“There’s a clearing about three-quarters of a mile up ahead,” he told Gephardt. “Stop there.”
“Why?”
“Just stop there.”
“Not without a reason. If those guys had a radio or phones—”
“They’re all dead,” said Danny. “Just do what I say.”
Gephardt tightened his lips. Danny scanned the nearby jungle, making sure there was nothing ahead.
“There,” he told Gephardt as they came around the bend. The clearing was small, maybe a dozen yards long and another two dozen deep; the far side was all jungle, and there were some rocks amid the high brush near the road.
Danny got out of the truck and went around to the rear of the SUV. He took out the fuselage he’d retrieved and hoisted it onto his back. It was so light it felt as if it had been made out of Styrofoam, not high-tech carbon and metal fiber.
“You comin’?” he yelled to Gephardt, who was still in the vehicle.
“Coming where?”
“I’ll drop you back at the compound.”
“I gotta get the Escalade back.”
“You sure?”
“Jesus, man. Are you crazy? How are you getting out of here?”
Danny pointed toward the sky.
“Helicopter?” asked Gephardt.
“Osprey,” said Danny.
“Why the hell didn’t we take it out here in the first place?”
“I didn’t want to attract attention if I didn’t have to,” said Danny. “Unfortunately, that didn’t work out.”
“Man.”
“Are you coming?”
“I got the Caddy. I can’t leave it. The drive’s easy from here,” added Gephardt. “That’ll be the only checkpoint. The army’s about five miles down the road. Won’t even cost me anything.”
“OK.”
“You didn’t have to kill them.”
“I couldn’t take a chance,” said Danny. “You don’t have to wait,” he added.
Gephardt frowned. “Who are you really working for?”
“I told you. Fact-finding for the NSC.”
“The NSC doesn’t have magic bullets that appear out of nowhere.”
“Neither do I,” said Danny, starting into the field.
2
The monster leered at the base of the stairs, its mouth open wide enough to display its black teeth. Blood-edged eyes bulged from their sockets, hunting for prey. Suddenly its nostrils pinched together — the scent had been found. It bounded up the stairs with a deathly scream: food was at hand.
Turk Mako steadied his gun and shot the zombie square in the head.
One hundred thirty points floated onto the screen, increasing his score in the video game to 10,400. He was on level 12; things were just starting to heat up.
“Say, babe, are we going swimming or what?”
Turk turned and glanced at his girlfriend, Li Pike, who was standing near the door of the small hotel room suite. The oversized T-shirt she wore over her bikini somehow accented rather than hid her athletic frame. The curve of her breasts and hips teased desire into Turk. His eyes followed the hem of the shirt down her smooth legs, pausing over her sculptured calves and then wandering to her bare toes. She’d painted her nails last night, before they went out; the bright, glossy red seemed to glow.
“So, are we going?” she asked.
“I’m on level 12,” Turk answered.
“And?”
“Well, and—” He saw a zombie coming to the right of the screen, dodged the joystick left, spun and fired. As the zombie’s head shattered, he hit the key to pause the game.
“And you’d rather play a video game than hang out with me,” said Li.
He knew she was joking — Li had a way of exaggerating her smile when she was teasing or being ironic — but still there was the gentlest bit of an edge in what she said.
A small bit.
“No, no,” he said.
“What would Dr. Kleenex say?” Li teased.
“Avoidance therapy. I’m killing zombies because I can’t kill my boss.”
“The Iranians, you mean.”
“Them, too.”
No doubt Dr. Kleenex — Turk’s nickname for the counselor he’d been ordered to see as a mandatory “de-stress” from his last mission — would have read quite a bit into his absorption in the video game. But then, Dr. Kleenex read quite a bit into everything.
The counselor’s real name was Washington Galiopis, but he had earned the nickname by prominently stationing boxes of tissues near Turk’s chair every time the pilot reported to him. The man seemed to want him to break down and cry.
That wasn’t Turk. Nor did Turk feel that he had post-traumatic stress, though he would certainly admit to having been under a great deal of strain on the mission, which involved the secret destruction of two Iranian nuclear weapons bases.
As a test pilot, he was used to dealing with stress. Admittedly, having been on the ground and getting fired at — and firing at others — was a new and not entirely pleasant experience. And immediately upon his return, he had lost his temper, briefly, when confronting his boss, Breanna Stockard, the head of the military side of Whiplash.
The thing was, she deserved to be blasted. In his mind, telling her that she should have had more faith in him was the mildest possible thing he could do.
After all, she’d sent someone to kill him.
As things worked out, Turk had befriended his would-be assassin, Mark Stoner, by saving his life. Together they had escaped, thanks to a plan Turk concocted.
It was only when they were back in the States going through the debrief that Turk realized how close he had come to being assassinated, and why. He didn’t blame Stoner at all. On the contrary, Stoner had saved his life, and he had nothing but gratitude for him.
The same could not be said for Breanna. Until now he’d looked at her as a role model, almost an older sister. Her husband and her father were both war heroes and superb pilots, men Turk greatly admired. But now he knew that her kindness and concern toward him was fake. She didn’t care if he lived or died; she didn’t care about anything, except for the mission.
Turk, too, was dedicated to doing his duty. He had been prepared to die and even expected to many times, not only on that mission but during his entire service with Special Projects and with the Air Force in general. But the fact that he and Stoner had gotten out alive proved that he shouldn’t have been given up for dead. Breanna should have had a better contingency plan for getting him out.
Because she didn’t, some of the bravest men he’d ever known, all members of Delta Force, had died in Iran. They’d died protecting him, and helping him do his job. How the hell was he ever going to make up for that?
“So, are you coming or not?” asked Li.
“Just let me—”
She stalked over and kissed him on the lips, leaning her chest into his.
The kiss ended too soon.
“I’ll be downstairs.” She straightened. “Try to make it by lunch.”
Turk watched her walk from the room. Li was a pilot herself — she flew A-10s — but there was something about the way she filled a bikini that ought not to be allowed.
Kill zombies?
“Damn,” muttered Turk as the door closed behind her. He switched off the TV and tossed the controller on the bed.
“Wait up,” he called, hustling for the door.
3
Danny Freah took a deep breath, then rose from his seat and walked to the front of the secure conference room in the basement of the White House. He’d given a number of presentations in this room, yet he’d never felt quite the flutter in his chest that he felt today. Partly that was because the President herself was here; he’d never directly given her a briefing before.