Part 17 (1/2)

”Absolutely.”

”I don't know, Kira,” said Desh, rolling his eyes. ”Wearing the One Ring of Power around your neck in pill form? Maybe you are taking this Frodo thing a bit far.”

Kira grinned. ”Okay,” she said, amused. ”I admit I'm a bit of a geek.” She became serious once more. ”The truth is that it's a symbolic gesture that strengthens my resolve to never enhance myself again. I want to stop Moriarty, not become him. Having a dose around my neck reminds me of the danger of giving in to the lure of power.”

”You played a lot of Dungeons And Dragons as a kid, didn't you?” said Desh wryly.

A playful smile lit up her face. ”All right,” she said. ”I can't deny that it's corny. But it really has helped. And, just for the record, I've never played Dungeons And Dragons in my life.” She paused and motioned toward the locket. ”Are you ready?”

Desh frowned. ”Right now?”

”Why not?”

”I'll do it, but let's hold off. I'd rather not be in a car when I take it, and I'd love to have a good night's sleep as well. How about if I try it in the morning?”

Kira nodded. ”Whenever you feel up to it. I guess I'm just anxious to develop that deeper level of trust. Besides,” she added, ”I've never been able to compare notes with anyone.”

As they drove they continued a lively conversation. Now that they were allies, Desh found he had an easy rapport with her. About seventy-five minutes into the drive, Kira called a stop for what she called a biological break.

Desh exited the highway and drove into a small gas station with only two pumps and without the ubiquitous mini-store. He pulled up to the pump closest to a small brick structure that contained bathrooms. He exited the pick-up and began to top off the tank while Kira got the restroom key from the attendant.

Kira had just returned the key and was crossing Desh's path as he hung up the nozzle, on her way back to the pa.s.senger seat, when Desh's heart leaped to his throat.

Chopper blades! Again!

Before Desh could move or call out a warning, Kira collapsed to the ground in front of him, a small dart protruding from her neck.

Desh had already evaluated their current location and knew there was nowhere to run or hide. The chopper was coming closer and he only had an instant to act.

He threw himself to the ground next to Kira to buy himself an additional few seconds while his mind churned furiously. He realized in desperation he had only one option. Reaching out, he clutched the chain around Kira's neck and yanked as hard as he could. The chain snapped and the locket slid to the pavement. Desh tossed the chain as far away from them as he could and s.n.a.t.c.hed the free locket, hurriedly shoving it into his mouth. He used his tongue to push the small, silver heart into the back of his mouth; shoving its point into his cheek to lodge it snugly between his teeth and gums, like a chaw of tobacco, hoping it was too small to cause a visible bulge.

His tongue was still pressed against the locket when he felt a sharp sting in his own neck and he drifted off into a dreamless oblivion.

PART FIVE.

Captured.

32.

David Desh awoke and absently shook his head to clear it, his eyes still closed, vaguely becoming aware of something uncomfortable stabbing into his cheek.

Suddenly, it all came rus.h.i.+ng back. The helicopter. Kira falling. So they hadn't used lethal force on him, after all. Either that or he was in heaven, which was unlikely since pain wasn't supposed to be part of that realm, and the ache in his mouth was very real. On the other hand, perhaps he had ended up in that other place a Desh opened his eyes, but only a crack. He wanted to appear unconscious for as long as he could. He and Kira were sitting on the floor, together, their backs against a concrete wall in a gray, dimly lit bas.e.m.e.nt. The room's only light was supplied by an uncovered bulb that hung down from the unfinished ceiling with a pull string hanging down beside it. Heavy steel rungs had been bolted into the wall at even intervals, and his wrists were bound together behind his back and through one of the rungs with plasticuffs. Kira was bound in a similar fas.h.i.+on to a rung five feet to his left. In one corner there was a sump hole, about two feet in diameter, with a pump inside and about ten inches of standing water at its bottom. Three steel poles rose to meet the ceiling in strategic locations to lend structural support to the house.

The bas.e.m.e.nt was empty save a large wooden worktable in the middle of the floor, about eight feet away from the prisoners, with an a.s.sortment of tools hanging from a pegboard above it. An unfinished wood staircase at the opposite wall led to the first floor, eventually rising to a door that was out of sight.

They appeared to be alone. It was possible no one had been watching when Desh had first stirred, but he knew it was more likely that someone had picked up his return to consciousness on a video monitor and was approaching even now.

Desh instinctively sized up his position and considered options for escape, but came up empty. As he continued to explore every facet of his surroundings and commit them to memory, he noticed with alarm that a small section of Kira Miller's skull, just over her right ear, had been shaved bald and was now covered by a white bandage.

He pushed at the heart-shaped locket with his tongue and repositioned it in the front of his mouth. As he did so, Kira began to stir. If his movements hadn't been noticed, hers certainly would be. He had no time to spare. He tried to work open the locket's tiny clasp with his tongue and by manipulating it with his teeth, but was unsuccessful. Finally he positioned the locket's seam carefully between his incisors, hoping to force it open like a particularly stubborn pistachio. After a few tries he managed to pry the two halves apart, but only a millimeter. This would have to do. He was afraid of applying too much pressure and having the locket squirt out of his mouth and out of reach. His molars would be safer, but might seal it again for good rather than open it further.

He swallowed the locket wholea”its point stabbing the inside of his throat on the way downa”knowing his stomach acid would enter the miniscule rift he had opened and begin dissolving the gell that imprisoned Kira's gene therapy c.o.c.ktail. But how long would this take, given the gellcap was barely exposed? It was impossible to say.

Kira's eyes came open with a start. She shook her head to clear it, wincing in pain as she did so, and turned to Desh with a puzzled expression on her face. But a moment later she must have remembered being at the gas station and hearing a helicopter just before she had lost consciousness. ”s.h.i.+t,” she said dejectedly. ”They got us with tranquilizer darts, didn't they?”

Desh nodded.

”I'm not usually hypersensitive to pain,” said Kira, ”but it feels more like they shot an arrow into my head.”

”The dart hit your neck. That's not what you're feeling.” Desh frowned worriedly. ”A small portion of your head above your right ear has been shaved. There's a bandage there now.”

The color drained from Kira's cheeks. ”That would explain the intense pain, all right.”

”Any idea what they might have done to you?” asked Desh.

”None whatsoever,” she replied uneasily.

”Are you going to be okay?”

Kira paused for a moment and then nodded. ”It hurts like h.e.l.l, but not so much that it's debilitating,” she replied stoically. ”I'll get by.” Her eyes darted around the bas.e.m.e.nt. ”Where are we?”

”I don't know,” said Desh. He was about to continue when the door opened and two men walked down the stairs. As the first man came into view, both prisoners recognized him immediately. The wiry Black Ops agent who had called himself Smith.

The same could not be said for the man who followed him. He was in his late forties, of average height but slightly overweight. He was wearing gray suit pants, a blue-striped oxford dress s.h.i.+rt, and black wingtips. He had a small mouth and thin lips, and blond-brown hair that was parted down the middle. There was something about the man that was unsettling, as if the sight of him had set of subconscious alarms that he was a dangerous predator, despite his una.s.suming appearance.

”Kira Miller,” the man said smugly. ”At long last.”

He put his back to the workbench and hoisted himself to a seated position on the table facing the prisoners, his legs hanging down casually. Smith remained standing, ten feet away from the workbench and facing in the same direction.

”Who are you?” demanded Kira.

”You don't really think I'm going to answer that,” he said in amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Call me Sam, and let's leave it at that. And to antic.i.p.ate your next question, we're in what is called a safe house. There are four heavily armed men upstairs whose job it is to follow any order I give.”

Desh had no doubt from their respective postures that this was Smith's boss, which meant he was also probably the man they had been calling Moriarty. And he had access to a safe house and considerable legitimate authority. Not surprising.

”So you must be government,” guessed Desh. ”Sam as in Uncle Sam? Is that supposed to be cute or just psychotic?”

The man moved in a blur, much faster than his appearance would have suggested. He pushed off the table, took the few steps to where Desh was immobilized on the floor, and kicked him savagely in the gut, leading with the point of his black wingtip. Desh tightened his stomach just in time and tried to turn away, but his stomach took the full brunt of the kick, and he reeled from the blow. Pain signals bombarded his nervous system.

Sam, calm again, returned to his perch on the table. ”I don't like your tone, Mr. Desh,” he said, as if reprimanding a grade-schooler. ”You will address me with the proper respect. My business is with Dr. Miller here. The only reason you aren't dead yet is because I'm trying to figure out how you factor into this. But I would watch how you speak to me. I'm not that curious.”

Desh didn't respond as the man who called himself Sam turned once again to Kira. ”How's the head?” he taunted.