LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA
She wasn’t sure how much more abuse her body could take.
Thanks to the Percodan Ryan had given her, and the two energy drinks she’d washed it down with, Monica was suddenly up and about in the Black Hawk’s main cabin as they cruised toward Richmond. Hagen slept, for a change, while Larson and Ryan played cards. Stark spoke on his satellite phone to someone from the White House.
But it was her mind having the most difficulty keeping up with current events, from the terrorists on their way to Washington to kissing Ryan in the woods.
Kissing Ryan in the woods?
Seriously?
The thought made her think of Porter.
What are you? Sixteen?
She frowned, checking her gear, including the .45-caliber SIG-Sauer that Larson had given her after she lost her Glock in the woods. It had a ten-round high-capacity magazine plus one in the chamber. And she had four more magazines—enough to do some damage when the time came for a little payback. Though based on where the terrorists could be by now, she could only hope they weren’t too late.
Crossing her arms while the Virginia countryside rushed beneath them, Monica let out a disappointed sigh at the opportunities lost in the Gulf of Mexico, Monterrey, Carrizo Springs, north of Shreveport, and now Lynchburg. She cringed at the way everyone fell for those diversions in Texas. Even finding that hidden airfield in Louisiana plus Larson’s ability to extract the coordinates of that clearing had only resulted in flying right into an ambush.
Lucky bastards.
But she knew better than to believe in luck. The terrorists had been better prepared. They had conjured ever more inventive ways to create diversions, to buy time, to get closer to their objective. They were focused, determined, and willing to give up everything to achieve their objective.
What about us?
Was everyone in the government prepared to do the same?
The president and her immediate staff certainly seemed to believe in Monica’s passion for working outside the purview of the Constitution to get the job done. And certainly Stark, Ryan, and the rest of the guys shared the same conviction.
But she wasn’t certain about the average law enforcement agent or officer’s ability or willingness to step beyond their job descriptions, even in the face of certain annihilation.
Even capturing Montoya had resulted in nothing more than confusion, and perhaps even another diversion while Homeland and the FBI were sidetracked to West Virginia to check out his story.
And all the while, despite her best efforts and her supposedly good instincts—even after joining forces with Stark—the good guys always managed to stay one step behind.
“Behind the fucking eight ball,” she complained, earning a curious glance from Ryan before he returned to the cards in his hands while Larson dealt.
She ignored him, for a moment wondering if perhaps she wasn’t the right person for the job. The terrorists had managed to evade her at every turn in spite of what she thought was relentless focus and determination. And now, once more, she was a day late and a dollar short, having missed them in Lynchburg while nearly getting killed.
For the fourth time in four days.
But she had to control her growing frustration, perhaps learn a trick or two from Stark’s veteran team. They didn’t just fight hard but also quite smart. Plus they knew how to relax in between fights, how to recharge, as Hagen, Ryan, and Larson now did. Instead, however, she felt anger rising in her gut at their apparent lack of concern for the events rapidly unfolding before them.
How can they be so damn calm when terrorists are about to turn Washington, D.C., into a well-done steak?
But Monica wondered if they were relaxed or just saving their energy for the upcoming fight while she was simply high strung, falling victim to the same angst that had cost her so many promotions?
Probably the latter, she thought, accepting the reality that no one else on the team had a scratch on them, yet they probably had killed more bad guys than she had.
Monica, on the other hand, had almost lost her head in the Gulf of Mexico, in Monterrey, outside Carrizo Springs, and again an hour ago.
Stark got off the phone and motioned everyone over. Larson punched Hagen on the shoulder and earned the typical knife-in-hand reaction before the group gathered around the colonel in the rear of the chopper.
“Just got word that our man Gorman and that Paki girlfriend of his somehow made it to the Indian border in one piece. Pretty amazing, if you ask me. Based on their intel, it looks like the target is Washington and they’re aboard a truck, and thanks to Cruz here, we think they may be trying to approach it via Richmond. The president has deployed UAVs all over the area to find anything that fits the bill, and they’re setting up roadblocks between Richmond and Washington. But as you may imagine, there must be a million damn delivery trucks in the—”
“Delivery trucks?” Monica interrupted. Her gaze narrowed as it all suddenly came together. The UZI PROs, the Urdu the men spoke, and now delivery trucks—all roads, however circumstantial, certainly led toward …
Stark pointed at her with the phone’s antenna, frowning. “Cruz? How many times are we going to have to do this?”
“Sorry, sir, but … but I think I know what kind of truck they might be in.”
* * *
Stark had learned a long time ago that if you hired talented, smart, and aggressive people, you had to give them the time and space to be themselves, to figure it out and get it done. He loved his team, trusted them with his life, and now Monica was a part of it, and so far she had nailed it every time.
So when she interrupted him yet again, Stark looked at her, then at Ryan and the rest of the team.
Slowly, his gaze landed back on Monica and he said, “Please enlighten us, ASAC Cruz.”