Chapter 17 - THE PURSUIT ON THE POTOMAC
Outside the Capitol, the humid midday heat hit me like a physical wall.
A sleek black Chevy Suburban with government plates screeched to a halt at the foot of the marble steps. The rear passenger door flew open, and Kane leaned out, his tactical vest fastened tightly over his civilian attire.
"Get in, Ethan!" he yelled over the screech of burning rubber.
I vaulted into the interior, slamming the heavy armored door behind me as the Suburban lunged forward, siren wailing as it cut across Constitution Avenue toward the southwest freeway.
"Status on Marcus?" I demanded, tearing off my dress white tunic and grabbing a lightweight Kevlar vest from the gear locker between the seats.
"Norris tracked the utility van to Pier 14 at Buzzard Point," Kane replied, racking the slide of an M4 carbine and tossing me a loaded tactical pistol. "They transferred him onto an eighty-foot commercial tugboat named the *Chesapeake Iron*. She slipped her moorings four minutes ago, heading south down the Potomac toward deep water."
"Coast Guard intercept?"
"Too slow," Kane grimaced. "The tug’s pilot has disabled its automatic identification transponder. They've also posted snipers on the wheelhouse roof. If a standard cutter approaches, they will drop Reynolds over the side with two hundred pounds of chain wrapped around his ankles before boarding teams can breach."
The Suburban tore through the gates of the Washington Navy Yard. Tires smoking, the vehicle skidded onto the maintenance pier where two high-speed Naval Special Warfare Mark VI patrol craft were tied up with engines idling, their twin diesel turbines humming with terrifying power.
"We have authorization?" I asked, strapping on the ballistic helmet.
"Vice Admiral Ross gave the green light the second you walked out on Sterling," Kane said, a grim smile touching his lips. "He told me: 'Bring Captain Reynolds home, and tell Commander Grant that the Navy pays its debts.'"
We sprinted across the gangway. The crew of Navy special warfare boat operators snapped into action instantly. The lines were cast off in less than ten seconds.
The bow of the Mark VI lifted violently as the helmsman shoved the throttles forward. Twin water jets roared to life, churning the brown waters of the Potomac into white frothing fury as the combat craft surged forward at over forty knots.
Wind whipped my face as I mounted the forward gunwale. Ahead of us, roughly two miles downriver where the Potomac widened beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, the black, hulking silhouette of the *Chesapeake Iron* plowed through the current.
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Through my binoculars, I caught a glimpse of the tug's rear deck.
A man in a blood-soaked dress khaki uniform was kneeling near the stern, his hands zip-tied behind his back. Behind him stood a shooter clad in gray mercenary fatigues, an assault rifle pressed against the back of Marcus Reynolds’ skull.
