He swung around to defend himself but it was too late. Two men grabbed him roughly, one of them pressing a gun to his face. The other pulled his arms behind his back and tightened an all too familiar plasticuff restraint around his wrists. He knew not to resist. Deaf and blind with a gun in your cheek was not an ideal tactical position in which to be. He was pushed roughly into the wall and was frisked expertly, his weapons quickly removed.
Desh’s eyesight and hearing gradually returned. The room began to come into focus once again.
Kira Miller was standing next to him. Alive. And it was after ten o’clock.
Desh and Kira had been forced next to each other, flanked by two armed commandos who had each worn electronic earplugs and goggles during the raid. Griffin and Metzger had been herded together about ten yards away, flanked by their own heavily armed guards. Putnam’s bloody, bullet riddled body lay between the two groups.
The commandos must have arrived through Putnam’s tunnel in the basement, Desh realized, lobbing in a few flashbangs to easily overpower the inhabitants of the living room.
A handsome, clean-cut civilian of average size and weight, wearing casual slacks and a sport coat walked briskly and arrogantly into the living room. His blue eyes were eerily calm, but there was also both a shrewdness and a menace to them; like those of a poisonous snake just before a strike.
Kira Miller gasped. She reached out to steady herself, having momentarily become dizzy.
“Alan?” she croaked in dismay, barely able to get the name out.
“Hello, Kira,” he said cheerfully. “Happy to see your big brother alive?”
Kira was too stunned to reply. She stood facing him with her mouth open.
“Or just happy that the device Putnam put in your skull was a bluff?”
Kira’s mind awakened from its paralysis. She didn’t understand. Anything. Her brother was alive! And Putnam’s bomb had been a bluff! Her emotions were at such a fever pitch she was afraid she would explode after all.
“Search their pockets carefully,” Alan Miller instructed the men. “If any of them have small pills on them, it’s important they be found.”
The men conducted a full body search and quickly found the gellcaps Desh and Metzger were carrying in their pockets. The soldiers handed them to a delighted Alan Miller. He pocketed the gellcaps and turned to his sister. “Thanks, Kira. I can use all of these I can get.”
“What’s going on Alan?” pleaded Kira, recovering some of her equilibrium.
Her brother grinned. “Isn’t it remarkable. As brilliant as you are and you have no fucking clue.” He sighed. “I suppose I can spoon feed it to you. But not here. Let’s adjourn to more comfortable surroundings—at least for me,” he said, quite pleased with himself.
As he finished speaking, the all-too-familiar sound of helicopters filled the living room. “Right on schedule,” noted Alan. He gestured to the front door. “After you,” he said.
Two commandos raised automatic weapons and motioned them toward the door.
“What about them?” said Kira, gesturing to Griffin and Metzger.
Alan frowned. “They won’t be coming with,” he shouted over the incoming helicopters. “We’ll see. If I think I can use them as leverage with you, perhaps I’ll let them live out the day.”
Alan Miller exited the house with his sister and Desh in tow as three helicopters landed on Putnam’s property. The two outer choppers were of military design, but the one in the middle was civilian. It was white with red accents and was roughly the same size as a Blackhawk. The word Sikorsky was printed tastefully on its shell. This model was very exclusive, the type used by CEOs and heads of state, and could seat up to ten passengers in decadent luxury.
Alan nodded at the commandos. “Secure them,” he ordered.
The soldiers opened the door to the chopper and pushed the two captives inside. The passenger compartment was truly spectacular: more opulent than the most luxurious limousine. There was enough headroom to walk through the cabin comfortably, a fully stocked bar, lacquered wood cabinetry, mirrors and inlaid video screens. The seats were all cushioned captain’s chairs covered by the finest leather, with burled walnut finishes, separated from each other by spacious armrests with compartments for wine glasses and phones.
Desh moved. He head butted one of the commandos to the floor of the cabin and threw his shoulder into the other, slamming him against the cockpit door. The man on the floor recovered with remarkable rapidity and rammed his rifle into the back of Desh’s leg. Desh fell to his knees. By this time the other soldier had recovered and landed a fierce blow to Desh’s face. He then clutched a fistful of Desh’s hair and threw him back into a captain’s chair at the back of the Sikorsky. “Don’t try that again, asshole,” growled the soldier. “Next time I won’t be so gentle.”
The soldiers proceeded to bind the two prisoners securely to the chairs. As an added precaution one of the men strung razor wire across the aisle just below their chins. If they moved forward the wire would slice into their necks.