Patriot games - Tom Clancy [149]
"So the Captain, he says," the big one was saying loudly, "get that goddamned gook off my chopper!" And the other one started laughing.
"I love it!"
"How about a couple of beers?" the big one said next. They crossed the street, heading his way.
"Okay by me, Gunny. You buyin'?"
"My turn, isn't it? I have to get some money first." The big one reached in his pocket for some keys and turned toward Clark. "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" His hand came out of his pocket without any keys.
Clark reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. The right hand inside his overcoat started moving up, but Breckenridge's own right grabbed it like a vise.
"I asked if I could help you, sir," the Sergeant Major said pleasantly. "What do you have in that hand?" Clark tried to move, but the big man pushed him against the brick wall.
"Careful, Tom," Breckenridge warned.
Cummings' hand searched downward and found the metallic shape of a pistol. "Gun," he said sharply.
"It better not go off," the Gunny announced, his left arm across Clark 's throat. "Let the man have it, sonny, real careful, like."
Clark was amazed at his stupidity, letting them get so close to him. His head tried to turn to look up the street, but the man waiting for him in the car was around the corner. Before he could think of anything to do, the black man had disarmed him and was searching his pockets. Cummings removed the knife next.
"Talk to me," Breckenridge said. Clark didn't say anything, and the forearm slid roughly across his throat. "Please talk to me, sir."
"Get your bloody hands off of me! Who do you think you are?"
"Where you from, boy?" Breckenridge didn't need an answer to that one. The Sergeant wrenched Clark 's arm out of the pocket and twisted it behind his back. "Okay, sonny, we're going to walk through that gate over yonder, and you're gonna sit down and be a good boy while we call the police. If you make any trouble, I'm going to tear this arm off and shove it right up your ass. Let's go, boy."
The driver who'd been waiting for Clark was standing at the far corner. He took one look at what had happened and walked to his car. Two minutes later he was blocks away.
Cummings handcuffed the man to a chair while Breckenridge established that he carried no identification-aside from an automatic pistol, which was ID enough. First he called his captain, then the Annapolis City police. It started there, but, though the Gunny didn't know, it wouldn't stop there.
* * *
15
Shock And Trauma
f Jack had ever doubted that Robby Jackson really was a fighter pilot, this would have cured him. Jackson 's personal toy was a two-year-old Chevrolet Corvette, painted candy-apple red, and he drove it with a sense of personal invincibility. The flyer raced out the Academy's west gate, turned left, and found his way to Rowe Boulevard. The traffic problems on Route 50 west were immediately apparent, and he changed lanes to head east. In a minute he was streaking across the Severn River bridge. Jack was too engrossed in his thoughts to see much of anything, but Robby saw what looked like the remains of a Porsche on the other side of the roadway. Jackson 's blood went cold as he turned away. He cast the thoughts aside and concentrated on his driving, pushing the Corvette past eighty. There were too many cops on the other side of the road for him to worry about a ticket. He took the Ritchie Highway exit a minute later and curved around north toward Baltimore. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, though most of it was heading in the other direction. This gave him gaps to exploit, and the pilot used every one. He worked up and down through the gears, rarely touching the brakes.
To his right, Jack simply stared straight ahead, not seeing much of anything. He managed to wince when Robby paused behind two tractor- trailers running side by side-then shot up right between them with scant inches of clearance