Wired - Douglas E. Richards [117]
“Search their pockets carefully,” Alan Miller instructed the men. “If any of them have small pills on them, it’s important they be found.”
The men conducted a full body search and quickly found the gellcaps Desh and Metzger were carrying in their pockets. The soldiers handed them to a delighted Alan Miller. He pocketed the gellcaps and turned to his sister. “Thanks, Kira. I can use all of these I can get.”
“What’s going on Alan?” pleaded Kira, recovering some of her equilibrium.
Her brother grinned. “Isn’t it remarkable. As brilliant as you are and you have no fucking clue.” He sighed. “I suppose I can spoon feed it to you. But not here. Let’s adjourn to more comfortable surroundings—at least for me,” he said, quite pleased with himself.
As he finished speaking the all-too-familiar sound of helicopters filled the living room. “Right on schedule,” noted Alan. He gestured to the front door. “After you,” he said.
Two commandoes raised automatic weapons and motioned them toward the door.
“What about them?” said Kira, gesturing to Griffin and Metzger.
Alan frowned. “They won’t be coming with,” he shouted over the incoming helicopters. “We’ll see. If I think I can use them as leverage with you, perhaps I’ll let them live out the day.”
Alan Miller exited the house with his sister and Desh in tow as three helicopters landed on Putnam’s property. The two outer choppers were of military design, but the one in the middle was civilian. It was white with red accents and was roughly the same size as a Blackhawk. The word Sikorsky was printed tastefully on its shell. This model was very exclusive, the type used by CEOs and heads of state, and could seat up to ten passengers in decadent luxury.
Alan nodded at the commandoes. “Secure them,” he ordered.
The soldiers opened the door to the chopper and pushed the two captives inside. The passenger compartment was truly spectacular: more opulent than the most luxurious limousine. There was enough headroom to walk through the cabin comfortably, a fully stocked bar, lacquered wood cabinetry, mirrors and inlaid video screens. The seats were all cushioned captain’s chairs covered by the finest leather, with burled walnut finishes, separated from each other by spacious armrests with compartments for wine glasses and phones.
Desh moved! He head butted one of the commandoes to the floor of the cabin and threw his shoulder into the other, slamming him against the cockpit door. The man on the floor recovered with remarkable rapidity and rammed his rifle into the back of Desh’s leg. Desh fell to his knees. By this time the other soldier had recovered and landed a fierce blow to Desh’s face. He then clutched a fistful of Desh’s hair and threw him back into a captain’s chair at the back of the Sikorsky. “Don’t try that again, asshole,” growled the solider. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.”
The soldiers proceeded to bind the two prisoners securely to the chairs. As an added precaution one of the men strung razor wire across the aisle just below their chins. If they moved forward the wire would slice into their necks.
When his men reported that all was secure, Alan Miller entered the helicopter and nodded for the commandoes to leave. He opened the door to the cockpit. “Make sure we aren’t being followed,” he directed the pilot. “Let me know if you see anything suspicious.”
Alan closed the cockpit door and walked a few paces to the bar. He added several ice cubes to a cocktail glass and then calmly, deliberately, filled it with equal parts Scotch and club soda as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Finally he sat across from his sister and Desh and took a sip of his drink, closing his eyes to savor it.
“Now, that’s more like it,” he said. “No reason not to be civilized,” he added smugly.
He reached out and rapped on the cabin door twice, and moments later the helicopter lifted off.
“Finally,” said Alan Miller, “we can have