“Jesus Christ!” Whitman grabbed her elbow as they both scrambled up and began to run. The weird, wrecked mechanism continued to follow them as if it were alive, the rotors whirling closer and closer until their sound was all they could hear, and its oily breath overtook them.

*   *   *

Julie’s first instinct was to turn and flee, but then she recognized the London Fog raincoat with the bit of tar on its flapping hem, the Tilley hat, battered and creased by years of wear, and she waited, heart pounding, as he crossed to where she stood.

“Julie,” Omar Hemingway said gently, “it’s time you came in from the cold.”

She stared at him. “How did you find me?”

“I like to think I haven’t lost my tradecraft.” He smiled, gesturing. “Why don’t we get out of the rain?”

She glanced over his shoulder, then at the far corners of the garden. “I’m as far out of the rain as I care to get.”

“Hmm. Well, as to that, being out in a quiet place like this is one of the least secure spots, as far as the NSA is concerned.” Seeing her wince, he added. “NSA’s expertise is with electronic, not human surveillance.”

“Even Directorate N?”

Hemingway’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’ve begun to worry me. How does Directorate N figure into the mess you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Not Directorate N, per se,” she said. “Luther St. Vincent.”

Hemingway studied her for a moment. The drizzle gathered at the low point of his hat brim, coalesced, and plopped down into the space between them. “I have heard,” he said slowly and deliberately, “that St. Vincent is nursing a broken shoulder.” He peered at her. “D’you know anything about that?”

“I know everything about that,” Julie said softly.

Chapter 39

39

Flix, having scrambled out of the line of sight of the Hellfire missile, set his weapon’s sights on the truck driven by Dante. He knew he needed to be exceptionally careful. He could have shot Dante through the vehicle’s windshield, but that would have served no purpose and would rob them of whatever intel Dante might possess. How to tackle the situation? But when he saw Dante throw the truck into reverse, his mind was made up for him.

He still could not get his head around everything that had happened to him in the last several days—being drugged, becoming some kind of experiment for the NSA, and, most mysterious of all, having Whitman reverse the effects. Nothing made sense to him, but then, in war, nothing ever did. Time to put one foot in front of the other and not look back.

He sighted, blew the right front tire. Pain shot through his rehabbing shoulder, and he gritted his teeth. Funny. It hadn’t bothered him at all until Whitman’s ministrations had brought him back down to earth.