Page 28 of Fox in Plain Sight

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The message had been clear. Michelle was to go to a specific spot in Constitution Gardens tonight and record what she saw. There would be a clandestine meeting. If she performed well, Smith had texted her, maybe she’d even be rewarded for it. Michelle scoffed at that. What kind of reward was Smith thinking of? To kill her quickly should the people who were meeting clandestinely in some deserted corner of Washington discover her and try to torture her to tell them what she knew—which was nothing—so she wouldn’t have to suffer?

Great. It was bad enough that she had to spy on some hacker online, now Smith actively put her in harm’s way by sending her out on a nightly mission. Hell, she wasn’t trained for this. Why didn’t he use one of his covert agents—which he surely had, Nick being one of them!—or do the dirty job himself? No, he had to use a weak woman for that, one who didn’t even know karate or any other form of self-defense. A fat chance in hell—that’s all she’d have when it came to survival.

Damn it.

In her hiding place, behind a bush, she kept quiet though she wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Wasn’t it enough that Smith had assigned her a watcher?

Michelle had arrived under cover of darkness only moments after the sun had gone down and it was dark enough so nobody would notice her creeping around and get suspicious. Hours before the presumed meeting was to take place, she was already waiting, poised to record whatever she saw.

Meanwhile, the mosquitoes swirled around her, eating her alive. It hadn’t cooled down despite the thunderstorm the night before. In her black, long-sleeved T-shirt and her dark pants, she felt too hot and woefully overdressed, though it meant that the mosquitoes only caught her hands, neck, and face, although she could swear that some were trying to work their way up her pant leg. She slapped at her lower leg, where she felt the sting, and cursed under her breath.

Bloodsuckers!

There were still tourists around, taking pictures of the various monuments in the park, which were lit up by strong spotlights. Lincoln Memorial, of which she had a good view across the Reflecting Pool, was one of them. People were taking pictures on the stairs, selfies with the sitting statue of President Lincoln behind them, or group photos, asking other tourists for help. But the longer she waited, the less people she saw. The tourists finally withdrew, returning to their hotels or other, more interesting sights by night.

Michelle crouched between the bushes, looking around herself. She didn’t want to miss the arrival of the mysterious strangers or be spotted by them.

The silence in the large park was eerie. There was the sound of birds fluttering in the dark, and the annoying buzzing of some overeager flies and mosquitoes, but all human-made sounds were in the distance. Cars driving on Constitution and Independence Avenues, others crossing Arlington Memorial Bridge. In the dark, the sounds carried far. But they were also soothing, almost comforting, because they confirmed that normal life continued—while her life was taking a turn for the worse. She knew it. She could sense it in her bones, feel it by the way the hairs at her nape stood up as if to protest.

She shouldn’t be here. She should be on a plane to South America, fake passport in hand. But she was still waiting for that fake passport. Her contact—recommended by an old friend from Anonymous—had urged her to be patient. If the passport needed to pass federal inspection at a US airport, it needed to be perfect. He couldn’t rush it, but he’d promised to deliver it in two days, just before her ultimatum with the mysterious Mr. Smith ran out. She would be out of here before he could throw her into prison. And he would, given half a chance, because the hacker she’d been so close to nailing, had gone dark. The entire week, she’d not seen his digital signature anywhere. As if he knew she was onto him.

The sound of a twig breaking shattered the silence and made her snap her head in the other direction. She tried to adjust her eyes, searching in the dark for the person who’d created that sound, but saw nothing. The area it had come from was too dark—not lit up like the monuments around her. She would need night-vision goggles. Smith should have thought of that. Clearly, her blackmailer wasn’t quite as smart as he pretended to be. How was she going to see anything, and know what to record? Hell, her cell phone wouldn’t be able to pick up anything if she didn’t even know which direction to point it in.

There, another sound! This time, it was clearly footsteps. Their echo was difficult to pinpoint. Was the sound coming from the right or the left? She shifted, and her T-shirt got snagged on a branch. She jerked back. The ripping sound resonated in the silence.

Shit!

~ ~ ~

The person hiding in the bushes was no Stargate agent, Nick assessed immediately. He was close enough that he would have been able to sense the special aura a Stargate member gave off. It was something he’d discovered early on after he’d been recruited by Henry Sheppard. He’d instantly felt a kindred spirit with the older man, as if he’d known him a long time.

Sheppard had told him that it was like recognizing like. One Stargate agent recognizing another. It was a survival instinct. Nature had made sure that some of its special children knew each other and could come to each other’s aid should it be necessary.

Nick had no illusions that the person hiding in the darkness meant him harm and wasn’t just a lost tourist. He recognized that the stranger was holding his breath, trying not to be heard. But he couldn’t see his would-be assailant, because the area was pitch-black, while only a few yards away there was sufficient light from the monuments and the city itself to see outlines and shapes.

Not knowing what training the person lying in wait had, Nick took no chances. One wrong move and he could have a bullet in his brain or a knife in his heart. And he was rather fond of his life and not ready to trade it in for an eternal sojourn in a wooden box six feet under.

Nick had undergone basic CIA training at The Farm, training that encompassed self-defense, hand-to-hand combat, and weaponry, even before he’d been recruited into the Stargate program by Sheppard. He’d been selected by a CIA recruiter for his computer skills right out of college and assigned to data security at Langley a full two years before Henry Sheppard had taken notice of him. Even after being drafted in the Stargate program, he’d continued to work at Langley in his less secret capacity as a data security analyst.

Nick had become particularly fond of his Glock, a handgun that handled well and was currently holstered under his left arm, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.

Setting one foot in front of the other, treading lightly so as not to make any sounds, Nick stalked toward the copse of trees and bushes. He circled to the left, slowly approaching. His breathing was even and silent, his eyes trained on the target in front of him. While night-vision goggles would have come in handy and given him a definite advantage, he knew he could make up for this lack of equipment with his other senses—including his impeccable sharpshooting skills.

Calmly, he reached into his jacket and pulled the Glock from its holster. A few more steps. He was close.

A rustle in the bushes as if the assailant was moving, shifting, sensing that he’d been discovered.

But it was too late. Nick was already onto him. Behind him. Only a few feet now. Nick lifted his leg, set it down a foot ahead of him. He felt the twig beneath his sole too late and cracked it. The sound echoed in the night.

A sharp intake of air was the response, then a sudden movement right in front of him: the stranger spinning around to face him. He wasn’t tall for a man, average in fact, and lightly built.

Nick lunged forward, slamming the man into the tree. A split second later, he pressed the Glock’s cold barrel to the would-be assailant’s forehead, cocking it.

“One wrong move, and this bullet will make mush out of your brain.”

A loud gasp, the sound too high-pitched to come from a man, startled him for a second. Just as the uncontrollable trembling did.