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“You could have tried,” growled Dez.
But Imura shook head. “I mean no disrespect when I say this, Officer, but if we wanted to play it that way we would have succeeded.”
“I’ve met plenty of spec-ops jocks and—”
“You’ve never met operators like us. I’m not saying this to blow my own horn but to give you a perspective check. You have every right to think of anyone in a military uniform as your enemy. I don’t blame you. However, if we were your enemies you would be dead, Officer Fox, and Mr. Trout would be having an even worse day than he’s already had. It was my choice on how to play this and I set you up to take a run at us outside so we could take you. From all accounts you are a formidable law officer, but we play a different kind of ball. Let’s be clear on that.”
“Okay, okay,” said Trout before Dez could get into gear with the kind of verbal counterattack that would probably end in fisticuffs, “you could have done it the Rambo way and instead you didn’t. Why waste time making that point?”
“Because,” said Imura, “if we can accept that killing you isn’t high on my list of priorities, then maybe we can all put our dicks away and start working together.”
Trout smiled thinly. “It’s a lovely speech, Captain, but if knowing Dez has taught me anything it’s that trust is earned.”
“Not killing you doesn’t earn trust?”
“It’s a good start,” said Trout. “Let’s see where it takes us.”
He lifted the satellite phone and punched Goat’s number.
The number rang.
And rang.
And kept on ringing until Trout felt his heart begin to sink. Then someone answered it.
“Billy!” cried Goat. “Oh my God, Billy—”
There was a snarl of a harsh voice, the sound of an open palm on flesh, a cry of pain, and then a different voice growled, “Who the fuck’s this?”
It took Trout a couple of stumbling moments to match this new voice to a recent memory and then to fit those awkward pieces into a puzzle shape that made only fractured sense. He felt his heart lurch in his chest.
He said, “Homer?”
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
THE SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Scott Blair closed his cell and wanted to scream.
Instead he made another call and got the director of the National Security Agency on the line. He explained about Goat Weinman having the flash drives.
“What do you want me to do?” asked the director.
“Hack his phone and email. He’s a reporter and he’s on the run. There’s every chance that he sent the data to himself as a way of keeping it safe. Find out.”
The director didn’t ask whether Blair had a warrant. That time had already passed.
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
ON THE ROAD
FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
“Why as I live and breathe, it’s Mr. Live From the Apocalypse his ownself,” said Homer. “Billy Trout, how do you do?”
Homer grinned into the phone as he spoke. Beside him, Goat cowered back, one hand pressed to the welt on his cheek where the killer had belted him when Goat answered the call.
