“Smith, huh,” said Desh to himself. The man was unmistakably military. And along with the obvious alias, there was a peculiar arrogance about him, as though he considered himself above it all; unencumbered by rules that might apply to lesser men. “Black-Ops, then?” guessed Desh.
A self-satisfied smile flashed across Smith’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “We had a shot at the girl and we took it. Sorry we surprised you. Given what you’ve just gone through you’re reacting the way any smart soldier would. But we’re on the same side you and I. Really.”
“Why was I under surveillance then, if we’re on the same side?”
“I would be happy to explain that and much more, Mr. Desh. I’m the one who authorized putting you on this Op in the first place. I trust that Colonel Connelly gave you a number to call when you found the girl?”
Desh didn’t respond.
“I’m going to lend you a cell phone,” said Smith. “I have two of them. I’m going to reach in my pocket for the phone but remain facing the road. I’ll throw it back to you. If I begin to pull out a gun, shoot me,” he added.
Desh knew that at their current speed any hostile exchange would cause them to crash, killing them both. Mutually assured destruction. Smith would realize this as well.
“Okay,” said Desh, nodding warily. “But very slowly.”
The man reached into his pocket and carefully inched out the phone, lifting it with his hand facing backward so Desh could see. Still facing the road, he flipped the phone over his shoulder. Desh caught it with his left hand while he continued to train the tranquilizer gun on Smith with his right.
“Dial the number that the colonel gave you,” instructed Smith.
Desh flipped open the phone and dialed the number he had memorized. As the call went through, a ringtone melody issued from Smith’s shirt pocket. He looked at Desh in the rear-view mirror and raised his eyebrows. “Mind if I get that,” he said smugly.
Smith reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open the phone. “Hello, Mr. Desh,” he said, his voice arriving in stereo from both the front seat and through the phone in Desh’s hand. “I think it’s time we had a little talk.”
18
Desh still wasn’t sure who to trust, but Smith had established his authenticity, even if Connelly hadn’t been aware of his activities. Even so, Desh had an uneasy feeling in his gut that wouldn’t seem to go away.
“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.