Die Trying by Lee Child

all stopped and the enormous bullhorn on the front of the helicopter

fired up. The co-pilot’s voice boomed out, amplified grotesquely

beyond the point of distortion, clearly audible even over the thrashing

and hammering of the rotor blades.

“Federal Agents,” his voice screamed. “You are commanded to stop at

once. I repeat, you are commanded to stop your vehicle at once.”

The truck kept on going. The helicopter right in front of it swung and

wobbled in the air. Then it settled again, even closer to the

windshield, flying backward, not more than ten feet away.

“You are surrounded,” the co-pilot shouted through the huge bullhorn.

There are a hundred police officers behind you. The road is closed

ahead. You have no option. You must slow your vehicle and come to a

complete stop. You must do that right now.”

The cruisers all lit up their sirens again and two of them pulled

alongside. The truck was locked into a solid raft of hostile traffic.

It sped on for a long moment, then it slowed. Behind it, the frantic

convoy braked and swerved. The helicopters rose up and kept pace. The

truck slowed more. Police cruisers pulled alongside, two deep, door to

door, bumper to bumper. The truck coasted to a halt. The helicopters

held station overhead. The lead cars swerved around in front and

jammed to a stop, inches from the truck’s hood. All around, officers

jumped out. The highway was thick with police. Even over the beating

of the helicopter rotors, the crunching of shotgun mechanisms and the

clicking of a hundred revolver hammers were clearly audible.

In Chicago, McGrath did not hear the shotguns and the revolvers, but he

could hear the Phoenix agent-in-charge shouting over the radio. The

output from the throat mike in his helicopter was patched through

Washington and was crackling out through a speaker on the long hardwood

table. The guy was talking continuously, excited, half in a stream of

instructions to his team, half as a running commentary on the sight he

was seeing on the road below. McGrath was sitting there, hands cold

and wet, staring at the noisy speaker like if he stared at it hard

enough it would change into a crystal ball and let him see what was

going down.

“He’s stopping, he’s stopping,” the guy in the helicopter was saying.

“He’s stationary now, he’s stopped on the road, he’s surrounded. Hold

your fire, wait for my word, they’re not coming out, open the doors,

open the damn doors and drag them out, OK, we got two guys in the

front, two guys, one driver, one passenger, they’re coming out, they’re

out, secure them, put them in a car, get the keys, open up the back,

but watch out, there are two more in there with her. OK, we’re going

to the back, we’re going around to the rear, the doors are locked back

there, we’re trying the key. You know what? There’s still writing on

the side of this truck. The writing is still there. It says Bright

Spark Electrics. I thought it was supposed to be blanked out, right?

Painted over or something?”

In Chicago, a deathly hush fell over the third-floor conference

room. McGrath went white. Milosevic looked at him. Brogan stared

calmly out of the window.

“And why is it heading north?” McGrath asked. “Back toward

Chicago?”

The crackling from the speaker was still there. They turned back

toward it. Listened hard. They could hear the thump of the rotor

blades behind the urgent voice.

The rear doors are open,” the voice said. The doors are open, they’re

open, we’re going in, people are coming out, here they come, what the

hell is this? There are dozens of people in there. There are maybe

twenty people in there. They’re all coming out. They’re still coming

out. There are twenty or thirty people in there. What the hell is

going on here?”

The guy broke off. Evidently he was listening to a report radioed up

from the ground. McGrath and Brogan and Milosevic stared at the

hissing speaker. It stayed quiet for a long time. Nothing coming

through at all except the guy’s loud breathing and the hammering of the