Davidson looks good. Pale, as if he hasn’t seen the sun in three weeks, but he’s walking without a limp and has no visible wounds.
On either side of him walk a pair of khaki-clad goons wearing windbreakers. I don’t make the mistake of believing that they are unarmed like Norse and me. “The guy on the left is wearing a Nationals hat. He’s my contact,” I mention quietly to Norse. He nods and slips to the side, making sure that Davidson’s two guards have to split up to keep an eye on us.
“Rafe, good to see you.” Agent Parker holds out his hand and flashes a wide, fake grin. Parker is a hair under six feet, the top of his head coming up to my eyes. He’s a wiry guy—more wrestler than bruiser. He’d be no match for either Davidson or me.
“Good to see you too, Parker.” His eyes widen in surprise that I know his name. “Yeah, I know your name, the blonde you like seeing on Tuesdays that your wife doesn’t know about, and the woman you took to bed last night who is neither blond nor your wife. I might hate spy shit, but you should know that your government came to me because there isn’t a mission that exists that I can’t carry out, including finding out everything about your punk-ass self down to the fact you like to eat ice cream with a fork.”
“That shit is weird,” Davidson pipes up from beside Parker.
I grip his outstretched hand and pull him toward me. A couple of hard slaps on the back reveals the holster hanging under his left arm. With a strong arm around his back, I hold him tight against me with one hand and slip the gun out of the holster with the other. Davidson steps close and takes the weapon from me, slipping it under his shirt. I stick the receiver, USB sticks, and the roll of papers into the holster. Davidson steps back, does the hand-off to Parker, and then we’re done.
Almost.
When we turn to leave, I don’t. I shove Agent Parker backward, a hard steel-booted toe on his soft leather one. He doesn’t go far.
“We’re going now,” I inform him. He gasps like a beached fish, his mouth opening and closing without saying any real words. “You’ve got what you wanted.”
With a nod to Davidson, we start toward the entrance, when Parker grabs my arm. “Did you read the information?”
“We’re not paid for that, are we?” He shakes his head. I give him a little pat on the side of his face, the anger toward Garcia’s death making me a little reckless. “Then take your motherfucking hand off me before I rip it off.”
? ? ?
Davidson waits until we are clear of the museum and at the edge of the National Mall before he asks, “Where’s Garcia?”
The bleak expression in his eyes shows he knows already. He is just waiting for confirmation.
“Didn’t make it out of Peru,” I say brusquely. “We took gunfire in the middle of the night. Sniper had night-vision goggles. We had none.” Garcia had planned for every contingency but that one.
“What were you chasing after?”
“A hit list. It’s a list of people that heads of state have had killed for the last few years.”
“Jesus.” Davidson shakes his head. He turns away to stare out at the glass-like surface of the reflection pool. “Don’t suppose you’d be okay with me going back and beating the ever-loving shit out of those federal agents?”
“Nope.” I wonder what memories Davidson is seeing in the water. The three of us getting shitfaced in Berlin after taking out a terrorist cell or the time when we were in Thailand dragging Garcia out of a lady-boy brothel. Or maybe it was all the way back when we were prisoners in the desert, left to die and determined that if we ever made it to safety, we were going to be the captains of our own destinies. I roll around the last memory I have of Garcia—the one where he tells me of his lost love and that he’s ready to be with her again. I offer that small solace to Davidson. “He told me he was ready to go. That the Tears of God held no comfort for him.”
Still seemingly mesmerized by the water, Davidson answers, “The girl, right?”
I nod in confirmation but Norse, who doesn’t know Garcia’s story, interjects, “What girl? Ava?”
“Who’s Ava?” Davidson is confused.
“His Ava?” Norse jerks a thumb in my direction.
“Your Ava,” he says in disbelief. “Since when do you have an Ava?”
“Picked her up in the jungle,” Norse explains. “Old man here can’t keep his hands off her.”
To my surprise I feel heat on my cheeks at Davidson’s sudden inspection. “It’s time to go.” I start walking toward the Metro stop to flag a cab.
“I’m going to need to know a lot more about this Ava girl,” Davidson says as he catches up to me.
“They treat you okay?” I ask, trying desperately to change the subject. “I don’t see any wounds.”
“It was just boring as hell.”
“How’d you get caught anyway?”
“Honeypot.” His lips press together. “I was in Georgetown checking out a situation. Coed there seemed like she needed help. I helped her.”