Gurney? Desh didn’t like the sound of that. The blood had stopped dripping from his neck, but he was battered and bruised from the melee on the helicopter. It was getting difficult to remember when he had last showered or a time when he wasn’t bound. Perhaps in years past a captor would have felt secure simply holding a gun on him without feeling the need to immobilize him as well, but this was no longer the case. The almost superhuman portrayal of Special Forces soldiers by the media and in fiction had unfortunately ensured that he was rarely underestimated.
Three soldiers entered the chopper and removed all restraints but the plasticuffs binding the prisoners’ wrists behind their backs. They were marched off the helicopter. A mansion that would not have been out of place in ancient Greece loomed in front of them. Massive white pillars flanked its entrance, and it was centered on acres and acres of meticulously manicured grounds, complete with ponds, gardens and winding streams. Two large, multi-tiered marble fountains stood at its entrance, with life-sized statues of Greek Gods drinking nectar from massive chalices. No other houses were visible for as far as the eye could see in any direction.
They were ushered through the oversized front door and into a vaulted room with twice as much floor space as Kira’s entire RV. The floor was white marble, and a ninety-five-inch plasma television hung on the wall like a massive work of modern art, with ten movie-theater style seats facing it. The mansion’s interior contained numerous statues and paintings, all depicting Greek Gods, as if Alan Miller considered himself a modern Zeus and had built himself an Olympus in which to reside.
Desh was shoved roughly on his back onto the wheeled, stainless steel gurney of which Alan had spoken, his hands still cuffed behind him. Two of the mercenaries strapped him down and checked to be sure he couldn’t escape. Kira’s hands were also cuffed behind her and were now cuffed to the gleaming steel gurney as well.
Alan Miller entered the room briskly and stood beside the gurney, so both prisoners could see him well. “This is my media room,” he announced proudly. “What do you think?”
Desh looked up at him icily. “I think I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” he said intently.
“Very good,” said Alan approvingly. “What bravado. No wonder my sister likes you so much. I’m afraid you’re at a bit of a disadvantage, though. While I don’t have fancy electronic security systems, I do have twelve war-hardened mercenaries who patrol the grounds. I pay them extremely well.” He shook his head, unimpressed. “Forgive me for not feeling threatened.”
“So what now?” said Desh.
“A surgeon of my acquaintance is on his way. He’ll be here in about ten minutes. He’ll remove your implants and then, at long last, I’ll take my first step toward immortality.”
“A surgeon? Isn’t that a little delicate for a butcher like you,” said Desh. “Why not just kill me?”
“Fair question,” he said. He held his hands out, palms up, and sighed. “Technology these days. It’s remarkably reliable on the whole, but you just never know. If for some reason the recorder failed to activate or to capture the GPS coordinates properly, I’m going to need you alive so you can tell me the coordinates yourself.”
Desh eyed Alan Miller with contempt. “You’d better hope your recorder worked then, because you’ll never get the coordinates from me. With truth drugs or otherwise.”
Alan laughed. “Part of me almost hopes it didn’t work, just so we can find out.”
“And if it did?” said Desh.
“I may keep you alive as leverage. I still need my sister to continue her longevity work. She is still the best biologist of her generation.”
There was a long silence during which Alan Miller appeared to be lost in thought. “Now that I’ve answered all your questions,” he said finally. “I have one of my own.” He raised his eyebrows. “How did you escape from the safe house?”
Desh smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said.
“Oh, you’ll tell me all right. What you—”
Outside, the Sikorsky helicopter erupted into flames.
The explosion rocked the mansion as if an earthquake had struck.
Alan Miller rushed to a window. All hell was breaking loose. The military helicopter that had fired a missile into the Sikorsky was now strafing the grounds with its machine guns. At least two of Alan’s mercenaries were dead and several others had taken positions in preparation for a firefight, or were racing to take cover. Billowing smoke from the flaming helicopter created a surreal haze over the entire scene, and heavy gunfire could be heard from multiple quarters.
Alan could tell his sister had been as stunned as he was. But he had caught a certain gleam in David Desh’s eye as he ran to the window. Desh had not been surprised.
Alan raced over to the gurney and looked down at Desh. “What’s going on?” he demanded, speaking loudly to be heard over the raging battle taking place outside, the room’s marble floor doing nothing to dampen the noise.
“I don’t have any idea,” said Desh, raising his voice to a near shout as well.
Alan grabbed Desh’s head and slammed it into the gurney. “I repeat,” he screamed menacingly, “what is going on?”
Desh’s face remained stoically impassive, despite the blow to his head, and it was clear he would not be responding.