“If you’re referring to the CIA, no, I’m not.”
Grant was feeling uneasy, and for more than one legitimate reason. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to fill me in; otherwise, one of us is outta here.”
“Why don’t we start with a name. You can call me ‘Mr. Young.’”
“‘Mr. Young’? That’s it? How long until we’re on a first name basis?” Grant smirked.
Young looked at his Rolex. “Tell you what. It’s still early in the evening. If you’re willing to take a ride with me, I’ll give you complete details as to why I wanted to meet you. I’ll even give you my first name, and the name of our friend.”
“How about you tell me now?”
Young just shook his head. “I’d rather not. Look, just come with me. Perhaps I’m the one taking the chance. I’m well aware of your karate abilities, and I can assure you, I’m not armed.”
Grant pictured his .45 locked in a small safe in his apartment. Bluffing, he patted the left side of his jacket. “Never leave home without it.”
He slid across the seat, then stood up. Standing next to the table, he pulled his gloves and watch cap from his pocket. “Well,” he finally said, “you’ve peaked my curiosity. Let’s go.”
Grant walked a half step behind Young as they made their way to G Street. Occasionally taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he wondered if he was being smart. Who the hell was this guy?
Young stopped by the curb, and readjusted his scarf. Grant cautiously walked up next to him. “Need to hail a cab?”
No sooner did he get the words out, when a silver, four-door Jaguar XJ12L pulled next to the curb and stopped. Young opened the back door and climbed in, scooting to the opposite side.
Grant leaned toward the open door, trying to get a look at the driver, who appeared to pay him no mind. Sliding onto the leather seat, Grant closed the door.
The interior of the Jag had that new car smell. The leather seats were a dark silver-color. The door trim, dashboard and steering wheel were natural walnut. A car phone was encased in the armrest between the two front bucket seats, with another phone mounted on a panel behind the driver’s seat. Every detail was first class.
Crossing the Potomac, they headed out of D.C. and continued west. Most of the route Grant was familiar with, until they turned south. They were leaving city lights behind, heading to the country. The Jag picked up speed.
Grant’s concentration was broken with the sound of Young’s voice. “Captain.”
Turning slightly in the seat, Grant looked at him and responded, “Mr. Young.”
“My name’s Jordan.”
“Okay. And our ‘friend’ is?”
“When we get to our destination. I promise.”
Packed snow along the narrow country road crunched beneath the Jag’s wide steel-belted radial tires, as the car followed in the tracks of previous vehicles. Bright high beams illuminated a mixture of tall pine and fir trees, most with branches drooping, as heavy, wet snow clung precariously to them.
The car had gone almost three miles when it came to a T in the road. A large metal sign had a yellow arrow pointing right. Next to it another sign had an arrow pointing left with the words: Dead End. The driver turned left, onto a lane just wide enough for one car.
A metal gate slowly came into view. Its width stretched across the entire lane. Fastened to each of the support posts was wire, three rows high, that extended beyond the trees. Practically hidden from view were security cameras, aimed at vehicles entering and leaving the premises. A sign, screwed into the top of the gate, had a red lightning bolt painted above the words: Danger — Electric Fence.
The driver slowed the Jag to nearly a crawl. A sensor in the gate picked up a signal from a device hidden in the front bumper. The gate swung back. Continuing forward, the vehicle was less than five seconds past the gate, when a timer electronically started. The gate closed.
Grant shifted in the seat, now regretting he didn’t have his weapon. He still couldn’t see anything ahead, until faint lights became visible. A ranch-style log home. The house itself was nearly four thousand square feet, with attached triple garage. Tall trees completely surrounded the home, as if trying to conceal it. All windows were made of one-way glass and bulletproof.
Another sensor activated, and the garage door, the one closest to the house, swung up. It had not quite opened completely, when the driver pulled the Jag forward. As soon as he shut off the engine, the garage door closed.
The three men exited the car. Sounds of doors slamming echoed within the expansive space. Grant noticed two vehicles already parked inside: a black Lincoln Continental and a white Cadillac Sedan de Ville.
He let his eyes roam around the rest of the interior. A single row of metal cabinets with locks lined the entire back wall. Double-door, fire-resistant, burglar-proof gun cabinets, about seven feet in height, were placed against the side wall.
No tools. No garbage cans. No grease stains on the concrete floor. Except for snow melting from the tires, it was spotless.
“Shall we go inside?” Jordan Young asked.
“Lead the way,” Grant answered, as he wondered who the Lincoln and Caddy belonged to. He pulled off his gloves and watch cap, giving a sideways glance at the driver, who gave him a nod, and immediately started wiping down the car with a clean rag.
If ever there was a time when Grant had his curiosity peaking, this was that time. With all his senses on full alert, he followed Young into the house.
Natural hickory wood floors began at the door and continued on as far as Grant could see.
Young opened a closet door just past the bath, then started removing his coat. “You can hang your jacket in here,” he said to Grant as he handed him a hanger.
Grant hung the jacket in the closet, then adjusted his thick blue cable-knit sweater, pulling it down over the waist of his pants. He caught up to Young.
At the end of the hall, to the left, was a dining area. A long, rectangular walnut table was in the center, with ten high-back wooden chairs. Each seat was covered in dark brown leather.
To the right was a kitchen with brand new appliances, and just beyond that, the front door. In a small nook next to the door was an eight-foot bar, made of walnut and topped with a slab of black marble. A copper sink had been inserted into the marble slab, close to the end of the bar.
The main living area took up the rest of the space. It was large and open, free of decorations. No pictures or paintings. No knick-knacks. No antlers or deer heads fastened to walls.
On one long wall was a massive, natural stone fireplace. Orange-yellow flames flickered and crackled from logs stacked on a metal grate. Embers drifted chaotically upward, disappearing into the chimney. The entire room was warmed by the fire.
Attached to the wall above the rough-cut cedar mantel was a security monitor. The screen was divided into six smaller pictures, each in black and white, focused on sections of the property. Every five seconds the pictures would automatically change.
Two men came from behind the bar, each holding a glass of what appeared to be Scotch over ice.
Young said, “Captain, these gentlemen have been waiting for you.”
“Any more surprises, sir?” Grant asked.
“Let me introduce you to Clark Talbott and Mason Sinclair,” Young said, motioning to each man.
Clark Talbott reached for Grant’s hand. “Captain.”
Grant gave a quick nod and returned Talbott’s handshake. “Sir.”
Talbott had wavy, thinning “salt and pepper” hair, and pale gray eyes behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. His deep suntan was a result of a recent trip to his vacation home on the French Riviera. A dark blue suit exuded self-confidence… and Armani. His leather shoes were by Gucci.