Smith spotted a muddy side road with an old truck waiting to pull out and he checked his iPhone again, confirming that it wasn’t his turn despite the fact that the Merge was still painting his path yellow. The trailhead was another 5.4 miles.
Thoughts of Dresner were just reestablishing themselves in his mind when the truck darted out in front of him. Smith slammed on the brakes, but with the slick road and lack of traction control, the rear of the Triumph slid out and bounced off the larger vehicle’s front bumper with the heartrending sound of crumpling steel.
He tried to compensate, but what was left of his tires’ grip disappeared when he hit the muddy shoulder. A moment later the passenger door slammed into a tree and threw him into what was left of the console he’d spend hours building.
And then all he could hear was the light rain on the crumpled soft top. That is until his own voice drowned it out.
“Son of a bitch!”
He tried to open his door, but didn’t succeed until he rammed a shoulder angrily into it. Leaping out into the mud, he tried to squelch the fantasy of beating the driver of that truck to death with his own arm. Before he could completely eradicate the violent image, though, something moved in the woods about twenty meters to his right.
Smith was using the commercial version of the Merge, so there was no sophisticated outline enhancement, but it didn’t matter. He knew the barrel of an M16 when he saw one.
He made a move for the Sig Sauer stashed in the Triumph’s glove box, but then froze when a shout rose up behind him.
“Don’t!”
He held his arms out non-threateningly and turned back slowly. One gun had become three and all were held by men who appeared to know how to use them.
The sound of a motor became audible up the road and he watched a dark blue Yukon come to a stop next to what was left of his Triumph. The man who stepped out was probably around seventy, with gray, close-cropped hair and a thin but powerful body that would have taken iron discipline to maintain at that age. He moved with military precision and not the mercenary swagger that Smith had learned to immediately recognize. No, this man had served his country as a soldier — probably for his entire career. But what country?
“Colonel,” he said with an American accent that answered that particular question. “I’m a great admirer. We all owe you a debt for your work on the Hades virus. And of course, your involvement in Cassandra and Chambord’s computer.”
He’d listed the operations in a matter-of-fact tone, but they’d clearly been chosen for impact. While some of Smith’s role in Hades was in the public record, his involvement with the other two incidents was highly classified.
Smith examined the man as he approached — the intensity of his green eyes, the scar running along the weathered skin beneath his chin, the expression that gave nothing away.
“Walk with me, Colonel,” he said, passing by and heading into the trees. A quick glance around confirmed that the armed men were still there. And even if they hadn’t been, a physical confrontation with this man, as old as he was, wouldn’t be a trivial matter. Better to just play along for now.
“I’m sorry about your car,” he said, actually sounding sincere. “It’s a beautiful piece of American history.”
Smith thought again about the gun safely tucked into what was probably now an inoperable glove box and how, if he survived this, Randi would never let him live it down. How many times had she criticized him for not always bristling with weaponry?
Disconcertingly, the man also seemed to be able to read minds.
“I’d like to talk to you about Randi Russell.”
“I’m sorry,” Smith responded. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
The man’s smile had the look of a rare event. “I have to admit I thought it was odd that you were the first person she came to. Your history with her sister and husband seems like it would make your relationship…complicated.”
“We’ve been to therapy,” Smith replied, his sarcasm somewhat tempered by the fact that he subconsciously wanted to end the phrase with sir. “Can I assume she’s getting a similar visit?”
“You cannot. It’s my understanding that she’s an unreasonable and unpleasant woman. Out of respect for both of you, I’m hoping to keep this civil.”
“And what exactly are we talking about here?”
The man didn’t reply immediately, instead continuing deeper into the woods. Despite his comment about civility, it was hard not to notice that they kept moving farther and farther from the road.
“We’re talking about the severed head Ms. Russell brought back from Afghanistan.”
Smith had been prepared to hear just about anything, but that hadn’t been on the long list in his head. Still, he managed to keep his expression passive.
“You have an incredible opportunity here, Colonel. The bomb sniffer you’re working on could make IEDs an unpleasant memory. The enhanced ability to separate enemy from civilian will give us a real chance to fight insurgencies without turning the locals against us. I’m even confident that you’ll get those directional microphones working eventually.”
Again, his words were meant less as a compliment and more to showcase his startling access to classified military information.
“I think you’re overestimating our advantage,” Smith said, probing. “If this thing was already in Afghanistan a month before it was released, I wonder how long until everyone has access to it.”
The man stopped and looked directly at him. “No one else has access to it, Colonel. Just do your job. You’re good at it.”
They stood there locked in a stare until, to Smith’s surprise, the man looked away and started back to the road. “This meeting was a courtesy, Colonel, but you don’t want to cross my path again. The next time it won’t go as well for you.”
34
Smith pulled himself closer to the tree, escaping the heavy raindrops exploding against his head, though it wasn’t much of an improvement. He’d spent the last two hours bushwhacking to a road running parallel to the one he’d left the Triumph on and had been completely soaked through for most of it.
On the brighter side, there was no way in hell he’d been followed — assuming the man he’d met with was even interested in doing so. More likely, he could be taken at his word. A truce had been called and now it was just a question of whether Smith would honor it — which, of course, he wouldn’t.
And that was just about guaranteed to make things interesting going forward. Whoever the man was, he was clearly not someone to be screwed with. Nor someone accustomed to passing out second chances.
Smith heard a car approach and retreated a little farther into the woods. He didn’t recognize it when it crested the hill, but it slowed and started hugging the edge of the road when it got close.
Smith darted from cover, timing it so he could grab the handle and jump in before the vehicle came to a full stop. The sudden acceleration nearly caused the door to clip his foot as the driver executed a perfect 180. Engine noise filled the cramped interior and steam rose from the tires as he fumbled with his seat belt.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Don’t insult me,” Randi Russell said, casually sipping from a Starbucks cup despite their speed and the rain.
He looked around at the shabby upholstery of the nineties Honda for a few seconds, then craned his neck to take in a backseat full of old CDs and dog hair. Not your typical Agency-issue vehicle.
“Did you sweep the car for bugs?” he said.
“Nah. I stole it. Best way if you want to be absolutely sure.”