Authors: Douglas E. Richards
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Thriller, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Adventure, #Fantasy
Callan
was stunned by her audacity. He could have shot her as she dived from the car
but he couldn’t risk killing her; something she must have counted on. He
frantically released his own belt and hurled himself toward the driver’s seat
to take control of the runaway car, when he realized with a sinking feeling
that he was too late. Kira’s rudderless Lexus shot through the red light, and
Callan heard the wail of a horn and the screeching of tires coming from his
right. The driver of the oncoming car, a small Honda, managed to reduce his
speed considerably, but couldn’t stop from slamming into the passenger door of
the Lexus, creating a violent and unmistakable explosion of sound that could
only arise from the collision of two steel-and-glass missiles, each weighing
thousands of pounds.
The
collision occurred just as Callan was reaching the driver's side to take
control of the car, and it threw him violently against the side of the steering
wheel, fracturing one of his ribs. While the air bags had inflated instantly,
Callan had been unbelted, and in such an awkward position they had been unable
to prevent injury.
He
shook off the severe pain, put the car in park, and stumbled out of the door as
the air bags began deflating automatically. He spotted the girl running out of
sight through a brightly lighted gas station on the opposite corner, noting
with satisfaction that her daredevil stunt had not left her unscathed. A jagged
hole had been torn in her pants and grass-stain and blood now decorated her
exposed thigh.
Callan
went after her as fast as he could given the pain in his ribcage, ignoring the
startled shout of, “Hey, where are you going?” from the owner of the Honda.
He
made it to the gas station and scanned the area in all directions, searching
frantically for his multimillion dollar ticket to retirement. He entered the
station’s large food mart and stormed into the women’s room, yanking open the
stall, but it was empty. He raced back outside, his eyes darting in all
directions.
And
he spotted her.
The
bitch had circled back to her car
.
Smart.
Despite a massive cave-in on the passenger side, the car was probably still
drivable, and he had left the keys in the ignition. The driver of the Honda was
yelling something at her, but she ignored him, gunning the engine and taking
off in the direction the car was pointed. Bits of glass from the door’s
shattered window rained onto the pavement as she hastily drove off.
Callan
scanned the gas station. A Mercedes with a powerful engine was just pulling up
to a pump.
Perfect
. The driver was a
plump man with a short beard, and when he exited the car to fill the tank,
Callan emerged from behind the car with a gun pointed at his gut. “The keys!”
he demanded. “Now!”
The
man was stunned but managed to hold out his hand helplessly.
Callan
snatched the keys and seconds later was tearing onto the street after Kira. She
had a considerable head start, but her severely damaged car was easy to
identify from a distance, even at night, and the car he was now in had more
than enough horsepower to catch her.
As
he cut the distance between them, she shot onto the onramp to highway 52,
heading east. The Lexus was like a wounded animal and he caught up to her
struggling vehicle only minutes after she had entered the highway. She was in
the far left lane. He brought his car parallel to hers, one lane over, close enough
that they could see each other’s dark silhouette by the glow of their dashboard
lights, and gestured her over menacingly with his gun.
She
ignored him.
Callan
wasn’t sure what to do next. Shooting a tire or trying to force her off the
road could cause her to lose control of the car, and he couldn’t have that. He
needed to deliver her alive and well, and he could tell from her determined
face, unconcerned by his presence beside her, that she knew full well the
advantage this gave her.
As
they approached the eastbound bridge that crossed Tecolade Canyon, the girl slammed
on her brakes and skidded noisily, her squealing tires leaving a trail of
rubber behind her. As her speed plummeted below thirty, she veered sharply to
the left, leaving the highway and entering a twenty-yard wide strip of grass
that separated the eastbound and westbound lanes of the 52. The car bouncing
jarringly, its shocks no match for the unpaved terrain. She came to a stop just
ten yards short of a concrete barrier that had been erected in the median to
prevent cars from inadvertently plummeting into the canyon, and then calmly
completed her turn. With her car now pointing to the west, she picked up speed
and carefully entered the westbound lanes of the 52.
Callan
slammed on his brakes to follow, but was too late. Her timing had been perfect.
As she had no doubt planned, in the few seconds it had taken him to react, he
had continued onto the eastbound bridge over Tecolade Canyon. The westbound
bridge was only twenty yards away, but instead of a grassy median separating
them, there was now nothing but air, leaving him no way to mimic her maneuver
short of flying.
He
screeched to a halt in the middle of an active lane and several cars behind him
were just able to swerve in time to avoid hitting him. Additional cars shot
past him, leaning on their horns angrily. He briefly considered backing up
against the oncoming traffic, but realized it would be suicide.
Furious,
he picked up speed and continued to cross the long bridge, stopping the
Mercedes on the shoulder when he had done so. He exited the car and surveyed
the westbound lanes. As he expected, the girl’s battered Lexus was nowhere in
sight.
He
slammed both hands against the top of the car in rage. “
Shit!
” he
thundered angrily.
As
he stood there, fuming, he could just make out three helicopters in the
distance, their powerful searchlights probing the darkness in an ever-widening
pattern whose epicenter was over the exact part of town at which the hand-off
was supposed to have taken place. They were looking for Kira Miller. Somehow he
was sure of it.
But
he was beginning to doubt they would catch her.
Who
in the hell was she?
he thought in frustration.
And
what could she possibly have done to warrant this kind of attention?
PART ONE
1
Ten Months Later
David
Desh stopped at the gatehouse and lowered the window of his green Chevrolet
Suburban as a uniformed guard approached him. “David Desh to see Colonel Jim
Connelly,” he said, handing the guard his driver’s license.
The
guard consulted his clipboard for several long seconds, examined the license,
and then handed it back. “Go right in, sir, he’s expecting you. Welcome to Fort
Bragg. Do you need directions?”
Desh
smiled wistfully and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve been here before.” He
rolled past the guard station, halfway expecting to be saluted as he passed.
The
leaves of several of the trees peppered throughout the sprawling North Carolina
base had transformed into a pageant of striking colors in the cool autumn air. It
was the most picturesque season to return to Fort Bragg, home of a number of
military units, among them USASOC; the US Army Special Operations Command. It
was also home to the unit in which Desh had served; Special Forces Operational
Detachment Delta, tasked with counterterrorist operations outside the United
States.
As
Desh passed many familiar buildings and landmarks, including a three-story
climbing wall, eighty-foot rappel tower, and Olympic-sized training pool, he
fought to suppress a number of conflicting emotions that welled up inside him. This
was his first time back to Bragg since he had left the military and his return
was bittersweet.
He
arrived at his destination and parked. A few minutes later he entered Jim
Connelly’s office, shook hands firmly with the uniformed man behind the desk,
and took a seat facing the colonel, lowering his briefcase to the floor beside
him as he did so. Desh had been in this office many times before, but never as
a civilian. Books on military history and strategy were organized in perfect
precision on a bookshelf. The colonel was an accomplished fencer, and a large,
framed photograph of two fencers locked in battle, shot in vibrant clarity by a
professional photographer, was centered behind his desk.
The
colonel had angular features, light-brown hair of military length, and a
matching, neatly trimmed mustache. At forty-eight, he was seventeen years
Desh’s senior, but despite their different ages each man had an aura of
fitness, competence, and easy self-assurance that was typical of those who had
undergone the rigorous training demanded of the Special Forces.
“Thanks
for coming, Captain,” said Connelly. He raised his eyebrows. “I guess I should
be calling you David nowadays.”
Desh
sighed. “Disappointed?”
“What,
that you left the service?”
Desh
nodded.
“After
what happened in Iran, who could possibly blame you?”
Desh
had been found nine months earlier in a bloody heap just on the Iraq side of
the Iraq/Iran border, the only surviving member of his team after an operation
in Iran had gone terribly wrong. He had lost three men who had each been like a
brother to him. Desh found himself revisiting the horrific mission often,
cursing himself for not being smarter, or faster, or more careful. He blamed
himself for the deaths of his men and was consumed by guilt for being alive
when they were not. The psychiatrist the military had provided insisted this
was a natural reaction, but this knowledge brought him little comfort.
“I’m
not sure you answered the question,” persisted Desh.
“Okay
then,” said Connelly. “As a Special Forces colonel, I am disappointed. You’re
as good as it gets, David. Bright, decisive, innovative. I hate to lose a man
like you.” He opened his mouth to continue but thought better of it.
“Go
on,” prompted Desh.
Connelly
stared at his visitor for a long while and then sighed. “As a friend, on the
other hand,” he said earnestly, “while I’m sorry the decision was brought on by
tragedy, I think you did the right thing. And I’m happy for you.” He paused. “As
good as you are,” he continued, choosing his words with great care, “you didn’t
belong in the service. Not because you’re irreverent and don’t suffer fools
gladly—which is true—but because you think too deeply. And you’ve never gotten
numb to the necessity of taking lives. You may be unmatched as a warrior, but
nothing will ever change the fact that you have the soul of a scholar.” Connelly
shook his head. “The military was sapping your natural optimism and sense of
humor. Even before Iran.”
Desh’s
eyes narrowed as he considered Connelly’s words. He had always had a knack for seeing
the humor in anything and everything. But the more he thought about it, the
more he realized the colonel was right; this key facet of his personality had
been steadily eroding for years.
After leaving the service he had joined
Fleming Executive Protection, the largest bodyguarding service in Washington
outside of the Secret Service. But while the protection business was thriving
and the pay was good, Desh knew his heart wasn't into this type of work
anymore. He was in the process of deciding what would come next in his life,
and while he wasn’t sure what this might be, he knew it wouldn’t involve guns
or adrenaline or life and death challenges.
In
the final analysis, the colonel was right. Just because you were good at
something didn’t mean it was a match with your personality or psyche.
“Thanks
Colonel,” said Desh earnestly. “I appreciate your honesty.” He waited a few
seconds and then added, “But how are things with you?” signaling he no longer
wanted to be the subject of conversation.
Connelly
shrugged. “Nothing much has changed since you left. We’re still winning the war
on terror hundreds of times each day.” He frowned and added, “The only problem,
of course, is that we have to win every round and they only have to win once. Which
means I don’t have the luxury of ever making a mistake.” There was a long
pause. “But I didn’t ask you here to burden you with all of my troubles,” he
finished.
Desh
raised his eyebrows. “Only one of them, right?”
Connelly
laughed. “True enough,” he said.
There
was an awkward silence in the room for several seconds. Finally the colonel
lowered his eyes and let out a regretful sigh. “David, as good as it is to see
you,” he began, “I wish it were under different circumstances. But you know I
wouldn’t have asked you here if this wasn’t of the utmost importance.”
“I
know that, Colonel,” said Desh. He forced a smile. “That’s what worries me.”
The
colonel opened his desk drawer, withdrew a brown accordion folder, and slid it
across the desk to Desh, who dutifully picked it up. At Connelly’s request he
pulled out a separate file from within the folder, which contained a series of eight-by-ten
photographs, and examined the one on top. It was of a woman who looked to be
about twenty-five, wearing well-worn jeans and a simple V-neck sweater. Cute. Desh’s
physical taste exactly. Fresh-faced. Girl next door. He glanced at Connelly and
raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Kira
Miller,” began Connelly. “Twenty-eight years old. Five foot seven. Weight: One
hundred and twenty-two pounds.”
Desh
glanced back at the photo. The girl’s blue eyes sparkled almost playfully and
she wore an unselfconscious, relaxed smile that conveyed a down-to-earth,
friendly personality—although Desh knew better than to judge someone’s
personality based on a single photograph.
“Born
in Cincinnati Ohio, attended Middlebrook High School,” continued Connelly
mechanically. “Parents deceased. One older brother, Alan; also deceased. Valedictorian
of Middlebrook High at age sixteen. Graduated from the University of Chicago,
summa cum laude, with a BS in molecular biology—at nineteen. Obtained a Ph.D.
from Stanford in molecular neurobiology at twenty-three.”
“When
do most people get their doctorates?”
“Twenty-seven
or Twenty-eight,” replied Connelly.
Desh
nodded. “Cute
and
geeky-brilliant. Just my type.”
“I
forgot to mention, star of her high school track team as well.”
“Maybe
not so geeky at that,” allowed Desh. He turned to the photo once again and
found himself hoping that this Kira Miller turned out to be the damsel in
distress in Connelly’s unfolding story rather than the villain.
Desh
was almost six feet tall, with green eyes and short brown hair. And while he
had never thought of himself as particularly handsome, the open, friendly
nature of his face seemed to appeal to women far out of proportion to his
looks. But while the most beautiful of women were often attracted to him, a
woman’s intelligence, confidence, and sense of humor had come to matter to him
far more than her appearance. He couldn’t stand to be around an empty-headed
woman, no matter how beautiful, or one who didn’t have a down-to-earth
personality. He wondered what Kira Miller might be like.
A
part of him realized that this primitive, lizard brained interest in a girl who
was nothing but a picture and a profile was foolish—but perhaps it was also a
sign of returning health. He had felt numb inside since Iran, during which time
he had lost all interest in starting any type of relationship. On the other
hand, perhaps nothing had really changed. Perhaps he allowed himself a glimmer
of interest in this woman because she was just an inaccessible two-dimensional
profile, and one sure to have some unusual baggage at that, rather than a
relatively safe, flesh-and-blood women whose picture
wasn’t
inside a
top-secret military folder.
Despite
this, Desh found himself hoping that this newfound spark, tiny and foolish
though it was, would not be extinguished immediately. It was time to find out. “She
sounds too good to be true,” he said pointedly.
The
corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a slight, humorless smile. “Well, you
know what they say about things that sound too good to be true.”
Desh
frowned. “They usually are,” he finished.
Connelly
nodded.
Desh
had his answer. Too bad, he thought.
Not
the damsel after all.