Andrew Britton - The Operative

“Why not? She’s evading capture while-”

Even as he was saying it, Bishop realized that Kealey was right.

“While she’s dragging the NYPD and the FBI all across Manhattan,” Kealey said, finishing the thought for him. “Midtown west, now Lower Manhattan.”

“Right,” Bishop said. “A distraction. But why don’t you think she’s finished?”

“There’s one more meaty target,” Kealey said. “People are evacuating fast, en masse, so she’ll probably hit Grand Central Terminal or the Port Authority Bus Terminal before she or her sponsors move on to the next step.”

“Yeah, the more I think about this, the more I don’t think she’s acting solo,” Bishop said. “I was there when Muloni mentioned her daughter. That registered big-time. If Veil engineered an escape, she would have gone to Pakistan to get her into hiding. It is more likely someone wanted her here. Maybe someone else who had access to the kid.”

“There’s something else,” Kealey said. “Did you happen to see the phone Hunt took from Muloni?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a Minotaur,” Kealey said. “The latest high-security uplink. Someone at her pay grade wouldn’t need one.”

“She was sent here,” Bishop said. “And not to watch for Veil. Jesus, Ryan. Who the hell is setting us up?”

“I don’t know,” Kealey admitted. “The Minotaur is not standard issue to anyone in government service. It costs about a half million per unit. The CIA wouldn’t be giving one out to an undercover agent. It’s conceivable, though, that the manufacturer would.”

“Who’s that?”

Kealey answered, “Trask Industries.”

Bishop considered this. “We need a double-dog op.”

“Hunt?”

“Got no one else,” Bishop said. “He took the phone. He’s the closest to ‘suspicious’ we’ve got.”

“All right,” Kealey said. “I’ll take point on this. You stay with him. I’ll go to Grand Central. After that, I’ll hit One West.”

“Gotcha,” Bishop said.

“Get something to eat, too,” Kealey told him. “Fast. These vendors look like they’re selling out down here.”

Bishop offered a halfhearted grin. “Capitalism. Gotta love it.”

NEW BOSTON, TEXAS

John Scroggins was dozing in his seat after his dawn-to-ten shift at the wheel. Absalom Bell had made the White Sands run before, but Scroggins was primarily a Florida-to-Maine man for Trask Industries. The flatness of the land, the will-sapping heat just outside the door, the whitewash bluntness of the sun-none of these were for him.

“You might as well be driving through hell,” he had told Bell when he turned over the wheel a few minutes before.

The sameness of the world around him included the sounds-the whoosh of air moving past at 80 mph, the tuning-fork sound of the hybrid engine, the hollow whisper of the tires on the road. Save for a vintage hot rod that passed them, there was nothing new.

Until there wasn’t.

Scroggins felt the dull drumming before he heard it.

“Is the engine okay?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“That ain’t us,” Bell said. “It’s them.”

“Eh?” Scroggins cracked an eye. It took a moment before he could see through the white glare of the windshield. The pale blue of the sky formed beyond it, and in that sky he saw three silver-white bugs. They were low on the horizon, just above the dashboard, and getting larger-and finally louder-by the moment. He felt as if he were sitting in a vibrating chair in a furniture showroom.

“Definitely not a traffic copter eye in the sky,” Bell said, sipping coffee.

“Must be some kind of maneuvers,” Scroggins said.

“How-to-fly-in-a-triangle training,” Bell joked and chuckled.

The Bell-Boeing V-22 Ospreys continued in a straight, sinister line along the interstate. They grew larger as they approached, their tilt-rotor pylons rippling like snakes in the heat rising from the asphalt.

Scroggins shifted uneasily, glanced in the side-view mirror, sat up, drummed anxiously on his knees. “Maybe you ought to pull over,” he suggested.

“What for? They ain’t the damn highway patrol.”

“No, but they are,” Scroggins said.

Bell looked in his mirror. Just coming over the horizon was a line of Ford Police Interceptors, their dark chassis blending with the asphalt in a way that made their white tops and red and blue lights seem to float forward.

“You running guns?” Scroggins asked.

“No. Heroin,” Bell replied.

“Don’t joke,” Scroggins said. “They may have some kind of listening shit.”

“Well, what kinda dumb question is that?”

“The kind that makes me wonder why we’ve got the law and the air force converging on our asses.”

“Maybe they’re after each other,” Bell said. “Some kinda drill. And they’re navy, not air force.”

“Excuse me all to hell,” Scroggins said.

The driver slowed and pulled off the road. The men watched as the THP vehicles neared-there were four of them-and the choppers formed a line in front of them, straddling the interstate. Their six main rotors were literally shaking their insides from waist to throat now, the propellers churning dirt from the plains below them. The brush struck Scroggins as ancient peoples waving and swaying before their gods. He wished he felt more like a god and less like a cactus.

The VTOL aircraft on the right descended. It set down ahead of them, beside the road, while the other two hovered at around 200 feet. The THP vehicles arrived almost simultaneously, spinning off the road, two on either side. Men with rifles got out and stood behind the open doors.

“Holy shit,” Scroggins said. “It is us.”

“Man, I swear I don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

“Don’t tell it to me, ” Scroggins said.

“Yeah? How do I know this ain’t about you?”

“I confess, brother. I’m a mule.”

“I’m serious-”

“And I ain’t, man,” Scroggins said. “Maybe you should call HQ.”

Bell nodded. The Minotaur was at his side, and he picked it up.

“Put your hands on the dashboard!” a mechanical-sounding voice blared from behind him. “Both of you, now! ”

Scroggins put his hands ahead of him slowly. Bell raised his, then rotated them down to the padded vinyl. The men didn’t know whether to look ahead or into the mirror. Armed men were emerging from the Osprey. They were covered head to foot, crouched behind raised weapons as they approached. It looked to Scroggins as if some of the automatic rifles were aimed beyond them.

“Lower your weapons!” shouted an amped voice from the Osprey.

“This definitely ain’t no drill,” Bell said.

“Just thinkin’ that myself,” Scroggins replied. “I’m sure hopin’ they’re mad at each other and we just got caught in-”

“Persons in the Trask vehicle,” said the voice from the Osprey. “Open both doors and emerge slowly.”

“I’m guessin’ that means we have to take our hands off the dashboard,” Scroggins said. “On three?”

“Huh?” Bell said.

“We gettin’ out?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Shit, I just can’t figure this.”

“I think we’re way past trying figuring anything,” Scroggins said. “One… two…”

On three, both men reached out and pushed open the doors.

“Nobody go shootin’ us!” Scroggins yelled as he swiveled in his seat and leaned his head out. His hands were raised as he stepped from the cab. “You guys hear me? Which way do we face?”

The Osprey decided that for them. The rotor wash from the transport was pelting them with dead foliage, sand, and pebbles. Both men turned their backs to the air force detachment. Scroggins didn’t like what he saw ahead of them. It reminded him of pictures he had seen at the Atlanta History Center from the turn-of-the-century South: early police cars and armed officers ready to face bootleggers, bank robbers, and black men. Though his brain told him he’d done nothing wrong, he started to pray.