Part of me appreciates seeing the “real America” near the highway, the road joints, shotgun shacks, struggling farms, mobile home parks, the lights of industry and refineries out there on the horizon, but I also realize that while I’m still comfortable time-wise, I’m very uncomfortable knowledge-wise.

We’re now on a long length of two-lane highway called Pass Road, which is flat and offers tobacco and beer stores, used car lots, Dollar Generals, and other merchant hangers-on a few miles away from the warm promises of the Gulf Coast.

I say to Archie, “The worst part about digging into Tom’s computer files is finding out that he’s been spying on me. Me! His goddamn wife and partner.”

We drive past a few pickup trucks heading in the other direction, each hauling a trailer carrying a fishing boat that would probably take a year’s salary of mine to purchase.

I go on. “He got a literary agent interested in him last year. The agent was looking for a blockbuster book. Turned down about a half dozen ideas of Tom’s. Then Tom hired a hacking firm on the dark web to get access to Army intelligence unit activities, and then my name popped up, what I was doing…and somehow, that led him to two competing drug cartels in Mexico, both of them looking to significantly expand their territory.”

I give Archie a sideways glance. “Cartel number one was offering you as an information source to Tom. Out of the goodness of their dark hearts? Hardly. They were using you as an informational tool to take down cartel number two…with Tom’s knowledge and assistance. All for a blockbuster book. But cartel number two apparently found out about it, kidnapped him and Denise, and is using me to bring you to them.”

I drive on. At some point I’ll need to get this cursed little task force onto a highway.

“But for God’s sake,” I say, “what is the possible connection between Central Asia and Mexico? What could they possibly have in common?”

And he turns and gives me a look that expresses…

Intelligence?

Awareness?

Knowledge?

“Oh, damn it, it was right in front of my face, all the goddamn time!” I yell, and I pull over the Wrangler in a used car lot, and fumble through my leather bag.

In his cubicle at Fort Belvoir, Lieutenant Preston Baker is in a good mood. A while ago he had a nice talk with his mother back home in Washington, and unlike previous calls that ended with sobs and cries of despair, this one ended with a cheerful “Good-bye, Pres, love you,” because at long last there’s progress in helping out Dad.

The good mood lasts exactly three more seconds.

His phone rings, he answers, “Baker,” and there’s a static-filled call coming in.

“Hello?”

The familiar woman’s voice comes through. “Baker? It’s Captain Cornwall.”

Preston swivels in his chair so no one strolling by can see the shocked look on his face.

“C-captain Cornwall?” he stammers. “Ah…how are you, ma’am? Where are you?”