The Lost Codex Read Online Free PDF Page A

smarter to run.
    “Tango at nine o’clock.”
    Two operators joined DeSantos and they headed off in pursuit, running down the six steps and along the concrete retaining wall that fronted small grass lawns. The perp had a decent lead on them, but as they closed the gap—not easy lugging thirty pounds of equipment—an SUV approached. The driver sped up and DeSantos cursed under his breath.
    “That better not be what I think it is. Either of you got a clear shot?”
    “Got it,” said Wickford, the team member to his left, as he ran into the middle of the street and took up a position with his MP5 aimed squarely at the vehicle.
    The SUV screeched to a stop and the fleeing tango got in. The truck reversed rapidly, swinging side to side, slamming into the parked cars to its left and right, moving toward the main drag, where it had come from.
    “Goddamn,” DeSantos said, huffing it down the sidewalk, in senseless foot pursuit of the moving vehicle.
    Wickford got off several short bursts, striking the grill and headlights but apparently missing the target.
    The SUV swung left at the end of the road, made an abrupt pivot, and headed west on M Street SW. Because OPSIG was black, there was no one to call it into, no dispatcher who could get a cruiser or two to take up pursuit.
    DeSantos joined the two operators and immediately engaged Wickford. “What the hell happened? How’d you miss?”
    “Mission objective’s to take the men alive. I was trying to hit the tires but the asshole was swerving all over the place. As it was, I took a risk.”
    DeSantos knew Wickford was right, but he still bristled at letting two terrorists slip their net. It was embarrassing. He kicked a rock and watched it bounce along the asphalt.
    VAIL SAW THE MAN too late. He slammed the door into her face, knocking her to the floor, then ran past her and out the front.
    Vail was on her feet an instant later, headed in the same direction—but moving cautiously in case he was waiting outside to shoot, or stab, her.
    She scanned the street, painting the area with her light. The mature trees with their dense trunks and branches and cars lining the curb made it tough to get a clear view of the landscape. As precious seconds passed, she saw nothing.
    Then—movement above: in the darkness to her left, against the cloud-patched moonlit sky, she saw a man running along the roof, negotiating its aggressive slope. The apartment compound appeared to be blocks long, consisting of attached rows of homes that ran parallel to one another.
    He had a different build from the tango who flattened her on the way out of the house, but nobody would be sprinting across the tops of homes late at night unless he happened to be a criminal trying to evade law enforcement.
    “FBI, don’t move!”
    She had to laugh at that one herself: like this terrorist, who might be a suicide bomber, would suddenly stop, raise his hands above his head and say, “Aw, shucks. Ya got me.”
    She keyed her mic. “Got a runner, headed north on the rooftops. I’m in pursuit.”
    “Charlie Team acknowledging. On our way.”
    That was Uzi’s voice, she was sure of it. That was the good news. The bad news was that these townhouses formed the largest blocks of contiguous buildings she had ever seen. But it was easier running on flat ground than a canted roof, so the perp would have to tire before she did—and then she would be waiting for him.
    Vail maintained her stride, an accomplishment considering that she was keeping her eye on the perp while simultaneously watching out for broken sidewalk and tree roots—neither was in short supply.
    Fifty yards ahead she saw a man running toward her—Uzi, followed by a contingent of operators. The assailant saw them too, and apparently calculating that he would rather grapple with a single woman than a company of armed men, slid down toward the edge of the roof.
    Uh, where you think you’re going, buddy?
    He grabbed the white rain gutter, swung his legs