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And they had become very, very motivated.

60

Desh and Griffin landed at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida. Griffin had slept for most of the trip, and Desh had convinced their captors to feed the nearly comatose hacker continuously during his brief periods of consciousness. Given that Griffin had just saved the world, the elite soldiers sharing the ride with them were eager to help him in any way they could—short of releasing him. After they landed, the prisoners were whisked to a safe house at an unknown location by a mercenary posing as a civilian, under Dutton’s orders.

Once inside the safe house, the two men were placed on a black leather couch, their hands cuffed behind their backs, while four mercenaries kept a close watch.

Matt Griffin was sound asleep yet again when Eric Frey walked through the door several hours later, along with Andrew Dutton, fresh from the Copernicus.

Frey motioned to two of the mercs, who promptly pulled Desh off the couch and into a standing position. The pudgy scientist had kept his toupee but had shaved his beard, so he now looked like a cross between himself and the fictitious Adam Archibald. He walked over to Desh with a self-satisfied grin on his face. “David Desh,” he said. “Good to see you again. I have to say, I was a little pissed off that you escaped from the Codon.”

Desh kept his face passive and didn’t respond.

“You know you cost me an identity,” he said, and without warning punched Desh as hard as he could in the exact place Desh had been shot. Desh’s face recoiled in pain and it was all he could do not to scream out. “Not to mention a very nice yacht,” finished Frey, seething, as though Desh had tortured a loved one.

“I don’t know,” spat Desh through clenched teeth. “I thought it was a little garish.”

Frey delivered another blow to the same spot, and this time tears came to Desh’s eyes.

“I’d heard your gunshot wound was progressing nicely,” said Frey. “But still not fully healed, I see.”

Desh gritted his teeth while he waited for the waves of pain to recede. Not a good idea, he thought. It was stupid to wave a red cape in front of a bull for no reason. If he was going to risk this kind of retaliation, at least it should be for a purpose—like trying to stir the pot. He straightened to his full height again and shot Andrew Dutton a look of contempt. “So how do you feel about being the lapdog of this pudgy asshole?” he said. “That’s got to be humiliating. I bet it gets under your skin, doesn’t it?”

Desh braced himself for another blow, but instead Frey just gave him a look of mild amusement. “It’s not going to work, Desh,” he said calmly. “Andrew knows where his bread is buttered. I created his identity and arranged for him to assume the role he’s in now. His title is little more than a cover. He wields more military and black-ops power than any other civilian in Washington. And I finance a lifestyle far above his pay grade. He knows if he sticks with me he’ll have more power than he’s ever dreamed of.” He smiled icily. “He also knows I’ve taken out an insurance policy. If anything happens to me, a hit is put out on him, financed by a considerable sum of money that becomes available for this purpose upon my death. I learned from Putnam and Alan Miller that when working with people of, um . . . questionable . . . morals, you can’t be too careful. You need to have leverage.”

“So what shoe did you scrape Dutton off of?”

Frey laughed. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you right now. But suffice it to say, he’s one of my kind of people. In fact, he makes me look like Santa Claus.”

Desh’s upper lip curled up in revulsion. Given how much Frey liked having kids on his lap, the thought of him as Santa Claus was highly disturbing.

Frey nodded toward Matt Griffin on the couch. “While your friend is sleeping—which is rude if you ask me—I need you to call Kira Miller for me. When she answers, tell her you want to have a video call with her and have her go to a desktop computer to receive it.”

“We have a secure version of Skype on our phones,” noted Desh.

“First off, since you’ve forgotten, you didn’t bring your phone with you to Copernicus. So you’ll be using mine. And second, I want to have a steady, crisp image of her from a high-end webcam. She’s a beautiful girl. I want to be sure to see every last line in her face.”

Desh’s jaw tightened. “What makes you think I’ll lift a finger to do what you ask?”

“Do you always have to be so cliché?” said Frey in contempt. “Really?” He paused. “Okay, I’ll play along. I won’t waste time threatening you. The cliché says that noble dumbasses like you will sacrifice themselves for the cause. But it also says you won’t sacrifice others. Make the call, or I blow away Matt’s kneecap.” Frey glanced over at the large hacker and shrugged. “I don’t know, something like that just might be enough to wake him.”

Desh stared deeply into Frey’s eyes and detected not the slightest hint of compassion or any evidence he was bluffing. Reluctantly, Desh nodded his agreement.

One of the mercs cut him loose while his three companions stood back, their automatic weapons trained on his chest. When his hands were free, Frey tossed him a phone. “Here. And don’t get any cute ideas. If you don’t convince her you’re your own man, Matt here will never walk again.” To underscore his point he took out his gun, chambered a round, and held the barrel just a few inches from Griffin’s left knee. “Make your performance convincing,” he warned.

Kira’s phone didn’t identify the incoming caller, so she answered uncertainly, but when she heard Desh’s voice she became ecstatic. “David!” she squealed happily. “Thank God. I heard about what happened on Copernicus—about Matt stopping doomsday—but why didn’t you call? I’ve been worried to death.”

“Everything’s fine,” Desh assured her, not allowing his voice to betray the strain he was under. “The world really dodged a bullet this time. I’ll tell you all about it, but first I’d like to show you something. And I want you to see it on a big screen. How far away are you from the computer in the conference room?”

“Three or four minutes.”

“Great, I’ll be waiting for you online when you get there,” he said, and then ended the connection.

“Well done,” said Frey, reholstering his gun and retrieving his phone. “Matt gets to keep his kneecap for a while longer.” He removed a gellcap from his pocket and swallowed it. “I want to be at my best for my conversation with the esteemed Kira Miller,” he explained to Desh.

Frey had the mercenaries bind Desh once again, this time leashing him to a heavy desk, and then dismissed all but Dutton, who leveled a gun at Desh and kept watch.

Five minutes after Desh had given Frey the IP address for the computer connection, Kira Miller’s face appeared as large as life on a high-definition screen affixed at head height on the wall behind them.

When Eric Frey appeared on her screen she shrank back for just an instant.

“Expecting someone else?” asked Frey with a smirk. His eyes were blazing and it was obvious he was now enhanced.

After her initial surprise, Kira’s features became calm and impassive. “So, if it isn’t the smarter version of Eric Frey. And you have David. Can I assume you have Matt as well?”