Read Online Terror in D.C. by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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Hawkerâs message.
The CIA was out in forceâand the vigilante hoped like hell he was the only one to notice.
More than once, CIA types gave Hawker steely looks as they passed him by. But they never stopped. They had their orders: leave the guy with the red telescope alone.
Hawker was relieved.
If there was one organization in the world he didnât want after him, it was the CIA.
The hours ticked by. He ate more sandwiches, drank more coffee. The telescope was superb. Between watching cars, he got breathtaking views of the moons of Jupiter and the Great Nebulae of Orion.
The beauty of the galaxy dwarfed the madness of tiny Earth, and relegated terrorist baby-killers to the level of primal slime.
Hawker looked forward to getting his hands on the bastards.
At about 3 A.M. he noticed the fourth suspicious vehicle of the evening. It was a square-backed truck, a laundry truck marked DONGELâS LAUNDRY/WE DELIVER .
Hawker tried to remember a laundry truck that didnât read âWe pick up and deliver.â
How could a laundry truck deliver if it didnât pick up?
It was a small thing. But, at 3 A.M. , the small things stood out. Knowing perfectly well that he was getting a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep and too much coffee, Hawker decided to follow the laundry truck.
What could it hurt?
There were CIA men everywhere.
Besides, he hadnât followed a suspicious vehicle for more than two hours and he was getting bored standing in the park.
Hawker packed the telescope neatly away. He got into his rental Ford and went out into the empty streets, several blocks behind the laundry truck.
He did not turn on his headlights.
As he drove he noticed with a chill that as the truck moved into a residential area, it, too, switched out its lights. The truck was painted brown, so all Hawker could see was the occasional moon-flash of chrome.
He pressed the accelerator down.
The terrorists had to be in the laundry truck.
James Hawker was determined to get to them before the CIA did.â¦
ten
The vigilante tried to stay well behind them, afraid the terrorists might sense a trap and flee before he had a chance to get them in his sights.
The obvious danger was that he would stay too far back and lose them.
Thatâs exactly what happened.
Half a mile ahead, he saw the laundry truckâs brake lights flare briefly before turning left down a residential street. The street was a cavern of big trees. By the time Hawker got there, the truck had disappeared in the darkness.
Hawker gunned the Ford. At the first cross street, he skidded to a stop. He looked both ways. No laundry truck. He spun the wheels, sprinting to the next stop sign. Still no truck.
They had disappeared.
Hawker drove three more blocks, turned left, and switched on his lights. He pulled out the map he had gotten at the telephone company. The only dead-end streets were two blocks over, by the golf course.
The terrorists could have turned anywhere, gone anywhere.
Damn it!
The only hope he had was that the men in the laundry truck would double back on their reconnaissance route, and he could pick them up at the city park again.
If that failed he would have to track down one of the CIA people and tell them to put out an all-points on the laundry truck. More innocent people werenât going to be bombed just because of his stupidity!
Hawker shoved the car in gear and headed away. He forced himself to drive at a reasonable speed. He retraced his route around the block, cut down a strange street that should have brought him out on Jefferson, the main road.
Halfway down the block sat the laundry truck. It was parked at the curb, lights out.
Hawker caught himself just before he jammed on the brakes.
He drove right on past the truck at an even speed. He touched his turn signal at the stop sign and headed out toward the main road.
It was 3:34 A.M.
He drove four blocks, shut out his lights, turned around in a driveway, and
The CIA was out in forceâand the vigilante hoped like hell he was the only one to notice.
More than once, CIA types gave Hawker steely looks as they passed him by. But they never stopped. They had their orders: leave the guy with the red telescope alone.
Hawker was relieved.
If there was one organization in the world he didnât want after him, it was the CIA.
The hours ticked by. He ate more sandwiches, drank more coffee. The telescope was superb. Between watching cars, he got breathtaking views of the moons of Jupiter and the Great Nebulae of Orion.
The beauty of the galaxy dwarfed the madness of tiny Earth, and relegated terrorist baby-killers to the level of primal slime.
Hawker looked forward to getting his hands on the bastards.
At about 3 A.M. he noticed the fourth suspicious vehicle of the evening. It was a square-backed truck, a laundry truck marked DONGELâS LAUNDRY/WE DELIVER .
Hawker tried to remember a laundry truck that didnât read âWe pick up and deliver.â
How could a laundry truck deliver if it didnât pick up?
It was a small thing. But, at 3 A.M. , the small things stood out. Knowing perfectly well that he was getting a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep and too much coffee, Hawker decided to follow the laundry truck.
What could it hurt?
There were CIA men everywhere.
Besides, he hadnât followed a suspicious vehicle for more than two hours and he was getting bored standing in the park.
Hawker packed the telescope neatly away. He got into his rental Ford and went out into the empty streets, several blocks behind the laundry truck.
He did not turn on his headlights.
As he drove he noticed with a chill that as the truck moved into a residential area, it, too, switched out its lights. The truck was painted brown, so all Hawker could see was the occasional moon-flash of chrome.
He pressed the accelerator down.
The terrorists had to be in the laundry truck.
James Hawker was determined to get to them before the CIA did.â¦
ten
The vigilante tried to stay well behind them, afraid the terrorists might sense a trap and flee before he had a chance to get them in his sights.
The obvious danger was that he would stay too far back and lose them.
Thatâs exactly what happened.
Half a mile ahead, he saw the laundry truckâs brake lights flare briefly before turning left down a residential street. The street was a cavern of big trees. By the time Hawker got there, the truck had disappeared in the darkness.
Hawker gunned the Ford. At the first cross street, he skidded to a stop. He looked both ways. No laundry truck. He spun the wheels, sprinting to the next stop sign. Still no truck.
They had disappeared.
Hawker drove three more blocks, turned left, and switched on his lights. He pulled out the map he had gotten at the telephone company. The only dead-end streets were two blocks over, by the golf course.
The terrorists could have turned anywhere, gone anywhere.
Damn it!
The only hope he had was that the men in the laundry truck would double back on their reconnaissance route, and he could pick them up at the city park again.
If that failed he would have to track down one of the CIA people and tell them to put out an all-points on the laundry truck. More innocent people werenât going to be bombed just because of his stupidity!
Hawker shoved the car in gear and headed away. He forced himself to drive at a reasonable speed. He retraced his route around the block, cut down a strange street that should have brought him out on Jefferson, the main road.
Halfway down the block sat the laundry truck. It was parked at the curb, lights out.
Hawker caught himself just before he jammed on the brakes.
He drove right on past the truck at an even speed. He touched his turn signal at the stop sign and headed out toward the main road.
It was 3:34 A.M.
He drove four blocks, shut out his lights, turned around in a driveway, and
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