Wired - Douglas E. Richards [124]
Alan paused to let his prisoners ponder just how utterly they had been manipulated; just how complete his victory.
“What if Kira hadn’t killed Putnam?”
“I suspected she would. I made sure he boasted about killing me just to rub salt in her wound. And my sister is so fucking predictable. So fucking noble. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am that we sprang from the same womb.”
“Believe me,” said Kira Miller, scowling, “your disappointment pales in comparison to mine.”
“But to answer your question, Desh,” said Alan, as if his sister had not spoken, “I was the one who sent Putnam into his house to talk with you in the first place. I had a sniper targeting him while the rest of my men came up through his tunnel. If Kira had failed to shoot him, my sniper would have done so the moment he opened the door.” He paused. “You wouldn’t know who had killed him or why, but that wouldn’t matter. With the only man capable of resetting the supposed explosive charge in Kira’s skull dead, she would once again tell you her secret, believing she had but minutes to live and having no guarantee that the sterilization plot could be stopped.”
Desh nodded miserably. “It appears you thought of everything,” he said, looking defeated for the first time.
“You’re damn straight,” said Alan smugly.
49
The helicopter had landed almost five minutes before but Alan Miller was clearly enjoying himself too much to put a temporary halt to the proceedings, and the pilots knew better than to interrupt their boss. Finally, Alan decided a change in venue was in order.
Six soldiers, once again dressed in commando gear, had surrounded the helicopter and were waiting patiently for Alan Miller to open the helicopter door. “Bring them inside,” he barked. He then nodded toward Desh at the back of the chopper. “And make sure this one is completely immobilized on the gurney. He’s ex-Special Forces.”
Gurney? Desh didn’t like the sound of that. The blood had stopped dripping from his neck, but he was battered and bruised from the melee on the helicopter. It was getting difficult to remember when he had last showered or a time when he wasn’t bound. Perhaps in years past a captor would have felt secure simply holding a gun on him without feeling the need to immobilize him as well, but this was no longer the case. The almost superhuman portrayal of Special Forces soldiers by the media and in fiction had unfortunately ensured that he was rarely underestimated.
Three soldiers entered the chopper and removed all restraints but the plasticuffs binding the prisoners’ wrists behind their backs. They were marched off the helicopter. A mansion that would not have been out of place in ancient Greece loomed in front of them. Massive white pillars flanked its entrance, and it was centered on acres and acres of meticulously manicured grounds, complete with ponds, gardens and winding streams. Two large, multi-tiered marble fountains stood at its entrance, with life-sized statues of Greek Gods drinking nectar from massive chalices. No other houses were visible for as far as the eye could see in any direction.
They were ushered through the oversized front door and into a vaulted room with twice as much floor space as Kira’s entire RV. The floor was white marble, and a 95-inch plasma television hung on the wall like a massive work of modern art, with ten movie-theater style seats facing it. The mansion’s interior contained numerous statues and paintings, all depicting Greek Gods, as if Alan Miller considered himself a modern Zeus and had built himself an Olympus in which to reside.
Desh was shoved roughly on his back onto the wheeled, stainless steel gurney of which Alan had spoken, his hands still cuffed behind him. Two of the mercenaries strapped him down and checked to be sure he couldn’t escape. Kira’s hands were also cuffed