“That’s what friends do.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Burke said. “I’ve never had any.”

Carter cocked an eyebrow. “You have me.”

Burke said nothing.

“Your dad said that you had several friends in school. What about this guy with the hard drives? He’s probably a friend.”

“I have many acquaintances. None I’d call friends. But that’s okay. I’m not saying that for you to feel sorry for me or because I’m upset about it. Having friends is exhausting. They want to do things with you, and they get all bent out of shape when you don’t call them for long periods of time. It’s almost as bad as having a girlfriend.”

“I’ve heard you do okay with the ladies.”

“I date a little. Never had what I’d call a serious girlfriend. I can never figure out what they want. It seems like everything I do is wrong. I act one way and receive negative feedback. I act the opposite and receive negative feedback. Often I receive positive feedback, but have no idea what I did to deserve it. It’s all so confusing.”

Carter sighed. “You might as well get used to that, kid.”

“Guess I just haven’t found the one woman worthy of that much further study. If I was going to have a successful marriage, I’d need to earn at least a Ph.D. level or equivalent degree, majoring in the subject of my wife.”

With a warm smile, Carter said, “To have a wonderful marriage, every other man has to do the same.”

They reached the top and stepped off the lift onto the basement floor. Carter listened to hear if anyone was coming up the shaft after them, but he heard nothing. At least Nic had been successful in helping them escape.

Carter headed toward the stairs. He opened the door at the top and stepped out into the small home’s kitchen. Burke was on his heels, carrying the two trash cans of hard-drive pieces.

As Carter closed and locked the basement door, a voice from behind him said, “Don’t move, or I will shoot you both.”

Then, a radio chirped, and the man said, “Sir, I have the other two in custody at the safe house.”

Chapter 75

“Put the trash cans on the counter.”

Burke complied and turned to the agent. The house was dark, but the waning light from outside still lit the interior. The CIA agent was average height and build, right-handed, light brown hair, no wedding ring, mid-thirties. His finger rested on the outside of the trigger guard. The gun was a Glock 21, .45 ACP, no safety. Burke couldn’t see his eyes, but his voice hadn’t quivered at all when he gave instructions. Confidence could also mean underestimation.

The agent tossed two pair of plastic flex cuffs onto the counter with his left hand. “Gun on the floor and kick it away, then put those on.”

Carter placed his gun gently on the linoleum floor and gave it a little kick to send it sliding away from his reach.