Her radiant confidence was gratifying, but not particularly reassuring. Caine forced himself to return her smile, restarted the car in manual, turned off the computer, eased slowly into gear. Driving like a maiden aunt on her way to church. “So we take that turn up ahead?”
“Yup. Let me see; the woman back there said that most rentals have maps in the glove compartment.” She opened it and rummaged through the various manuals and registration papers.
As he moved off the shoulder of the road and back into the northbound lane, Caine checked the rearview mirror: no traffic-and the hard-hatted road worker had apparently finished her chores, coming to stand at the side of the road, walkie-talkie in hand.
Opal was muttering and still rummaging: “Every damn promotional brochure known to man, but if you need to find a map-” Caine stole a quick sideways glance; she was bent over, face almost in the glove compartment. A hint of the elfin in the faintly retrousse nose, the delicate, almost pointed chin, the bright, wide, vaguely feline eyes. Since being reawakened five weeks ago, he’d occasionally wondered if his libido had followed his lunar memories into limbo: it was reassuring to discover-as he did now-that this was not the case.
“You turn here.” Her head had swiveled toward him, and, smiling, she cocked it in the direction of the oncoming white concrete marker.
Caught staring. Damn. “Um…yes, right.”
He checked the rearview mirror before turning. Still no traffic, although the road technician seemed to be looking after them. Wondering if the tourists understood the directions, he surmised, turning in at the marker, kicking up dust from the unused roadbed. Evidently satisfied, the technician removed her hard hat, opened the door to her own car, and got in.
Chapter Seventeen
MENTOR
Downing checked his watch. This was taking too long. And besides, it was madness.
The old-fashioned hand radio on the passenger seat paged once. There was no subsequent sound of a channel opening-and there wasn’t supposed to be: coded signals only.
He looked at the hand radio, looked up at the rough-hewn slopes two kilometers to the north. There had to be a better way, a safer way. But he hadn’t been able to think of one-and now it was too late. The Fox is in the woods-let’s just hope there are no Hounds around to chase it…
ODYSSEUS
As the car bounced over a rock and down into a pothole, Opal’s hand flinched to support her recovering liver. “Damn, this really is a goat trail.”
“Sorry,” Caine apologized through gritted teeth.
“Not your fault,” she said through a slow, measured exhalation.
They entered a short, straight stretch of road, refreshingly dark under the glowering brows of a steep upslope overhang. Spoor of the prior year’s abandoned construction efforts-piles of gravel, a half-completed drainage ditch, a flatbed with a load of PVC pipe sagging against weathered downslope straps, a forlorn shovel twinned with an equally forlorn pickaxe-seemed to huddle in the shade as they went past, and the incline increased.
The car skittered on some of the gravel; Opal bounced against the door again, briefly went pale. Caine winced in sympathetic pain: “We could go back.”
She shook her head, checked the map. “Naw, we don’t have much further to go.” The car’s engine began wailing unsteadily as the incline became even steeper, the bone-dry dust swirling up around. “Assuming this car can get us there, that is.”
Caine nodded, looked at the gauges. “It’s overheating. Too much engine strain.” He reached over, snapped a switch. The air conditioning sighed and died. The engine immediately ceased its high-pitched, surging struggles, eased back into a consistent and steady hum. “With the AC off, the engine should be able to handle the slope. But you might want to open your window.”
Opal smiled her assent, sought the window controls, pushed the button with two downward pointing arrows-just a moment after Caine noticed that there was another button alongside it which had only one such arrow. “Wait-!” he said.
The window, responding to the “fast-retract” control, snapped down as they came out of the shadow of the overhang. An abrupt rush of air scalloped into the car and out again, fiercely snatching the map right out of Opal’s hand. “Shit!” she cried.
In the rearview mirror, Caine saw it flutter down into the shadows behind them.
He also noticed, now three hundred meters below, with four kilometers of treacherous switchback roadway between them, two vehicles exiting the main highway onto the same turnoff they had used. More sightseers turned away from the main overlook. He hoped their vehicles were up to the strain of the climb. Probably were: they were large-wheeled, boxy, off-road machines-apparently of matching make and model. Tourists straight from the rental agency, from the look of it.
MENTOR
The radio paged twice, quickly. Then a single signal, a long pause, and another single signal. Hounds had arrived-and there were two of them. Bloody hell; Nolan was right.
Downing started the car. Not that he needed to: there was no cause for alarm, and he had no role other than to await the results-and to clean up any mess left behind when his SEAL snipers were done “protecting” Caine and Opal.
But twenty-five years in covert operations had taught him one lesson above all others:
When a perfect plan meets imperfect, unpredictable reality, things go wrong. And sometimes, the greatest damage can be done by the smallest unforeseen detail-
ODYSSEUS
Opal turned back toward him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about the map. But we’d better go back and get it.”
He matched her smile. “You’re proving to be nothing but trouble.”
Her eyes did not waver, but her smile changed slightly. “That is my mission in life.”
He heard the muted insinuation in her tone, felt his body begin to respond-and doused himself with a cold shower of reason: Okay, Caine, let’s not accompany her too quickly down the flirtation flume-ride. “Well, you have accomplished your mission, Captain.”
“For now.” Her voice was still playful, still subtly provocative. Caine decided that he was starting to like Greece a great deal.
As he swung the car through a tight 180-degree turn, he saw two approaching plumes of dust on the roadway below: the approaching sightseers. He hit the accelerator; better to retrieve the map before the new arrivals reached the area they had to search. No reason to create a traffic jam on a cliffside stretch of road that was officially two-lane, but sure didn’t look or feel that way.
They plunged back into the sharply delimited shadow of the overhang.
MENTOR
The radio paged once, twice-and then the fateful third time. Bollocks: something’s awry. Murphy’s Law strikes again.
Downing waited for his collarcom to chirrup-but instead, the handset toned another three times.
He snatched up the radio as he shifted out of neutral. “This is not a secure line. Reroute to command channel alpha-”
“Game Warden, this is Huntsman. We do not have time-repeat, do not have time-to wait for secure com clearance and switching.”
Crikey, the op is going pear-shaped. “Understood. Sitrep, Huntsman.”
“Fox doubled back into our blindspot-”
“Your what?”
“Our blindspot: a forty-meter stretch of road where we have no line of sight.”
Just fucking brilliant. “Huntsman, advance Dogcatcher One to the nearest fire enabled position immediately.”