“Get outta the car,” white guy said.
He was still pointing the handgun at Tom’s head. An Israeli Jericho 941, his hands overlapping on the grip. Tom unlocked the door and got out. The guy stood sideways on to minimize his exposure and guard his vital points. He had a lean, high-cheek-boned face. His eyes were pale blue and red-rimmed, which Tom put down to hay fever, because his body was well-muscled. The type that was addicted to steamed fish and al-dente vegetables, rather than drugs or liquor.
“Hands behind your head. Kneel like you’re saying your prayers.”
Tom raised his hands, sensing that the black guy had come up behind him. He felt vulnerable. They could cap him here, take his body away in the truck and toss him in the Potomac, or bury it in a slurry pond. No one would even suspect anything, other than Lester and Karen. Crane, too, of course. But putting them in danger was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. He calmed himself down, hoping that Hawks, an ex-CIA operative, wouldn’t kill him until he was absolutely sure that he’d extracted everything he knew. And he wouldn’t do that on a road, not even one in the Virginia countryside.
“Tom Dupree. You killed four Islamists with your bare hands in Afghanistan. A year later, you saved the Secretary of State’s ass again. Took a bullet for her. I’m right, ain’t I?” the white guy said, smirking.
“That’s cute,” Tom replied.
The guy hadn’t recognized him, Tom thought. He was reading from a script. One which was designed to humiliate him and make him feel as bad as possible in the circumstances. Then he felt the muzzle of the pump-shotgun jab between his shoulder blades.
“The man said kneel,” the black guy behind him said. “I don’t give a racoon’s ass who you are.”
Holstering his handgun and pulling out the cell he’d been speaking into a couple of minutes before, the white guy smiled and turned face on. A mistake. Tom kicked him hard in the groin. As he pivoted around, he caught a glimpse of him wincing and doubling over. Using his extended elbow, Tom struck the shotgun on the barrel. A shell discharged sideways into the air, the black man’s face turning from cocky to screwed in an instant. Tom kicked him hard on the outside of the kneecap. As he buckled sideways Tom hammered the hard edge of his palm into the black man’s temple. He crumpled to the asphalt.
Just as he turned to finish off the white guy, Tom was struck by what felt like the butt of a handgun, bludgeoning him on the back of his head. Falling, he got another whack before he hit the ground. But they were designed to immobilize him rather than smash his skull. He landed in a heap, moaning. A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him over. He stared up into Hawks’s dull-grey eyes, and just saw the blur of the right hook before it connected with his jaw. The impact made him bite his cheek, drawing blood. Hawks pointed a Glock at him, and for a spilt second Tom thought he was dead.
“Get up,” Hawks said.
Tom struggled to his feet just as the white guy was rising, the other’s cracked mouth gulping air.
“Don’t even flinch, or I’ll shoot your balls off,” Hawks said.
Tom believed him.
Hawks nodded to the white guy, who grinned in return. Tom took an instep full in the groin and nearly passed out with the pain. He had tears in his eyes and clenched his already aching jaw to stop himself from crying out. Feeling as if he were about to puke, he heard the black guy getting up behind him and could guess what was coming next.
“Turn around,” Hawks said.
Tom turned, still half bending at the waist, and caught the stock of the pump-shotgun on his head, just behind his ear. It spun him around and he hit the ground again, wondering if this time his skull had in fact fractured. Jesus, he thought. Jesus Christ.
As the light rain fell they patted him down. Tom had left his SIG with Lester. If he was carrying, they would’ve expected him to use it, and if he had he would’ve had to kill at least one of them, which wasn’t his purpose, at least at this juncture. But he was thinking differently now. He hoped to hell that he hadn’t made a big mistake.
They secured his legs with gaffer tape from ankles to knees, and pulled his arms behind his back before taping them, too. Then his mouth got the treatment. He counted five layers. They weren’t taking any chances, he thought. He saw the cars move aside, and a black minivan appeared. They picked him up underneath his armpits, and dragged him forward across the slick ground as the van’s rear doors opened. The drizzle turned to a heavy shower and the sunlight disappeared.