“Really?” she said smugly. “I have a cap on a tooth with cyanide enclosed. I bite down on it with all of my strength and I die very quickly. And you can’t have that, can you? Because if I die, you’re next. Your boss would serve your brains as an appetizer at his next dinner party.” She paused and motioned to Smith’s men with her head. “Tell them, Smith. You obviously didn’t expect me here or you would have warned them already. Tell them what happens to them if they accidentally kill me.”
“She’s right,” said Smith hurriedly, realizing they knew nothing of the stakes and couldn’t risk that they would decide to take matters into their own hands. “None of you are to take any hostile action against her if there is any chance—any chance—that it could result in her death, accidental or otherwise. Am I clear?” he hissed.
“Clear,” responded his men in turn, looks of disbelief across the board.
Desh watched her performance in awe. She was the most remarkable woman he had ever known. She had waltzed into an elite group of heavily armed commandos without even flinching and was attempting to pull off a plan more audacious than any in his memory.
“Good,” said Smith. He turned once again to Kira. “As for you, you’ve watched too many old spy movies. A suicide tooth? You’re bluffing. And even if you aren’t, you’ll never go through with it.” He pulled a tranquilizer gun from his pocket and raised his eyebrows. “I can have you unconscious in a few seconds,” he said smugly.
“Even think of pointing that at me and I crack the tooth. You might think I’m bluffing, but are you willing to bet your life?” Kira cast a furtive, nervous glance at the tree line in Desh’s direction and nodded ever so slightly.
Her nod jolted Desh out of the trance he was in like a cattle prod. “Even if the tooth isn’t real,” he thundered from beyond the clearing, taking the cue she had given him. “I sure as hell am! I have a gun trained on her head and an itchy trigger finger. I’m happy to be the instrument of suicide for this psychopathic bitch!” he spat hatefully.
“Jesus, Desh!” said Smith in alarm, the smug look vanishing from his face as he realized he had neglected to factor Desh into the equation. “Back off! She could be our only hope of stopping the Ebola attack. You kill her and you’re sentencing millions of others to death as well.”
“I don’t believe that and you know it!” growled Desh. “I think killing her ends the threat. So I’ll tell you what. Have your men drop their weapons and hug the ground or I put a bullet through her head.”
There was no response.
Desh fired, missing Kira’s head by inches.
“Do it!” he thundered. “Or be prepared to bend over and kiss your ass goodbye when the powers that be discover you allowed her to be killed. I’ll at least die a happy man knowing I stopped her.”
Desh could tell that Smith’s mind was racing, weighing the possibilities.
“You have ten seconds,” said Desh forcefully. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six—”
“Do what he says!” ordered Smith anxiously. “Now!”
His men were incredulous, but did as ordered: they dropped their weapons and fell to the ground.
Smith remained standing.
“You too, Smith,” demanded Desh. “On the ground. You and I need to have a nice long chat.”
Smith shook his head. “I’m really not feeling all that chatty,” he said.
And then, before Desh could react, Smith pointed his tranquilizer gun at his own leg and pulled the trigger.
PART FOUR
Reunion
25
Kira Miller took the lead as they hiked through the woods. Desh was close behind, his .45 trained on her back, while Connelly and Griffin brought up the rear; all four staying alert for possible ambushes. Their destination was Kira’s SUV, rented under an assumed name, which was parked at a campground a half-mile distant and which could not be immediately traced. They were in an untouched section of the woods, blazing their own trail, and their progress was slower than Desh would have liked. Kira had used a small GPS device to find the clearing, and she consulted it periodically to be sure they were taking the most direct line to her vehicle possible.
Desh fumed silently. How had he let Smith slip through his fingers? Smith had known they couldn’t wait until he regained consciousness to interrogate him, and dragging his unconscious body along as they made their escape would be equally foolhardy. As expected, the man had carried no identification. Shit, thought Desh for the third time. He had been so close to finally learning what was going on and who was pulling Smith’s strings. It was maddening.
Desh had tranquilized the remaining commandos to ensure they couldn’t sound an alarm. After he had cut Griffin and Connelly free, he had taken the standard, military first-aid kit from the helicopter and had cleaned and dressed the colonel’s wound, giving him a potent pain killer as well. Before they had taken off into the woods, Desh also hurriedly dressed the wound of the now-unconscious soldier Connelly had shot.
All in all, Connelly had been lucky, but he had still lost a considerable amount of blood and the risk of infection was significant. He needed to get to a doctor soon.