First Daughter - Eric van Lustbader [8]
"I can't see."
"There's blood all over your face," Bennett said softly.
Jack lifted his right arm, which seemed to move okay. Using the cuff of his bomber jacket, he wiped his face clean. More blood trickled down his forehead into his eyes. Probing with his fingertips, he discovered a laceration at his hairline, put one hand over it. Then looked to the right. Part of the guardrail, ripped open by the impact of the crash, had twisted through the windshield, shearing off the passenger's-side headrest, which it would have done to Jack's head if he'd crashed a foot to the right.
Wind blew into the Escalade, drying the sweat on Jack's scalp to a salt crust. The rain had stopped. Clouds swirled high above, dirtying the white sky.
"Jack, what the hell happened?"
Disoriented, hearing the sounds of approaching sirens, his mind was cast back to other sirens, other flashing lights.
Another car crash.
SEVEN MONTHS ago he'd been in the office, a phone to his ear, coordinating a raid on a high-end cigarette smuggler, the end of a six-month sting operation for which Jack had been the front. He would have liked to be in the field, on the front line, but he was all too aware of his limitations, he knew Bennett placed him where he was invaluable, and that made all the difference to him. Bennett was one of the only people in his life who knew what Jack was and accepted it.
Jack, with a satellite map on the computer screen in front of him, barked out new locations to the team leaders. His cell phone buzzed; he ignored it. The buzzing stopped, then almost immediately, started again. While bellowing orders, redirecting one of the field units, he risked a glance at his cell. It was Emma.
The field units were redeploying in an attempt to take the high ground. He had a special talent for seeing the larger picture, for examining a situation in three dimensions—the more complex, the better, so far as he was concerned. His tactical expertise was unmatched.
The cell buzzed for a third time. Damnit, what mess had his daughter gotten herself into this time? Work phone pressed sweatily to one ear, he answered his cell.
"Dad, I've got a real problem, I've got to talk to you—"
"Honey," he said, "I'm in the middle of a crisis. I haven't got time for this now."
"But, Dad, I need your help. There's no one else—"
A harsh voice crackled in his other ear. "We're taking fire from the high ground!"
"Hold on," he said to his daughter. Then into the landline, "Get down and keep down." He manipulated the map on the screen. Lots of writing wriggled by like shining fish vanishing into an undersea cave. If he took the time, he could read the words, but . . . "Okay, take three men, move six meters to your left. You'll have cover from the stand of trees."
"Dad, Dad? . . ."
Jack, heart beating fast, said, "I'm here, Emma, but I don't have—"
"Dad, I'm leaving here." By here, she meant Langley Field College, where she was a sophomore.
"Honey, I'm happy to talk, but just not now."
Then the shit really hit the fan. "We're on top of 'em, Jack!" he heard in his other ear.
"Get the second team moving now!" Jack shouted. "You'll have them in a crossfire."
"I'm going to drive over to you."
Jack could hear the sudden crackle of automatic fire. His annoyance flared. "Emma, I have no time for your adolescent games."
"This isn't a game, Dad! This can't wait. I'm coming—"
"Jesus, Emma, didn't you hear me? Not now." And he hung up.
The cell buzzed again, but he'd already returned to the fray.
The raid was successful. In the hectic aftermath, Jack forgot all about the call from Emma. But that didn't last. Seventeen minutes later, Jack got another call. At high velocity, top light flashing blue and white, he sped to the scene of the accident, Saigon Road, off an isolated stretch of the Georgetown Pike at Dranesville District Park. The area—thickly treed, sparsely inhabited—had been cordoned off with yellow tape, a squad of uniforms was buzzing around a pair of state police detectives, and four burly EMTs were trekking back and forth between