Chapter 7 - The Tarmac Pursuit
The humid wind whipped across the vast expanse of the Dulles tarmac as Marcus sprinted out of the annex's rear exit, his shoes pounding against the sun-baked asphalt. Fifty yards ahead, the fleeing operative was racing toward a idling black utility truck parked illegally near a service gate.
"Stop right there! Federal order!" Marcus shouted, though his voice was instantly swallowed by the deafening roar of a Boeing 777 throttling up for takeoff on a parallel runway.
The operative glanced back, his face half-obscured by a black tactical balaclava, and realized he couldn't reach the truck in time. Instead of surrendering, he violently swung the carbon-fiber briefcase behind him, unlatched the casing, and dumped a handful of shredded, smoking circuit boards onto the tarmac—alongside a secondary, blinking red device.
"He's got a thermal detonator charge!" the federal marshal screamed, diving hard behind a baggage cart as he sprinted out to join Marcus. "Get down!"
Marcus didn't dive. His eyes locked onto the flashing red light on the device. During his years overseeing federal prosecutions involving domestic terror cells and high-tech corporate sabotage, he had seen that specific model before. It wasn't a high-explosive device; it was an electronic pulse generator designed to completely fry any data storage medium within a fifty-foot radius.
The operative was willing to destroy the evidence rather than let it fall back into federal hands.
"Not on my watch," Marcus muttered.
With calculated speed, Marcus closed the remaining distance, ignored the blinking timer with only four seconds left, and kicked the device hard across the open tarmac away from the server components.
CRACK-HISS.
A blinding flash of purple light erupted as the pulse generator discharged harmlessly into the empty air, scorching a black circle into the concrete. But the distraction had bought the operative enough time to leap into the utility truck, slam it into reverse, and tear through the chain-link service gate in a shower of twisted metal and flying sparks.
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Marcus stood chest-heaving in the center of the tarmac, watching the tail-lights of the fleeing truck vanish toward the perimeter highway. He lowered his Sig Sauer, his jaw tight. The physical data had been saved from the pulse charge, but the mastermind behind the heist was still slipping through their fingers.
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