Wired - Douglas E. Richards [44]
Desh let out a slow, preparatory breath and quietly removed his goggles, leaving them on the ground next to him. Then, in a single fluid motion, he shot up from the ground—catching the door handle on the way up—and yanked the door wide open. It wasn’t locked! Wasting no time congratulating himself, Desh pointed the gun at the startled driver, who had just begun reaching for his own weapon. “Hands on the dash!” he barked fiercely.
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The driver studied Desh thoughtfully, and then calmly placed his hands on the dash as instructed. The tip of Desh’s tongue protruded just slightly through his lips as it tended to do whenever he was engaged in any physical activity that required his absolute concentration. He slid through the car’s open door and into the back seat, his gun never wavering from its target.
“Slide over and close the door,” commanded Desh in hushed tones.
The man did as he was told.
“Now slide back and get us on the road. Quickly!” demanded Desh. “Head farther away from the Church.” Desh had no interest in passing the man’s colleagues who he knew would be exiting the church at any moment after they discovered they had been set up.
The driver did as instructed, and the church rapidly receded in the rear-view mirror.
“Very impressive, Mr. Desh,” the driver allowed. “But then, I have heard good things.”
“Who are you?” demanded Desh. “And why were you and your people following me?”
“Call me Smith,” said the driver, a short, wiry man in his late thirties, with short brown hair and a two-inch scar under his ear that followed his jaw line. “After a session with Kira Miller you get a little paranoid, don’t you? Don’t know who to trust or what to believe.”
“Smith, huh,” said Desh to himself. The man was unmistakably military. And along with the obvious alias, there was a peculiar arrogance about him, as though he considered himself above it all; unencumbered by rules that might apply to lesser men. “Black Ops, then?” guessed Desh.
A self-satisfied smile flashed across Smith’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “We had a shot at the girl and we took it. Sorry we surprised you. Given what you’ve just gone through you’re reacting the way any smart soldier would. But we’re on the same side you and I. Really.”
“Why was I under surveillance then, if we’re on the same side?”
“I would be happy to explain that and much more, Mr. Desh. I’m the one who authorized putting you on this Op in the first place. I trust that Colonel Connelly gave you a number to call when you found the girl?”
Desh didn’t respond.
“I’m going to lend you a cell phone,” said Smith. “I have two of them. I’m going to reach in my pocket for the phone but remain facing the road. I’ll throw it back to you. If I begin to pull out a gun, shoot me,” he added.
Desh knew that at their current speed any hostile exchange would cause them to crash, killing them both. Mutually assured destruction. Smith would realize this as well.
“Okay,” said Desh, nodding warily. “But very slowly.”
The man reached into his pocket and carefully inched out the phone, lifting it with his hand facing backward so Desh could see. Still facing the road, he flipped the phone over his shoulder. Desh caught it with his left hand while he continued to train the tranquilizer gun on Smith with his right.
“Dial the number that the colonel gave you,” instructed Smith.
Desh flipped open the phone and dialed the number he had memorized. As the call went through, a ringtone melody issued from Smith’s shirt pocket. He looked at Desh in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows. “Mind if I get that,” he said smugly.
Smith reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open the phone. “Hello, Mr. Desh,” he said, his voice arriving in stereo from both the front seat and through the phone in Desh’s hand. “I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
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David Desh still