Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Potomac
"Hold your fire!" I yelled to the Old Guard sergeant. "There are active federal warrants being drafted! Secure the perimeter, do not let that aircraft take off!"
"Ma'am, rules of engagement—" the sergeant began.
"Title 10 override, Sergeant! Operational command falls to me under Joint Chiefs Directive 44!" I barked. "Disable the tail rotor!"
The sergeant didn't hesitate. "Team two, suppress the aircraft landing gear! Fire on the struts!"
The sharp, rhythmic *crack-crack-crack* of suppressed military rifles echoed across the estate lawn. Sparks flew as rounds slammed into the Sikorsky's heavy hydraulic landing struts and the composite tail assembly.
The private security guards guarding Arthur and Julian immediately panicked.
They were corporate bodyguards, trained to intimidate journalists and shield executives from protesters, not combat infantry under direct fire from elite soldiers. The moment the Old Guard opened fire, two of the guards dropped their bags, threw their hands up, and hit the grass face-first.
The third guard shoved Julian toward the helicopter.
"Dad! Get in!" Julian screamed over the rotor wash, his expensive suit soaked through, his face distorted with pure, hysterical panic. "Get in the damn chopper!"
Arthur stumbled across the wet grass, his gray hair plastered to his forehead. He looked back toward the carriage house and saw me charging across the lawn, the rain streaming down my face, the .45 in my hand.
Our eyes locked through the swirling mist and exhaust fumes.
Arthur didn't see an estranged daughter. He didn't see the rebellious child he had written off a decade ago.
He saw his executioner.
"Julian, leave the bags!" Arthur yelled, scrambling up the aluminum steps into the cabin.
The pilot, sensing incoming fire, panicked and pulled maximum pitch on the collective. The Sikorsky lurched violently upward, its damaged landing gear groaning, tilting hard to the port side before it had even cleared the tree line.
Julian grabbed the cabin door handle, his feet dangling as the helicopter pulled into the gray, storm-tossed sky.
One of his heavy duffel bags tore open on the door frame.
A blizzard of hundreds of thousands of dollars in bearer bonds and encrypted flash drives spilled into the rotor wash, scattering across the wet lawn like dead autumn leaves.
The helicopter banked sharply over the Potomac River, heading south toward Ronald Reagan National Airport instead of Dulles, flying dangerously low beneath the cloud deck to evade standard radar tracking.
The Old Guard sergeant lowered his rifle, cursing under his breath. "They're gone, Colonel. Aircraft is squawking an emergency transponder code to bypass civilian tower restrictions."
"No, they're not gone," I said, catching my breath, water dripping from my chin onto my ribbon rack. "A damaged Sikorsky with hydraulic failure can't cross the Potomac at that altitude. The pilot’s going to set it down on the riverbank or make a run for the private tarmac at the Pentagon City helipad."
I turned to the sergeant. "Where is General Sterling’s command vehicle?"
"In the front motor court, ma'am. Armored Suburban, satellite comms linked directly to Northern Command."
"Give me the keys," I said.
The sergeant pulled the heavy key fob from his pocket and placed it in my palm. "Colonel... you're operating without civilian police authorization."
I looked at the scattered documents on the lawn, then out toward the gray silhouette of the retreating helicopter fading into the sheets of rain.
"My grandfather served this country for forty-one years," I said, my voice cutting through the wind. "I'm not letting his killers make it across the river."
Two minutes later, the six-ton armored Suburban roared through the iron gates of Vance Manor, its emergency red-and-blue strobes flashing against the limestone walls, tires screaming as they bit into the wet asphalt of the George Washington Parkway.
I hit the console’s direct satellite uplink.
The screen illuminated with the four-star emblem of the Joint Chiefs.
*"Sterling here,"* the general’s voice barked over the encrypted speaker. *"Report, Vance."*
"Webb is neutralized at the estate, sir. He confessed. Julian and Arthur are airborne in a damaged Sikorsky S-76, Vance Aerospace tail number November-Eight-Eight-Victor-Alpha. They’re tracking the Potomac southbound. And sir—"
*"Go ahead, Clarissa."*
"They murdered him. It was suxamethonium. And the Aegis armor files are verified. They sold fraudulent ceramic plates to frontline units. Six dead in Syria last month under my own surgical care."
A heavy, terrifying pause hung on the line.
When Sterling spoke again, the quiet gravel of his voice had transformed into the terrifying coldness of a supreme commander preparing to crush an enemy battalion.
*"I am designating November-Eight-Eight-Victor-Alpha as an unauthorized hostile asset operating in restricted National Capital Region airspace,"* Sterling said. *"Two Black Hawks from the 12th Aviation Battalion are already airborne from Fort Belvoir. We have the FAA grounding all civilian traffic at Reagan National."*
Sterling paused. *"Clarissa, where are you?"*
"Closing on the 14th Street Bridge," I said, watching the speedometer climb past ninety through the blinding spray of the highway. "I have visual on their smoke trail."
Ahead, through the curtain of rain, a dark plume of black smoke was trailing through the mist over the swollen, churning waters of the Potomac.
May you like
The Sikorsky’s engine was failing.
***
