.s."

James checked his weapon, adjusted his earpiece, and quickly got out. He closed the door quietly, then stayed hidden behind the truck. Once the "target" was far enough ahead, James crossed the street, keeping his eyes focused on the man, who was walking at a steady pace, continuing toward L Street, where he turned. L Street was one-way going east.

James crossed to the opposite side of L, then started following the man. He pressed the PTT. "Still in sight, walking east."

Diaz started the engine, checked his side mirror, then pulled out into traffic, easing into the left lane. The light at L Street turned red.

"C'mon! C'mon," he mumbled, growing impatient. Finally it turned green, and he swung a left, shooting across oncoming traffic, getting into the left lane of L. Brakes squealed, horns sounded. He ignored them as he slowed down, seeing James coming back across the road.

Traffic on L was deadlocked. Diaz lowered the power window. James stood close to the door, prepared to take off if the man kept walking. "He's straight ahead on the left." Diaz leaned toward the windshield.

The man stopped next to a dark blue Camaro about six cars ahead of them. He appeared to be unlocking the door, all the while constantly watching people and vehicles, but for one brief second, his eyes seemed to lock onto James.

"f.u.c.k!" James said under his breath, as he jumped into the truck. "Think he just 'made' me, Frank!" Both he and Diaz antic.i.p.ated they were about to go on a chase through the streets of D.C.--once they were out of the gridlock.

The next block, Fifteenth Street, was five hundred feet away. The traffic light turned red. Diaz and James tried to stay focused on the Camaro. It was still parked, but they could see its brake lights and a right turn signal flashing. The light turned green, and traffic started moving slowly.

"s.h.i.t! Somebody let him in!" James spat out, seeing the Camaro easing in front of a red VW beetle.

Slowly the traffic moved and finally, the Camaro was second at the light. No flashing signal from the Camaro, only brake lights.

"He's going straight!" James said.

The light turned green and the Camaro went straight toward Vermont.

"Don't you turn red, you f.u.c.kin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Diaz swore.

The Ford was five vehicles back, a little too close for Diaz's liking, but they couldn't take a chance and possibly lose the Camaro.

The light at Vermont turned green. Every car had its left turn signal flashing.

"Where the f.u.c.k's he goin'?" James said, as Diaz made the turn.

Soon they were entering Thomas Circle. The Camaro stayed in the right lane, taking the exit for Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue.

"He's gotta know we're here!"

Diaz didn't respond, but kept his full attention on the blue car. "s.h.i.t! He's heading for DuPont Circle! That's a f.u.c.king mess anytime! Stay on alert, DJ! Try and get a license number!"

James was using the gla.s.ses off and on, but whoever was driving the Camaro, always managed to make certain at least one or two vehicles were behind him.

At DuPont Circle a narrow, concrete divider, the height of a sidewalk, separated the four lanes into two. Traffic lights controlled each two lanes. The Camaro slowed as it approached the red light from the left-hand side of the divider, staying in the right lane. The car was at least twenty feet from the crosswalk, moving forward slowly. Diaz and James were four cars back. The instant the light turned green, the Camaro's tires burned rubber as it shot over the divider, narrowly missing being T-boned by a Cadillac. Sparks flew out from under the rear end of the Camaro as the m.u.f.fler struck concrete. The driver maintained complete control as the car flew down Connecticut Avenue.

"f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!" Diaz shouted, pounding his fist against the steering wheel. He swiveled his head, trying to see a way to break through the traffic. He didn't stand a chance.

"G.o.ddammit!" James said through clenched teeth, continuing to watch the Camaro as it became just a blue dot in the distance.

Horns were blaring behind them. Diaz had no choice but to drive on. "Hope you're ready," he said, shaking his head.

James' heavy eyebrows nearly knitted together. "What the f.u.c.k for?"

"For the a.s.s reamin' boss is gonna give us," Diaz responded, as he sped around the circle practically on two wheels, before exiting at Connecticut. He pressed the accelerator, attempting to maneuver in and out of traffic.

"You honestly think we've got any chance in h.e.l.l of finding that b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" James said, using the binoculars, searching up and down side streets.

Diaz continued pounding his fist against the steering wheel.

State Department Office of Scott Mullins Grant turned the corner then continued down the hallway, walking under a continuous row of florescent lights. With a large thermos of strong, Navy-type coffee in one hand, and a box of freshly made, still warm donuts in the other, he stopped in the open doorway. Mullins was sitting behind his desk with his fingers linked behind his head, his eyes closed.

"Permission to enter,sir!" Grant called loudly.

Startled, Mullins' eyelids popped open, and he shook his head. "Jesus, Grant!"

Grant closed the door, then put the thermos and donuts on the desk. "Coffee and donuts as ordered." He dropped his baseball cap on one of the wooden chairs, then unzipped his windbreaker.

He unscrewed the thermos top, and removed the cork. "Got any cups?"

Mullins was still rubbing his eyes, as he swung his chair around and took out two mugs from a credenza drawer.

"Made the coffee myself," Grant commented as he poured the steaming brew into each mug. "Oh, and the donuts are from Joe's favorite bakery, made fresh this morning."

Mullins leaned back, inhaling the strong aroma. He took two continuous sips, then cleared his throat. "Good stuff."

"The key to making good coffee is never measure, just dump," Grant responded with a slight grin. "You drink and eat. I'll talk." He filled Mullins in on the meeting with President Carr."

"Jesus! That must be one h.e.l.luva weapon," Mullins commented.

Grant nodded. "Mike went to Indian Head earlier to test it. It'll be interesting to hear what he has to say." He reached for the thermos. "Ready?" Mullins shook his head while he bit into a jelly donut, ignoring powdered sugar floating down on his black tie.

As Grant refilled his mug, he continued talking about the Team's inspection of the site where the attack occurred. "Did you see the newspaper report about a chopper going down?"

Mullins nodded as he wiped his mouth. "You think that's 'your' chopper?!"

"Think it's too much of a coincidence for it not to be," Grant responded, as he leaned forward. "Listen, Scott, as requested by the President, we've gotta keep this 'close to the vest' for now. Will you be able to help without going through your chain of command?"

Mullins swallowed a mouthful of coffee and started reaching for the thermos, instead, he leaned back, hesitating briefly. "The President, huh?" Grant nodded. "Guess that's all the approval I need. Any idea on where you'll be going on this next 'vacation'?"

Grant put his coffee mug on the edge of the desk, then walked to a wall map. Leaning close, he tapped his finger on Russia then continued sliding it along a route leading to Afghanistan. "Still not sure, but something's telling me this might be the place."

Mullins squinted, trying to focus on the country Grant was pointing to. "Whoa! Christ, Grant! That's a hotbed of real bad s.h.i.t!"

Grant went back to the desk. "I know, Scott, but like I said, I just suspect right now. Hope I'm wrong."

Mullins shook his head slowly. "And you thought your trip to China was a b.i.t.c.h! At least the whole country wasn't shootin'."

"You're right. Only half of it was." Grant thought briefly about the rescue mission to China.

The phone rang. "You expecting any calls?" Mullins asked.

"No, but Frank and DJ were on surveillance. Might be them."

Mullins picked up the receiver. "Mullins. Yeah, he's here." He handed the receiver to Grant. "It's Frank."

"Yeah, Frank."

"Boss, uh. . ."

"Lay it on me, Frank."

"You were right about having us set up surveillance at the emba.s.sy. We spotted some guy shoving a rolled up newspaper under the gate. He wasn't your typical newspaper boy, boss. We decided to follow him and. . ."

"Frank, don't tell me you lost him."

Diaz cleared his throat. "Okay, I won't."

"G.o.ddammit, Frank!"

"The guy was good, boss. Even with all the pedestrians and traffic, somehow he 'made' us."

Grant flopped down on the chair. "Where'd you lose him?"

"DuPont Circle. He high-tailed it up Connecticut Avenue. By the time we made it around the circle, his a.s.s was long gone." Grant was silent. "Sorry, boss, but I can give you a description of the car and him."

"Not even a plate number?" Grant asked, shaking his head.

"He was too f.u.c.kin' clever. Always managed to have somebody right behind him, hiding it. DJ couldn't even make it out with gla.s.ses." Diaz thought it best to continue, considering Grant went silent again. "He was driving a dark blue, '73 Z28 Camaro. And, boss, we snapped a couple of pictures of him. You're. . ."

"Where are you now?"

"Eagle 8."

"See you in about an hour." End of conversation.

Diaz dropped the phone in its cradle, as James asked, "Well?"

"Well?! He's f.u.c.kin' p.i.s.sed, DJ! He's saving the a.s.s reamin' till he gets here!"

Grant clenched his jaw, as he leaned forward and began rubbing his palms briskly together in frustration.

Mullins finally asked, "You planning on starting a fire with those hands, or you wanna tell me what happened?"

"They spotted a guy who they think was pa.s.sing a message to somebody in the Russian Emba.s.sy. They lost him in traffic."

Mullins opened the desk center drawer and took out a yellow lined pad and a pencil from the tray. "What kinda car was it?"

"A '73 Z28 Camaro, dark blue," Grant answered, but he was already preparing to move forward in another direction. "Scott, how long would it take to confirm whether or not the Russians have a plane at Dulles."

"Would they use a major airport to move those weapons?"

Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Why not? Especially if they claim diplomatic privilege. Besides, we've gotta start somewhere. But whether it's Dulles or not, I can't see them using a slower mode of transportation."

"Like a boat?"

Grant nodded, with his words coming slowly. "Right. Like a boat."

"You're not seriously thinking that, are you?!"

"With both Russian carriers operational in the Med, yeah, that's what I'm thinking."

"But they still have to get the weapons. . ."

Grant waved a hand. "I know. I know. Give me time to work that out." He got up abruptly. "I've gotta go. Hope you can get something on that Camaro."

"I'll let you know asap. Hey, do you have enough cash on hand?"

"Should be plenty in the safe, but I'll verify there's a good 'mix.'" Grant put on his baseball cap. "You can reach me on the car phone or at the house."

"Here," Mullins said, as he put the cover on the thermos. "And take the donuts."

"I'll take the coffee. You keep the donuts."

"What about Joe and the guys?"