“I thought you said no one would know we were in the minivan. So why are you still worried about satellites?”
“Just paranoid. Two switches out of sight of prying eyes are better than one. And the RV is very nice. Big. With a bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen—the works. Have your kids ever been in one?”
“Never.”
Desh nodded. “Well, this is a horrible situation, but being driven to your next destination in an RV will at least be more fun for the kids than being strapped in a car.” He paused. “We’re almost there. If you’ll carry the two girls into the minivan, my friend can carry Max. I need to stay in the driver’s seat so I can pull away the moment the light turns green.”
Lauren took a deep breath and nodded. She reached over and shook her son gently. “Max, honey. Wake up.”
“Huh?” he said sleepily.
“Wake up, Honey. In a minute we’re going to do something kind of silly. We’re going to switch from this car to another one—in the middle of the road. But it’s a little dangerous, so I’m going to have an old friend of mine carry you. Okay, Max?”
Max stretched as best he could in the car seat he was in and tilted his head. “Okay,” he said, not understanding this new game but willing to play along. He was still at an age where he often didn’t understand why adults did some of the crazy things they did.
A snarl of crisscrossing overpasses loomed only a few blocks away. As Desh approached the light was green, but he slowed considerably, which elicited an angry honk from the driver behind him. The light turned red and Desh stopped the SUV under the concrete overpasses, making it invisible to prying eyes gazing down from space. A white Chrysler minivan, its hazards blinking and its side door open, was facing the opposite direction one lane over, just as Desh had said it would be. Jim Connelly pretended to inspect the front tire on the passenger’s side.
“Go,” barked Desh the second the car came to a rest.
Lauren threw open the door and jumped out of the vehicle while Connelly appeared magically beside her. She leaned in and removed her two girls while Max stood and let Jim Connelly carry him across the space between vehicles.
The colonel and Lauren Rosenblatt were still depositing kids in the back of the minivan when the light turned green and Desh accelerated through the intersection and onto the highway on-ramp, heading north. Less than a minute later, Jim Connelly turned off his hazards and drove calmly out from under the overpasses, heading south, with his hidden cargo safely belted in back.
Desh felt more relieved than he would care to admit. Part one of the operation could not have gone better. Lauren Rosenblatt had cooperated and had marshaled her children like a champ. The gamble he had taken to earn Lauren’s trust had worked great, which was a good thing, since if he had miscalculated he could have easily found himself incapacitated by his own taser.
Now it was time for part two. And while this part of the operation was more dangerous, with the innocent civilians now out of the picture, Desh was confident it would end successfully.
16
Desh drove for another fifteen minutes, secure in the knowledge that the two men Jake had left in Omaha were following him, and because satellites couldn’t see in the back of an SUV, were still convinced the Rosenblatt family was along for the ride.
He arrived at his destination, a road that ran beside the tree line of another thick woods. When he saw a section in which the spacing between trees was greater than average he drove off the pavement and slowly into the woods, maneuvering the large SUV between trees, the Toyota’s oversized tires, built for off-roading, having no trouble climbing large, fallen branches, high underbrush, and thick cords of roots protruding aboveground.
He picked his way forward for almost thirty yards, stopped the car, and began rooting through a duffel bag that had been on the floor of the passenger’s seat, gathering the equipment he needed.
Desh stepped out of the vehicle and onto the floor of the woods, where he could not have felt more comfortable. He was surrounded by elms and tall cottonwoods. It was spring and the woods were vibrant and alive, producing a clean, outdoor scent that he had always loved. Birds trilled repetitively high up in unseen branches.
Desh had a gift for operating in the woods. Traversing terrain such as this without making the slightest sound, without causing the faintest rustle of leaves or crunch of a twig, required balance, athleticism, and experience, as well as uncanny instincts. Desh could move through the densest forest more silently than another man could walk across a plush carpet, and he could do this so cleanly that nothing short of a bloodhound could track him.
But on this occasion he wanted to be tracked. He did a sloppy job of moving away from the SUV, leaving faint but obvious footprints in his wake. This would ensure he was followed—and underestimated.
He travelled north for twenty yards, still in sight of the SUV, and then walked dead center between two cottonwoods that were twelve yards apart, like a human football splitting two goal posts. He continued north for several minutes with reckless abandon and then circled back, this time with feline grace, and carefully strung a tripwire between the two cottonwood goal posts, eight inches off the ground. He settled in to watch the SUV.
He didn’t have to wait long. Off in the distance a small gray sedan was approaching the bulky Toyota, having followed its tracks from the road. Since this vehicle was low to the ground and not built for off-roading, it had been scratched and dinged and was littered with brush and leaves and dirt. The car stopped a good distance from the SUV and two men exited cautiously, their guns drawn. Both were dressed in casual civilian clothing, one in tan slacks and a black t-shirt and one in blue jeans and a thin gray sweatshirt.
They approached Desh’s rental from either side, crouching low, with their eyes never leaving its windows in case someone popped up from the seat or floor and began shooting. When they were ten feet away they both rushed forward and hazarded a look inside the vehicle, making sure their guns shifted along with their eyes, ready to fire at any hidden danger.
When the two men were satisfied the vehicle was empty they scanned the woods in all directions and then had a quick, whispered conversation, before spreading out and moving at a slow jog through the trees.
Desh knew what they were thinking, because it was what he wanted them to think. They were now panicked that Desh and the Rosenblatt family were getting away, and could emerge from the woods at any one of thousands of places. They might get lucky with the satellites and find them once again, but on the other hand, they might not. So they needed to hustle and catch up to the young family, counting on the three children Desh and Lauren had in tow to slow them down. Desh was certain it would never occur to these men that they were chasing a highly skilled operative not weighed down with any civilian baggage, who had no intention of running away.
As the two men moved forward, Desh took a wide angle around their perimeter and maneuvered behind them. His timing was perfect. Just as he got into place, the gunman to the west hit Desh’s tripwire and did a face-plant into the dirt with a loud grunt.
The fallen man rolled and jumped to his feet in alarm, gun at the ready, but he was too late. As he was turning Desh shot him in the neck with a tranquilizer dart, and he fell once again into the undergrowth, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
One down, one to go, thought Desh.
The unconscious man’s partner rushed to his comrade’s aid while Desh sprinted off through the trees as fast as many men could have run on a track.