Part 8 (2/2)

Desh sprinted along the tree line in the opposite direction from the church so he could circle back around behind the car. As the two men entered St. Peters, Desh cut quietly across the road and noiselessly lowered himself into a military crawl. He inched forward toward the pa.s.senger door, not even allowing himself to breathe. He was betting the driver had not locked the car.

Desh let out a slow, preparatory breath and quietly removed his goggles, leaving them on the ground next to him. Then, in a single fluid motion, he shot up from the grounda”catching the door handle on the way upa”and yanked the door wide open. It wasn't locked! Wasting no time congratulating himself, Desh pointed the gun at the startled driver, who had just begun reaching for his own weapon. ”Hands on the das.h.!.+” he barked fiercely.

17.

The driver studied Desh thoughtfully, and then calmly placed his hands on the dash as instructed. The tip of Desh's tongue protruded just slightly through his lips as it tended to do whenever he was engaged in any physical activity that required his absolute concentration. He slid through the car's open door and into the back seat, his gun never wavering from its target.

”Slide over and close the door,” commanded Desh in hushed tones.

The man did as he was told.

”Now slide back and get us on the road. Quickly!” demanded Desh. ”Head farther away from the Church.” Desh had no interest in pa.s.sing the man's colleagues who he knew would be exiting the church at any moment after they discovered they had been set up.

The driver did as instructed, and the church rapidly receded in the rear-view mirror.

”Very impressive, Mr. Desh,” the driver allowed. ”But then, I have heard good things.”

”Who are you?” demanded Desh. ”And why were you and your people following me?”

”Call me Smith,” said the driver, a short, wiry man in his late thirties, with short brown hair and a two-inch scar under his ear that followed his jaw line. ”After a session with Kira Miller you get a little paranoid, don't you? Don't know who to trust or what to believe.”

”Smith, huh,” said Desh to himself. The man was unmistakably military. And along with the obvious alias, there was a peculiar arrogance about him, as though he considered himself above it all; unenc.u.mbered by rules that might apply to lesser men. ”Black Ops, then?” guessed Desh.

A self-satisfied smile flashed across Smith's face. ”That's right,” he said. ”We had a shot at the girl and we took it. Sorry we surprised you. Given what you've just gone through you're reacting the way any smart soldier would. But we're on the same side you and I. Really.”

”Why was I under surveillance then, if we're on the same side?”

”I would be happy to explain that and much more, Mr. Desh. I'm the one who authorized putting you on this Op in the first place. I trust that Colonel Connelly gave you a number to call when you found the girl?”

Desh didn't respond.

”I'm going to lend you a cell phone,” said Smith. ”I have two of them. I'm going to reach in my pocket for the phone but remain facing the road. I'll throw it back to you. If I begin to pull out a gun, shoot me,” he added.

Desh knew that at their current speed any hostile exchange would cause them to crash, killing them both. Mutually a.s.sured destruction. Smith would realize this as well.

”Okay,” said Desh, nodding warily. ”But very slowly.”

The man reached into his pocket and carefully inched out the phone, lifting it with his hand facing backward so Desh could see. Still facing the road, he flipped the phone over his shoulder. Desh caught it with his left hand while he continued to train the tranquilizer gun on Smith with his right.

”Dial the number that the colonel gave you,” instructed Smith.

Desh flipped open the phone and dialed the number he had memorized. As the call went through, a ringtone melody issued from Smith's s.h.i.+rt pocket. He looked at Desh in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows. ”Mind if I get that,” he said smugly.

Smith reached into his s.h.i.+rt pocket and flipped open the phone. ”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Desh,” he said, his voice arriving in stereo from both the front seat and through the phone in Desh's hand. ”I think it's time we had a little talk.”

18.

David Desh still wasn't sure who to trust, but Smith had established his authenticity, even if Connelly hadn't been aware of his activities. Even so, Desh had an uneasy feeling in his gut that wouldn't seem to go away.

”Okay then,” said Desh. ”Let's talk.” He continued to point the gun at the Black Ops agent.

”I'll tell you what, Mr. Desh. How about I pull off to the side of the road and we have a disarming ceremony first.”

Desh remained silent.

”What do you say?” pressed Smith. ”You can keep your gun on me while I toss all of my weapons into a bag in my trunka”including the gun strapped to my ankle You can frisk me to be sure.” He paused. ”In return, you can hang on to your weapon. Just don't point it at me.”

Desh gazed at the scarred man thoughtfully, but said nothing.

”And while we have a little discussion and get to know each other,” pressed Smith, ”I'll even drive you home. As long as you sit in the front seat. Be easier to talk that way, and I refuse to be your chauffeur.”

Desh thought through all the angles and finally agreed. Five minutes later two guns and a combat knife were tucked in a bag and locked safely away in the trunk, and Desh was satisfied that Smith was now unarmed. After allowing the wiry man to contact his men to give them a quick situation report, Desh settled into the pa.s.senger seat, safely restrained in a seat belt, but angling his body so he was facing Smith rather than the road and was out of the man's easy reach.

”All right,” said Desh, as Smith accelerated back onto the road, his left hand on the steering wheel and his right arm resting on the storage console between them. ”Why don't you tell me what's going on.”

”I'm afraid that isn't how this needs to work,” said Smith evenly. ”I will tell you everything. Make no mistake about that. I do understand how confused this woman can make someone and that we surveilled you without your knowledge. So I'm willing to cut you some slack. But we're going to do this my way,” he insisted. ”First you answer my questions. Then I'll answer yours. Despite heading a Black Ops agency that doesn't formally exist and using an alias, I am still your superior officer. I'm sure Connelly told you that.”

Desh raised his eyebrows. ”Superior officer?” he said, unimpressed. ”Come off it, Smith. You've been calling me Mr. Desh. You know I'm a civilian. Connelly did tell me to follow your instructions, but Mr. Desh can tell you to go to h.e.l.l anytime he wants.”

Smith sighed. ”All right, Mr. Desh. Let's try this another way, then. If you want to know what's going on, you'll have to answer my questions first. Period. Otherwise, I'll leave you completely in the dark.” He glanced sideways at Desh. ”Well?”

Desh glared at him for several long seconds but finally nodded irritably.

”Good,” said Smith. ”So tell me how Kira Miller got the drop on you.”

Desh told him about receiving the fake message from Griffin and what had happened at the hacker's apartment. Smith interrupted occasionally for clarification but said very little otherwise. When Desh described how Kira had stripped him and had him dress in sweats, Smith glanced at his gray outfit, considerably worse for wear since Kira had pulled it from her duffel, and an amused smile came over his face.

Smith listened intently as Desh described the precautions Kira had taken at the motel. Smith was well aware that they had worked to great effect on his men. Desh ended his narrative at the point at which Kira had exited through the adjoining motel room, leaving out any mention of her claims of having invented material that could hide her heat signature.

”d.a.m.n she's slippery,” commented Smith when Desh was finished. ”It's uncanny how she manages to stay at large. And then, to risk kidnapping the elite soldier coming after her practically in the middle of the nation's capitala”and get away with it. She has b.a.l.l.s the size of Texas,” he said, partly in frustration and partly in admiration.

Smith paused in thought as they shot along the dark highway, nearly abandoned at this early hour except for the occasional trucker hauling cargo through the night. The car's ride was smooth and its well-tuned engine issued only the softest of roars to interrupt what would have otherwise been a coc.o.o.n of silence. Desh's entire universe had been reduced to the luxury interior of an expensive sedan, the twenty-foot swath made by its headlights as they cut through the enveloping darkness, and a stranger using an alias whose motives were currently just as hidden as the stretch of road beyond the headlights.

”Okay,” began Smith, having finally plotted his interrogation. ”You said she talked with you for an hour or so. What did she talk about?”

”She claimed she was innocent,” said Desh. ”She wanted to convince me.”

”Did she say why this was important to her?”

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