Poseidon's Arrow (Dirk Pitt 22)

“I thought you could use a lift home.”

Pitt followed her out of the plane and handed her a new pair of crutches.

“Good to see you, Dirk.” Fowler reached out to shake Pitt’s hand.

“After the last two days, I’m not sure I’m so happy to see you,” Pitt said, returning his handshake.

Fowler noticed Pitt was mov

ing with his own limp. “Were you hurt, too?”

“A bullet grazed my calf. I got off easier than Ann.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Fowler said. “We obviously had no idea of the danger you both were walking into. We had only speculated that someone might be trying to obtain Heiland’s research when he disappeared. We certainly had no idea of the seriousness of the threat.”

“You mean threats,” Ann said. “At least they ended up as failed threats.”

Fowler gave Ann an anxious look. “Do you have Heiland’s plans?”

Pitt ducked into the Gulfstream and returned with the bin containing Heiland’s laptops and research journals. “It’s all here,” Pitt said.

Fowler looked relieved. He stepped to the rear of his car and opened the trunk. Pitt followed, shooting the security director a sharp glance as he dropped the bin in.

“You may not know it,” Fowler said, “but that represents a priceless bit of naval technology.”

“Then why didn’t you arrange an armed security escort to keep it safe? Someone is willing to kill for that data.”

“Don’t worry. It’s headed to a secure room in the bowels of the DARPA headquarters building—just as soon as I take Ann home.”

Pitt retrieved Ann’s bag from the Gulfstream and placed it in the trunk beside the bin.

“Can I give you a lift, too?” Fowler asked.

“No, thanks,” Pitt said. “I actually live within walking distance of here. After being cooped up the last few hours, I could use a good stretch of the legs.” He turned to say good-bye to Ann.

“Good luck with the investigation.”

Ann threw her arms around Pitt and gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“You take care of that leg.” He helped her into the car, and waved as they drove off into the gloom.

Pitt’s left leg ached from the bullet wound, while his right shin was still tender from his boat collision in Chile. He paused and sucked in a deep breath of the night air, cool and crisp from a recent rain shower. Hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, he ambled across the tarmac, his tight limbs slowly loosening as he moved.

The whine of engines sounded from across the tarmac as he made his way past a row of private jet hangars toward a little-used section of the airport. He crossed an empty field and approached a lone hangar that looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in fifty years. High weeds surrounded the structure, which was coated in equal parts of rust and dust. A bank of windows beneath the roof’s eaves showed a continuous web of cracks, with shards of glass scattered on the ground near a battered trash can. Only an expert eye examining the building up close could discern that the derelict appearance was in fact a façade designed to deter attention.

Pitt stepped to a side door illuminated by a dim yellow bulb and reached for an industrial-grade light switch. The switch assembly flipped open on a hinge, revealing a concealed keypad. Pitt entered a code that deactivated the alarm system and opened the door’s lock.

He stepped inside, turned on the lights—and was greeted by a fleet of gleaming antique cars parked in rows across the hangar floor, their polished chrome glistening under the overhead illumination. The culmination of a lifelong passion for the fast and the beautiful in automotive design, he had assembled an eclectic collection that spanned the dawn of the twentieth century through the 1950s. The museum-like appearance was augmented by a Ford Trimotor aircraft parked to one side near a beautifully restored Pullman railroad car that his adult kids occasionally used as a temporary apartment.

Pitt drifted across the hangar, patting the fender of a 1930 Packard Speedster 8 Runabout that was parked next to a workbench, the right side of its hood raised. He reached a cast-iron circular staircase and climbed to his second-floor living quarters, which he shared with Loren.

Dropping his duffel on a chair, he pulled a Shiner Bock beer from the refrigerator, then read a note taped to the freezer door.

Dirk,

I’m staying at my Georgetown condo until you get back. Too many automotive ghosts around here! Extended committee hearings will probably keep me on the Hill working late. Missed you.

XXXX,