The Templar Conspiracy by Paul Christopher Read Free Book Online Page A

crush them or the snowplow blade would slice through the windshield and the roof. Either way they’d be dead.
    Peggy shifted the car into reverse and dropped her foot down on the gas in a long, smooth motion. The Aston Martin raced backward as the F150 came at them, gaining with each second. Peggy suddenly twitched the wheel to the right and simultaneously dragged up on the emergency brake to the left of the driver’s seat.
    The big car went into a sliding, perfectly executed bootlegger’s turn and stopped. Peggy released the hand brake with one hand and pushed the shift lever into second gear. They were now facing back the way they’d come. She hit the gas again and the car gathered speed until they seemed to be skating over the snow, the rear end of the car fishtailing as they went around every turn. The only things that kept it from plunging off the road and into the woods were its weight and its low center of gravity. Throughout the whole operation neither Peggy nor Holliday said a word, Peggy completely focused on her driving and Holliday doing some quick computations in his head.
    No matter how he figured it, the truck was almost sure to catch up with them before they reached the relative safety of Military Road. The chains on the tires gave the truck better traction, and it had four-wheel drive, sticking it to the snow-covered road like superglue. What was it one of his instructors at Ranger School had told him? “Fight or flight. If you can’t take flight, then turn and fight.”
    Holliday looked behind them. The F150 was less than a hundred yards away and closing fast. “That turn, can you do it again?” he yelled.
    “Say when!” Peggy answered. Holliday took the Beretta out of his pocket, jacked a round into the chamber and then used his right hand to pull open the door latch.
    “Now!”
    Again Peggy went through the moves for a bootlegger’s turn, ending up facing the oncoming truck. Holliday threw open the door and flung himself out onto the snow-covered road. He gripped the gun in both hands, leveled the pistol at the upper sill and began to fire, aiming for the windshield, adjusting his aim from left to right.
    At twenty yards the big truck suddenly swerved, tried to climb the incline to the left, then dropped backward in a spin that took it over the drop on the right, eventually stopping as it struck a stand of three oak trees broadside to the road above. Never one for taking half measures, Holliday dropped out the empty clip into the snow, fumbled around in his pocket for the second clip and rammed it into the butt of the pistol.
    He began firing, squeezing the trigger again and again, trying to concentrate his fire on the driver’s-side window. Halfway through the second clip there was a brief flash of sparks from a ricochet toward the center of the chassis. A split second later there was a flash and then a thunderous explosion as the thirty-gallon gas tank exploded, the concussion throwing the truck over on its side and igniting the trees all around it.
    Holliday stuffed the Beretta back into his jacket pocket and climbed into the Aston Martin again, slamming the door behind him. Peggy stared at the blazing truck and the trees turned into torches, her eyes wide and horrified.
    “There were people in that thing,” said Peggy, a ghastly look on her face made even more grotesque by the play of the shadows from the flickering flames.
    “Better them than us,” said Holliday, his voice cold. “Drive.”
    She dropped the Aston Martin into gear, then eased the car into a narrow turn and headed north toward Military Drive. Behind them the fiery truck faded into darkness. In the far distance they could hear the first sounds of approaching sirens. Holliday reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out his cell phone. He punched in the number for the Prospect Street house. On the sixth ring Brennan answered hesitantly.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s Holliday. Get out of there now; the house has been