Wired - Douglas E. Richards [45]
“Okay then,” said Desh. “Let’s talk.” He continued to point the gun at the Black Ops agent.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Desh. How about I pull off to the side of the road and we have a disarming ceremony first.”
Desh remained silent.
“What do you say?” pressed Smith. “You can keep your gun on me while I toss all of my weapons into a bag in my trunk—including the gun strapped to my ankle You can frisk me to be sure.” He paused. “In return, you can hang on to your weapon. Just don’t point it at me.”
Desh gazed at the scarred man thoughtfully, but said nothing.
“And while we have a little discussion and get to know each other,” pressed Smith, “I’ll even drive you home. As long as you sit in the front seat. Be easier to talk that way, and I refuse to be your chauffeur.”
Desh thought through all the angles and finally agreed. Five minutes later two guns and a combat knife were tucked in a bag and locked safely away in the trunk, and Desh was satisfied that Smith was now unarmed. After allowing the wiry man to contact his men to give them a quick situation report, Desh settled into the passenger seat, safely restrained in a seat belt, but angling his body so he was facing Smith rather than the road and was out of the man’s easy reach.
“All right,” said Desh, as Smith accelerated back onto the road, his left hand on the steering wheel and his right arm resting on the storage console between them. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t how this needs to work,” said Smith evenly. “I will tell you everything. Make no mistake about that. I do understand how confused this woman can make someone and that we surveilled you without your knowledge. So I’m willing to cut you some slack. But we’re going to do this my way,” he insisted. “First you answer my questions. Then I’ll answer yours. Despite heading a Black Ops agency that doesn’t formally exist and using an alias, I am still your superior officer. I’m sure Connelly told you that.”
Desh raised his eyebrows. “Superior officer?” he said, unimpressed. “Come off it, Smith. You’ve been calling me Mr. Desh. You know I’m a civilian. Connelly did tell me to follow your instructions, but Mr. Desh can tell you to go to hell anytime he wants.”
Smith sighed. “All right, Mr. Desh. Let’s try this another way, then. If you want to know what’s going on, you’ll have to answer my questions first. Period. Otherwise, I’ll leave you completely in the dark.” He glanced sideways at Desh. “Well?”
Desh glared at him for several long seconds but finally nodded irritably.
“Good,” said Smith. “So tell me how Kira Miller got the drop on you.”
Desh told him about receiving the fake message from Griffin and what had happened at the hacker’s apartment. Smith interrupted occasionally for clarification but said very little otherwise. When Desh described how Kira had stripped him and had him dress in sweats, Smith glanced at his gray outfit, considerably worse for wear since Kira had pulled it from her duffel, and an amused smile came over his face.
Smith listened intently as Desh described the precautions Kira had taken at the motel. Smith was well aware that they had worked to great effect on his men. Desh ended his narrative at the point at which Kira had exited through the adjoining motel room, leaving out any mention of her claims of having invented material that could hide her heat signature.
“Damn she’s slippery,” commented Smith when Desh was finished. “It’s uncanny how she manages to stay at large. And then, to risk kidnapping the elite soldier coming after her practically in the middle of the nation’s capital—and get away with it. She has balls the size of Texas,” he said, partly in frustration and partly in admiration.
Smith paused in thought as they shot along the dark highway, nearly abandoned at this early hour except for the occasional trucker hauling cargo through