King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

He confirmed some other information with Hesse and then left her there staring into her coffee cup.

He was halfway to his car when his phone buzzed. It was Michelle. She filled him in on her meeting with McKinney.

“A billion euros?” he said, his voice heavy with skepticism. “That’s about a billion three U.S. dollars at current exchange rates.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And it apparently weighs forty-eight hundred pounds, crate not included.”

“And why would McKinney come to us and offer up this information?”

Sean slid into the front seat and clipped his seat belt on before starting the engine, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

“I think he feels hemmed in. Not trusting anyone, meaning on his side too,” she said.

“Still, it was a stretch for a DHS guy to come to us and convey that sort of information. He could get his ass canned for that.”

“No argument there. I was as surprised as you are.”

“How did you leave it with him?”

“I didn’t really. He just left and I got on the horn with you.”

“I’ll be there in about forty minutes. Hang tight.”

Sean put the car in gear.

He didn’t look in the rearview mirror.

If he had, he might have noticed the red dot flitting across his forehead.

CHAPTER

31

ALAN GRANT LOWERED HIS PISTOL with the laser sight on the Picatinny rail as Sean drove off.

It would not be as simple as a trigger pull, although the time would come when it would be something that basic. He slipped his gun back into its shoulder holster and sat there with the engine running while he thought through some things.

Mary Hesse, a DTI grunt. Worked with Sam Wingo teaching him how to speak languages of the Middle East. She was a dead end. But there were other trails out there that could lead King and Maxwell somewhere.

He put his Mercedes sedan in gear and drove out of Chantilly, heading west toward the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The roads turned from interstates to highway to state routes and finally to rural road switchbacks.

He finally turned onto a gravel road, drove up a hill, turned left, and skidded to a stop in front of a small, ramshackle cabin. He climbed out of the car and checked his watch; it was nearing midnight. Time was meaningless to him. He had long ago ceased to operate on a nine-to-five schedule.

He popped the trunk and looked down at the woman lying there.

Her hands and feet were bound with flexi-cuffs, mouth taped, eyes blindfolded. All these steps were probably unnecessary since she was drugged. But he was a cautious man. Cautious people, he had found, lived to fight another day.

He lifted her up and carried her to the porch. He set her down, unlocked the front door—triple locks and a security system run off a propane-fired generator that also provided lighting—picked her back up, and carried her over the threshold.

There was nothing matrimonial about the gesture.

He walked into the back room where the window had been blacked out.

There was a metal table in the middle of this room. He laid her down on the table, removed her blindfold, and stepped back. He took off his coat and laid his pistol aside. It would just get in his way. He turned on the overhead light.

As he watched, she started waking up. He looked at his watch. Right on time.

Jean Wingo’s eyes fluttered once, twice, and then remained open. Her look was confused at first; then she looked to the side and saw him.