The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear'of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He'd never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.
His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout.
Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.
Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver's body out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels. Then he roughly crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat. Both men had lost their blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or care. No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as helpless as children lost in the forest.
Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for fifty yards before finally gaining traction. Only then did Suvorov's fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on.
He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the precise middle of a rutted country road.
As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings.
Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging from their limbs. This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were somewhere in the Southern United States. He spotted a narrow paved crossroad ahead and slin to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust.
On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER. GAS & GROCERIES. Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years before.
The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned left. The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing an occasional farmhouse. Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning. Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite direction. He came to a winer road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning post designating it as State Highway 700. The number meant nothing to him, so he made another left turn and continued on.
Throughout the drive, Suvorov's mind remained cold and riginly alert. Larimer and Moran sat silently watchful, blindly putting their faith in the man at the wheel.
Suvorov relaxed and eased his foot from the gas pedal. No following headlights showed in the rearview mirror, and as long as he maintained the posted speed limit his chances of being stopped by a local sheriff were remote. He wondered what state he was in.