Patriot Acts Read Online Free Page B

controlling how far I could go, and where. With the reserve light on, of course I would stop at the first gas station I could find.
    There would be two teams, then: one in the follow vehicle, to monitor my progress, to act as the stopper if I tried to reverse and double back to the safe house. The second team would be in position already, waiting at the gas station, but in contact with the first, in the follow vehicle. Maybe on radio, maybe on cell phones, it didn’t matter. The point was, they would know I was coming, and they would be ready for it when I arrived.
    Then I would turn into the station and roll up to the pumps, and before I could even get out of the Civic, the follow car would pull alongside and the team that had been waiting would emerge from their cover. They’d shoot into the vehicle from each of their directions, forming two cones of fire, and trapped in the Civic, I’d find myself unable to do anything but die.
    I could see it as clearly as if I had planned it myself.
    I could see, too, that there was no way to avoid it. I was already in the mouth. Passing the station by wouldn’t free me from the teeth. The follow vehicle would simply keep me in sight, and the second team would catch up, and they’d either wait for the Civic to choke to a halt, or they’d force me off the road, then take me there. There were plenty of places they could do it, plenty of stretches with nothing but trees and darkness and nothing else. Worse, continuing on would only take me further from the safe house. I had to get back there, had to make certain that I was the only target.
    The gas station came into view maybe a quarter of a mile ahead of me, to the left of the road. Sodium lamps shining orange through the trees, bathing the pumps beneath, turning the edges of the asphalt lot blue. I could see the darkened office, and beside it the darkened garage. The illuminated Citgo sign rose above the branches atop its pole, a shining marker for my designated grave.
    In the rearview, the lights from the follow vehicle had grown brighter. The driver was closing the gap.
    I slowed, signaled, and turned into the ambush.

CHAPTER
    THREE
    The second team had come in a Ford sedan. The sedan waited at the opposite end of the lot from where I entered, positioned almost directly between the two rows of pumps. My headlights splashed across it as I turned into the gas station, and I could see the car parked facing towards me. Its front doors were already open, and two men were standing behind them, wearing bulky winter coats and facing each other, as if conversing over the roof of the car. In the moment of illumination as my lights found them, I marked them both as Caucasian, each standing with his hands out of sight, hidden behind their respective doors. The one at the driver’s side door wore a watch cap, the other was bald.
    There were two rows of pumps, three pumps apiece, and spaced to allow for four lines of cars to refuel simultaneously. I oriented the Civic towards the right-hand row on the inside, continuing to tap my brakes, as if bleeding off speed in preparation for a stop. With my left, I reached out to unlock my door, then rolled down the window. A gust of cold autumn air, smelling faintly of gasoline and motor oil, filled the car.
    The follow vehicle turned into the station behind me, and I saw that it was a Jeep Cherokee, either green or black; it was hard to tell with the sodium lights. If it was coming to ram or pin the Civic, I was done, and for a half-second of pure terror, I thought that was exactly what it intended to do. But it pulled the turn tighter than I had, and I realized why; he didn’t want to risk getting hit by the cone of fire that would come from the Ford. Instead, the Jeep’s driver was going to come parallel, past the pumps on my right. I glanced over, saw only one occupant, the driver behind the wheel, also Caucasian, his hair dark. He didn’t look my way.
    I put more pressure on the brakes, brought