The sign said City of Washington, District of Columbia, Population 531,423. Speed Limit 55 MPH.
Doug raised his heel, the car slowed. He frowned. No road-blocks, no pursuit! There had been plently of time since the helicopters had landed—five, six minutes perhaps. They knew where he was going, and were going to let him walk right into it, some neatly conceived trap at the hospital. So they'd be sure to have him alive ... alive, to be used as an example!
Savagely, he heeled the pedal down. Let them be waiting—they were fools if they hadn't figured on the swords! Or—or he was a fool, for counting on them.
The car's tires wailed as he rounded the long, curving turn that brought him onto St. Jefferson Way, past the Payne Monument, and within two blocks of the headquarters building hospital wing.
The traffic was thickening, planned of course to make things look as natural as possible—not to arouse his suspicion at the last moment....
"Get those swords ready, kids...."
He heard them scrape from their scabbards.
And without warning the form of a woman darted into his path. He swerved, jammed the pedal forward, and the car rocked sickenly.
And he had seen her face in that one awful second—it was Dot who had fallen in the street behind him!
The boys were at his heels as he leapt from the car. There were white-clad men rushing toward them, and he had Dot's form in his arms as the first of them closed in.