The Bourne Sanction

“I’ve had help before. So I know how to handle the pressure.”

“I’m not questioning that, David.” Specter paused. “Or should I be calling you Jason?”

Bourne continued to sip his coffee, said nothing.

“I’d love you to stay, Jason, but only if it’s the right thing for you.”

Specter’s cell phone buzzed but he ignored it. “Understand, I only want what’s best for you. But your life’s been in upheaval. First, Marie’s death, then the demise of your best friends.” His phone buzzed again. “I thought you needed sanctuary, which you always have here. But if you’ve made up your mind to leave…” He looked at the number lit up on his phone. “Excuse me a moment.”

He took the call, listening.

“The deal can’t be closed without it?”

He nodded, held the phone, away from his ear, said to Bourne. “I need to get something from my car. Please order for me. Scrambled eggs and dark toast.”

He rose, went out of the restaurant. His Honda was parked directly across 36th Street. He was in the middle of the street when two men came out of nowhere. One grabbed him while the other struck him several times about the head. As a black Cadillac screeched to a halt beside the three men, Bourne was up and ru

Bourne grabbed a pulp hook off the wall, sprinted out of the restaurant. The man bundled Specter into the backseat of the Cadillac and jumped in beside him, while the first man ducked into the front passenger’s seat. The Cadillac took off just as Bourne reached it. He barely had time to swing the pulp hook into the car before he was jerked off his feet. He’d been aiming for the roof, but the Cadillac’s sudden acceleration had caused it to pierce the rear window instead. The pointed end managed to embed itself in the top of the backseat. Bourne swung his trailing legs onto the trunk.

The rear pane of safety glass was completely crazed, but the thin film of plastic sandwiched between the glass layers kept it basically intact. As the car began to swerve insanely back and forth, the driver trying to dislodge him, chips of the safety glass came away, giving Bourne an increasingly tenuous hold on the Cadillac.

The car accelerated ever more dangerously through building traffic. Then, so abruptly it took his breath away, it whipped around a corner and he slid off the trunk, his body now banging against the driver’s-side fender. His shoes struck the tarmac with such force, one of them was ripped off. Sock and skin were flayed off his heel before he could regain a semblance of balance. Using the fulcrum of the pulp hook’s turned wooden handle, he levered his legs back up onto the trunk, only to have the driver slew the Cadillac so that he was almost thrown completely clear of the car. His feet struck a trash can, sending it barreling down the sidewalk as shocked pedestrians scattered helter-skelter. Pain shot through him and he might have been finished, but the driver could not keep the Cadillac in its spin any longer. Traffic forced him to straighten out the car’s trajectory. Bourne took advantage to swing himself back up onto the trunk. His right fist plunged through the shattered rear window, seeking a second, more secure hold. The car was accelerating again as it bypassed the last of the bunched-up local traffic, gained the ramp onto Whitehurst Freeway. Bourne tucked his legs up under him, braced on his knees.

As they passed into shadow beneath the Francis Scott Key Bridge the man who had shoved Specter into the backseat thrust a Taurus PT140 through the gap in the broken glass. The handgun’s muzzle turned toward Bourne as the man prepared to fire. Bourne let go with his right hand, gripped the man’s wrist, and jerked hard, bringing the entire forearm into the open air. The motion pushed back the sleeve of the man’s coat and shirt. He saw a peculiar tattoo on the inside of the forearm: three horses’ heads joined by a central skull. He slammed his right knee into the inside of the man’s elbow, at the same time pushed it back against the frame of the car. With a satisfying crack, it broke, the hand opened, the Taurus fell away. Bourne made a grab for it, but missed.

The Cadillac swerved into the left lane and the pulp hook, ripping through the fabric of the backseat, was forced out of Bourne’s hand. He gripped the gunman’s broken arm with both hands, used it to lever himself through the ruined rear window feetfirst.

He landed between the man with the broken arm and Specter, who was huddled against the left-hand door. The man in the front passenger’s seat was kneeling on the seat, turned toward him. He also had a Taurus, which he aimed at Bourne. Bourne grabbed the body of the man beside him, shifted him so that the shot plowed into the man’s chest, killing him instantly. At once Bourne heaved the corpse against the gunman in the front bench seat. The gunman swiped the corpse in the shoulder in an attempt to move him away, but this only brought the corpse in contact with the driver, who had put on a burst of speed and who seemed to be focused solely on weaving in and out of the traffic.

Bourne punched the gunman in the nose. Blood spattered as the gunman was thrown off his knees, jolted back against the dashboard. As Bourne moved to follow up his advantage, the gunman aimed the Taurus at Specter.

“Get back,” he shouted, “or I’ll kill him.”

Bourne judged the moment. If the men had wanted to kill Specter they’d have gu

“All right.” Unseen by the gunman, his right hand scraped along the cushion of the backseat. As he raised his hands, he flicked a palmful of glass chips into the gunman’s face. As the man’s hands instinctively went up, Bourne chopped him twice with the edge of his hand. The gunman drew out a push dagger, the wicked-looking blade protruding from between his second and third knuckles. He jabbed it directly at Bourne’s face. Bourne ducked; the blade followed him, moving closer until Bourne slammed his fist into the side of the gunman’s head, which snapped back against the rear doorpost. Bourne heard the crack as his neck broke. The gunman’s eyes rolled up and he slumped against the door.

Bourne locked his crooked arm around the driver’s neck, pulled back hard. The driver began to choke. He whipped his head back and forth, trying to free himself. As he did so, the car swerved from one lane to another. The car began to swerve dangerously as he lost consciousness. Bourne climbed over the seat, pushing the driver off, down into the passenger’s-side foot well, so that he could slide behind the wheel. The trouble was though Bourne could steer, the driver’s body was blocking the pedals.

The Cadillac was now out of control. It hit a car in the left lane, bounced off to the right. Instead of fighting against the resulting spin, Bourne turned into it. At the same time, he shifted the car into neutral. Instantly the transmission disengaged; the engine was no longer being fed gas. Now its immediate momentum was the issue. Bourne, struggling to gain control, found his foot blocked from the brake by part of a leg. He steered right, jouncing over the divider and into an enormous parking lot that lay between the freeway and the Potomac.

The Cadillac sideswiped a parked SUV, careened farther to the right toward the water. Bourne kicked the unconscious driver’s inert body with his bare left foot, at last finding the brake pedal. The car finally slowed, but not enough-they were still heading toward the Potomac. Whipping the wheel hard to the right caused the Cadillac’s tires to shriek as Bourne tried to turn the car away from the low barrier that separated the lot from the water. As the front end of the Cadillac went up over the barrier, Bourne jammed the brake pedal to the floor, and the car came to a halt partway over the side. It teetered precariously back and forth. Specter, still huddled in the backseat behind Bourne, moaned a little, the right sleeve of his Harris Tweed jacket spattered with blood from his captor’s broken nose.