Max stretched as best he could in the car seat he was in and tilted his head. “Okay,” he said, not understanding this new game but willing to play along. He was still at an age where he often didn’t understand why adults did some of the crazy things they did.
A snarl of crisscrossing overpasses loomed only a few blocks away. As Desh approached the light was green, but he slowed considerably, which elicited an angry honk from the driver behind him. The light turned red and Desh stopped the SUV under the concrete overpasses, making it invisible to prying eyes gazing down from space. A white Chrysler minivan, its hazards blinking and its side door open, was facing the opposite direction one lane over, just as Desh had said it would be. Jim Connelly pretended to inspect the front tire on the passenger’s side.
“Go,” barked Desh the second the car came to a rest.
Lauren threw open the door and jumped out of the vehicle while Connelly appeared magically beside her. She leaned in and removed her two girls while Max stood and let Jim Connelly carry him across the space between vehicles.
The colonel and Lauren Rosenblatt were still depositing kids in the back of the minivan when the light turned green and Desh accelerated through the intersection and onto the highway on-ramp, heading north. Less than a minute later, Jim Connelly turned off his hazards and drove calmly out from under the overpasses, heading south, with his hidden cargo safely belted in back.
Desh felt more relieved than he would care to admit. Part one of the operation could not have gone better. Lauren Rosenblatt had cooperated and had marshaled her children like a champ. The gamble he had taken to earn Lauren’s trust had worked great, which was a good thing, since if he had miscalculated he could have easily found himself incapacitated by his own taser.
Now it was time for part two. And while this part of the operation was more dangerous, with the innocent civilians now out of the picture, Desh was confident it would end successfully.
16
Desh drove for another fifteen minutes, secure in the knowledge that the two men Jake had left in Omaha were following him, and because satellites couldn’t see in the back of an SUV, were still convinced the Rosenblatt family was along for the ride.
He arrived at his destination, a road that ran beside the tree line of another thick woods. When he saw a section in which the spacing between trees was greater than average he drove off the pavement and slowly into the woods, maneuvering the large SUV between trees, the Toyota’s oversized tires, built for off-roading, having no trouble climbing large, fallen branches, high underbrush, and thick cords of roots protruding aboveground.
He picked his way forward for almost thirty yards, stopped the car, and began rooting through a duffel bag that had been on the floor of the passenger’s seat, gathering the equipment he needed.
Desh stepped out of the vehicle and onto the floor of the woods, where he could not have felt more comfortable. He was surrounded by elms and tall cottonwoods. It was spring and the woods were vibrant and alive, producing a clean, outdoor scent that he had always loved. Birds trilled repetitively high up in unseen branches.
Desh had a gift for operating in the woods. Traversing terrain such as this without making the slightest sound, without causing the faintest rustle of leaves or crunch of a twig, required balance, athleticism, and experience, as well as uncanny instincts. Desh could move through the densest forest more silently than another man could walk across a plush carpet, and he could do this so cleanly that nothing short of a bloodhound could track him.
But on this occasion he wanted to be tracked. He did a sloppy job of moving away from the SUV, leaving faint but obvious footprints in his wake. This would ensure he was followed—and underestimated.
He travelled north for twenty yards, still in sight of the SUV, and then walked dead center between two cottonwoods that were twelve yards apart, like a human football splitting two goal posts. He continued north for several minutes with reckless abandon and then circled back, this time with feline grace, and carefully strung a tripwire between the two cottonwood goal posts, eight inches off the ground. He settled in to watch the SUV.
He didn’t have to wait long. Off in the distance a small gray sedan was approaching the bulky Toyota, having followed its tracks from the road. Since this vehicle was low to the ground and not built for off-roading, it had been scratched and dinged and was littered with brush and leaves and dirt. The car stopped a good distance from the SUV and two men exited cautiously, their guns drawn. Both were dressed in casual civilian clothing, one in tan slacks and a black t-shirt and one in blue jeans and a thin gray sweatshirt.
They approached Desh’s rental from either side, crouching low, with their eyes never leaving its windows in case someone popped up from the seat or floor and began shooting. When they were ten feet away they both rushed forward and hazarded a look inside the vehicle, making sure their guns shifted along with their eyes, ready to fire at any hidden danger.
When the two men were satisfied the vehicle was empty they scanned the woods in all directions and then had a quick, whispered conversation, before spreading out and moving at a slow jog through the trees.
Desh knew what they were thinking, because it was what he wanted them to think. They were now panicked that Desh and the Rosenblatt family were getting away, and could emerge from the woods at any one of thousands of places. They might get lucky with the satellites and find them once again, but on the other hand, they might not. So they needed to hustle and catch up to the young family, counting on the three children Desh and Lauren had in tow to slow them down. Desh was certain it would never occur to these men that they were chasing a highly skilled operative not weighed down with any civilian baggage, who had no intention of running away.
As the two men moved forward, Desh took a wide angle around their perimeter and maneuvered behind them. His timing was perfect. Just as he got into place, the gunman to the west hit Desh’s tripwire and did a face-plant into the dirt with a loud grunt.
The fallen man rolled and jumped to his feet in alarm, gun at the ready, but he was too late. As he was turning Desh shot him in the neck with a tranquilizer dart, and he fell once again into the undergrowth, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
One down, one to go, thought Desh.
The unconscious man’s partner rushed to his comrade’s aid while Desh sprinted off through the trees as fast as many men could have run on a track.
The remaining gunman watched Desh’s retreat and kneeled by his fallen partner, shoving two fingers into his carotid artery. His face registered surprise when he detected a steady pulse. He had clearly thought his colleague was dead, or at best, fighting to cling to a life that was ebbing away. He found the tranquilizer dart protruding from his partner’s neck a moment later and pulled it out to examine.
Desh’s retreat had been noisy, but when he circled back to his original position he was whisper quiet, and the remaining soldier, still in a crouch by his partner, had no idea Desh was behind him until a tranquilizer dart buried itself in his thigh and injected its fast acting drug.
The man collapsed beside his colleague, as neatly as two slabs of meat arranged side by side at a butcher shop.
That was relatively straightforward, thought Desh. Now all he had to do was lift one of these men in a fireman’s carry and meet Connelly and his minivan at the designated coordinates.
He contacted Connelly. “Mission accomplished,” he reported.
“What took you so long?” said Connelly wryly.
“I guess I’m losing my touch,” replied Desh with a smile. “How are the Rosenblatts?”
“They’re doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. I’ll tell them to sit tight for a minute while I pick you up. Do you want to drive a family to Denver in an RV, or a prisoner to Denver in a minivan? Your choice.”
“Definitely the family,” said Desh. “I should reach you in about fifteen minutes.”
“Roger that. See you in fifteen.”
; Desh hung up the phone and approached the two unconscious men. Hopefully the one he chose could provide useful information about Jake and his operation.
Desh saw movement in the corner of his eye.
He dove to the ground before his conscious mind fully registered what he had seen, just as a bullet drove through the air where his head had been a moment earlier and imbedded itself deep in an elm.
He rolled to his feet and darted off through the trees. As he ran bits of bark exploded near his head as his assailant continued shooting. Hitting a moving target in a heavy woods was not easy, and Desh knew it would take a lucky shot. Even so, being shot at did wonders for one’s speed and concentration.
When Desh had put some distance between himself and his pursuit, and he was no longer being shot at for fifteen full seconds, he risked a quick look around.
There were four men working their way cautiously but rapidly through the woods behind him, each dressed from head to toe in black. Four of them? And everything about their movements and style shouted special ops.
So much for Jake’s men not having access to any backups. What was going on?
Desh resumed his sprint through the woods, but this time he took a course that was at a right angle to his initial one. He knew the strategy that was surely being used against him—it was one he had used himself. They had organized their forces both behind and ahead of him before revealing themselves. Had he remained on course, he would have been stampeded straight into an ambush.
As he ran he tried to put the pieces together. Jake had told his second in command, Kolke, there would only be two of his men in Omaha, and to warn them that backup wouldn’t be a possibility. So Desh had set a trap for these two men.
But Jake had used Desh’s own trap against him. He had been a step ahead. How? Somehow this colonel had figured out the core Icarus team had escaped the bombing of their headquarters. Somehow this man had figured out they were on to him. The speed with which he had come to this conclusion, and had acted upon it, was impressive.
Jake must have reasoned that the only way they could have been warned of his attack was if they knew Rosenblatt had been captured. Which meant they probably knew his family was under surveillance. From there it was a simple, logical step for Jake to predict that Icarus would try to extract them.
Jake’s team must have arrived in Omaha hours before he and Connelly had, and had waited patiently until they could spring a trap of their own. And Desh had made it easy for them.
Desh put on the brakes, removed a flashbang grenade from a pocket, and threw it in a long arc behind him, into the vicinity of the men on his left flank. It hit a tree and exploded with a deafening blast that could be heard for miles, and a flash that was so bright it could temporarily blind anyone who got an eyeful, even during the day.
He hastily strung a trip wire between two trees. This one would be ineffective against men as good as these, but the flashbang and tripwire would give them something to think about. Slow them down a little. Keep them the tiniest bit off balance.
Desh considered taking the gellcap he had with him. Skilled as he was, he had very little chance of surviving with normal human faculties. But this wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. Being judicious in the use of force wasn’t the strong suit of an enhanced mind. Once Desh was enhanced, he would be looking out for number one, with zero regard for life—other than his own. It would be difficult for him to prevent his alter ego from mowing through these men without mercy or remorse.
And this was a big problem. He had served in units just like these, and he considered these men the good guys. They were soldiers risking their lives to stop those trying to kill millions of helpless civilians. Children. The innocent. They had been led astray with respect to Kira, but he and these men were on the same side.
Several more bullets whistled by him and he knew he had no choice. He had to boost his capabilities and he had to do so now. He just prayed that he could somehow find the force of will to deflect his enhanced self, that his alter ego would retain enough of his values to get to safety without slaughtering these good men. He pulled the key ring from his pocket, put on an extra burst of speed, and then dove behind the wide trunk of an ancient cottonwood tree. He put his thumb over the small silver container attached to the ring and the top slid open.
As he reached for the gellcap, bark flew up around him as shots came in from another direction. He dove to the underbrush and rolled, sending the gellcap flying. He searched for the small pill frantically, but a wall of gunfire prevented him from trying to recover it, even if he was able to spot where it had landed.
He spun around and everywhere he looked, black clad men were moving in on him, slowly and inexorably. He was in the center of a slowly collapsing net with no gaps, and he now had no means to improve his mind and reflexes.
“I surrender!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, knowing he was seconds away from being turned into hamburger. “Cease firing! I surrender!” he screamed again, emerging from behind a clump of trees with his hands held high over his head.
The gunfire halted as he came out in the open, but well over a dozen guns were trained on him as he stood there. A colonel emerged from the pack of elite soldiers.
“David Desh,” he said in amazement. “I’ll be damned.”
And then without another word, he raised a gun in one smooth motion and fired.
Desh had just enough time to realize he had been hit with a tranquilizer dart before he sank to the dirt, unconscious.
17
Kira Miller paced across her bedroom inside Icarus’s industrial headquarters once again, continuing to feel sick to her stomach. A framed picture of her and the man she loved mocked her from the end table. It wasn’t her bedroom—it was their bedroom. She saw David’s smiling face in her mind’s eye. His strength. His compassion. His intelligence. His sense of humor. She loved him with all of her might. If she lived an eternity, she knew she would never meet his equal.
Knowing he was alive was the only thing holding her together. The bug and vital signs monitor in the waistband of his underwear had been activated and had transmitted data. Desh had been rendered unconscious, and the bug had transmitted numerous military voices before he had been stripped. At least the last vital signs reading she had received had been strong.
And she needed to be strong. As strong as she had ever been.
She checked her watch. It was noon. Connelly was driving back with the Rosenblatts and would arrive in an hour or so. He would deposit the RV and the family in a nearby trailer park and come immediately back to headquarters.
She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number Griffin had given her. It was answered after the fourth ring.
“Hello?” said a deep voice questioningly, clearly confused as to why his phone had failed to identify the caller.
“Admiral Hansen, this is very important. Don’t hang up.”
“Who is this?” he demanded. “How did you get this number?”
It was one thing for a stranger to dial the closely guarded private cell phone number of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff by mistake. It was another for a stranger to call it and know who was at the other end. He would attempt to trace the call, but it would be a waste of time.
Kira ignored his questions. “I need you to deliver a message to a Colonel Morris Jacobson. It’s a national security matter of extreme importance.” Jake’s first and last name had never been spoken while their bug was in range, but since the bug had revealed he was working with a major named John Kolke, Griffin was able to use his amplified intellect to learn the colonel’s true identity almost immediately.
“I’m not a messenger and I’ve never heard of this colonel. Contact him yourself. If you can find my number, you can find his.”
“You’d think so, but no,” said Kira. “He’s in charge of a group that carries out black operations. You’re the high profile Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Your information may be heavily protected, but at least you’
re a public figure. He isn’t.”
“Black-Ops are performed independently. I don’t know this colonel of yours, this . . .” The admiral paused, obviously having forgotten the name Kira had given him already.
“Morris Jacobson.”
“Right. Morris Jacobson. I have no idea who he is.”
“Maybe so, but if you expect me to believe you can’t find out, you must think I’m a fool. How many people have managed to hack your private number, Admiral? Don’t you think you should be taking me a little more seriously?”
“If I wasn’t taking you seriously, we wouldn’t still be talking.”
“It’s a matter of national security, Admiral. And it’s a simple message.”
There was a long pause. “What’s the message?”
“Tell him to call Kira Miller. That’s a code name,” she lied. “But he’ll know who it is.”
“That’s the entire message?”
“Yes, and he has to make a computer to computer connection. The call has to be video as well as audio. I’ll text you with the exact time and instructions for making contact.” She paused. “I can’t possibly overstate the importance of this. Even you can’t be in the loop on everything, Admiral, but trust me, this is big.”
“Okay,” said the admiral. “Send your text.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Kira. “It should be there any second.”
***
Colonel “Jake” Jacobson appeared on Kira’s large computer monitor precisely at the time she specified. She had expected nothing less. She studied his lean face, black hair, and dark five o’clock shadow that looked as though it was perpetual, burning details of his appearance into her memory.
He looked a little wary, but mostly intrigued.
AMPED Page 11