Free The Silent Man by Alex Berenson Page A

it’s all right. We can wait like everybody else.”
    “Fair enough.” Click.
     
     
     
    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they’d gotten only to the block between 20th and 21st Streets, the Federal Reserve building filling the block to their right, protected by big concrete stanchions. Wells didn’t pretend to understand what went on in there. The light ahead turned green and they shuffled forward a few car lengths.
    “Maybe they finally got it out of the way.”
    “Maybe,” Exley said. “What’re you thinking?”
    Wells nodded at the Fed. “Looks solid, doesn’t it? All these big, gray buildings.”
    “It’s held up awhile.”
    “Maybe we’ve just been lucky.”
    “It’s a solid ship. And there’s a lot of us running around looking for leaks.”
    “Is that what we are? Sounds glamorous.”
    In the distance behind them, Wells heard a motorcycle engine. Then another.
    And suddenly he knew.
    Who rides a motorcycle when it’s thirty degrees?
    Accidents on two bridges.
    Too many coincidences this morning.
    If he was wrong . . . no harm no foul. He’d call it paranoia and have something to talk about at the support group this week. But he knew.
    He looked back, but his view was blocked by the bulk of the Suburban. He leaned forward and examined the passenger-side mirror. There. A red sportbike on his side, cutting between the traffic and the curb. Maybe ten cars back, three hundred feet in all, including the gaps between vehicles. Closing, slowly and steadily.
    “Jenny. Check your mirror. Do you see a motorcycle?”
    Exley leaned forward, peeked at her mirror. “Sure. A black bike. Back a ways.”
    The red bike was 150 feet away, five car lengths. With his left hand, he unbuckled his seat belt. Then Exley’s. With his right, he reached under his jacket. He carried his Glock in an armpit holster under his left shoulder.
    The traffic inched forward. On his side, the red bike was now only about three car lengths behind. Wells pulled the Glock, the big pistol solid in his hand. Time seemed to slow, a good sign. His reflexes were accelerating. Because he was right-handed, he’d have to get out of the van, expose himself, if he wanted a clean shot. Not what he wanted. But he had no choice.
    “Open your door, Jenny. NOW.”
    Wells couldn’t take the time to look at her, but he heard her door open. He reached across his body and opened his own door with his left hand, blocking the path of the bike.
    In one smooth motion, he swung himself out of the minivan, left leg over right, and dropped to his knees, the gun in his right hand. He knew he had almost no time to decide. If he was wrong, he was about to kill a couple guys who were trying to beat traffic.
    The bike was a red Ducati carrying two men. Just like the one that had passed them before. It was maybe fifty feet away, rolling slowly beside the Suburban chase car, nearly stopped, and then—
    Then the passenger on the bike reached down and flicked something under the body of the big SUV.
    “Grenade!” Wells yelled.
    The Ducati revved toward him. He fired. The bike came fast, but the bullet was faster. The shot caught the rider in his right shoulder and the bike twisted right but stayed up, its front wheel barely ten feet from Wells. Wells shifted his aim and fired again. The mirrored face-plate of the helmet shattered. The rider’s head jerked back and his body slumped in death and his hands came off the bars. The bike started to go down—
    And there were two explosions under the Suburban in quick succession—
    Boom! Boom!
    The Suburban lifted off the ground—
    BOOM!
    A larger explosion followed as the SUV’s gas tank blew—
    Thick black smoke filled the air—
    Wells kept shooting, aiming now at the second man on the Ducati, who was reaching under his jacket. But the bike was skidding down, giving Wells a clean look. Wells took his time and caught the guy with a shot to the side of the head. His helmet twitched. He fell off the back of the bike and hit the