Outside Columbia, Maryland, 5:46 a.m.
The dark autumn horizon which had been threatening rain all morning came through as promised. Under the leaden sky a thick, heavy drizzle had settled over southern Maryland, obscuring the foothills and slowing traffic on I-495 to a crawl. Coke leaned back in his seat and adjusted the speed on his windshield wipers for the umpteenth time since he had left his apartment a half hour earlier. Why was the beltway always like this at this time of day? Lost in his thoughts, he was almost caught flat-footed when a hulking pickup abruptly cut into his lane without so much as using its blinkers. Startled, he applied pressure to the breaks and heard the satisfying sizzle of his tires on the wet pavement as he brought his Mercury Grand Marquis to a stiff halt. Out of the mist ahead of him the looming red brake lights from the pickup truck filled his windshield like a pair of hot red eyes, bathing the hood of his car in a dull, ruddy glow. Coke stifled the urge to honk at the moron, and instead reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his notepad.
Although he had started with a fresh pad this morning, the little spiral notebook was already rapidly filling up with Coke's characteristic scrawl. This was where he liked to do most of his work, the formulation and brainstorming that would ultimately gel into a relatively solid plan. Reaching into his pocket, Coke pulled out a black government issue ballpoint pen and, assuring himself that traffic had not moved on with a quick upwards glance, flipped the pad open to the page where he had left off. Already he had laid out the gist of what he hoped would be a fairly straightforward project. This would have been fairly easy for anyone who had graduated from any reputable military or police academy, but Coke had been at his trade long enough to know that more often than not, most plans were useless the minute they were put into effect. Thus, relying on his years of instinct and conditioning, he had only assembled the barest skeleton of his course of action.
Coke's first step would be to check out the girl's apartment. If she was still there, then it was a done deal. All he would have to do would be swoop in, grab her, recover the data, and then eliminate her. Depending on how much of a struggle the girl put up, he could be out of there, data in hand, and heading south back to Washington just in time for a late breakfast. If she put up a struggle though, or if she wasn't home (as might be the case; Coke put the odds at fifty-fifty), things were liable to get a bit more complicated. Of course if she was smart she-
The blaring of what sounded like a submarine klaxon wrenched Coke away from his notepad and back into the present. Ahead of him traffic had started to move and the pickup was already twenty yards ahead with another car getting ready to make its move into the gap. Coke jammed his foot on the gas and flew forward, cutting off the would-be cutter to the howl of the other driver's horn and once again slammed on the breaks just in time to avoid rear-ending the pickup in front of him who had abruptly stopped again as traffic ground to a halt.
Coke exhaled a long, lamented sigh and was about to return to his notepad when a familiar chirping sound grabbed his attention. Reaching down into his pants pocket, Coke pulled out his cell phone and opened it. The thumbed the call button just as the fourth chirp was about to go off.
"You're getting slow," the nicotine voice greeted him. "Is everything all right?"
Coke was in no mood for a long discussion, although he was now more awake than he had been the last time they had spoken.
"Yeah, everything's fine. What's the situation?"
There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line before the boss spoke.
"I have some bad news for you, Stephen," he said, sounding annoyed and yet in control at the same time. "Kiviat has jumped ship on us."
Stephen let out a sigh of frustration. Oh well, he knew this might happen.
"Thanks for the heads-up chief. Anything else I can help you with?" he smiled, relishing his condescending tone. If the chief noticed, he didn't let show.
"Actually, you can't help me. But you might be able to help yourself. A word of advice: the FBI has been alerted."
Coke's jaw dropped. A (soon to be wanted) felon had actually contacted the FBI…for help? What was this?
"What's going on, chief?" Coke asked, unsure of how to proceed. FBI involvement could make the situation a whole lot trickier. "Is she trying to cut a plea bargain or something?"
"No, Stephen. This has nothing to do with that." Another pause. Coke thought he heard the flick of a lighter in the background. And then "She's contacted Mulder, Coke."
Mulder? Damn. There goes my easy recovery, thought Coke to himself, bitterness washing over him. The boss continued.
"Agent Mulder has been a thorn in our side for quite some time, Stephen. I am growing quite sick of his meddling. However, the information that Kiviat has is encrypted. As far as we know Mulder and his partner don't even have the data yet. We just know that Kiviat left him a voicemail message at the Bureau. Why she chose to contact him we can't say just yet, but we have a pretty good idea what he's going to want to do with it once he hears from her. One way or another, he'll be getting into the office soon, so you've got to work fast. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," Coke responded. The other end of the line went dead. Coke snapped his phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. Coke felt the salty tang of rage slowly crawling up his spine and into his brain. Just leave it to that idiotic Agent Mulder to make things difficult. Oh well, Coke thought to himself, forcing his hands to relax their grip on the wheel. He had faced plenty of things far tougher than Agent Mulder in his day, that was for sure. X-files or no, Kiviat was going down. He eased up on the break and let his car crawl forward as the traffic ahead began to move.
The dark autumn horizon which had been threatening rain all morning came through as promised. Under the leaden sky a thick, heavy drizzle had settled over southern Maryland, obscuring the foothills and slowing traffic on I-495 to a crawl. Coke leaned back in his seat and adjusted the speed on his windshield wipers for the umpteenth time since he had left his apartment a half hour earlier. Why was the beltway always like this at this time of day? Lost in his thoughts, he was almost caught flat-footed when a hulking pickup abruptly cut into his lane without so much as using its blinkers. Startled, he applied pressure to the breaks and heard the satisfying sizzle of his tires on the wet pavement as he brought his Mercury Grand Marquis to a stiff halt. Out of the mist ahead of him the looming red brake lights from the pickup truck filled his windshield like a pair of hot red eyes, bathing the hood of his car in a dull, ruddy glow. Coke stifled the urge to honk at the moron, and instead reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his notepad.
Although he had started with a fresh pad this morning, the little spiral notebook was already rapidly filling up with Coke's characteristic scrawl. This was where he liked to do most of his work, the formulation and brainstorming that would ultimately gel into a relatively solid plan. Reaching into his pocket, Coke pulled out a black government issue ballpoint pen and, assuring himself that traffic had not moved on with a quick upwards glance, flipped the pad open to the page where he had left off. Already he had laid out the gist of what he hoped would be a fairly straightforward project. This would have been fairly easy for anyone who had graduated from any reputable military or police academy, but Coke had been at his trade long enough to know that more often than not, most plans were useless the minute they were put into effect. Thus, relying on his years of instinct and conditioning, he had only assembled the barest skeleton of his course of action.
Coke's first step would be to check out the girl's apartment. If she was still there, then it was a done deal. All he would have to do would be swoop in, grab her, recover the data, and then eliminate her. Depending on how much of a struggle the girl put up, he could be out of there, data in hand, and heading south back to Washington just in time for a late breakfast. If she put up a struggle though, or if she wasn't home (as might be the case; Coke put the odds at fifty-fifty), things were liable to get a bit more complicated. Of course if she was smart she-
The blaring of what sounded like a submarine klaxon wrenched Coke away from his notepad and back into the present. Ahead of him traffic had started to move and the pickup was already twenty yards ahead with another car getting ready to make its move into the gap. Coke jammed his foot on the gas and flew forward, cutting off the would-be cutter to the howl of the other driver's horn and once again slammed on the breaks just in time to avoid rear-ending the pickup in front of him who had abruptly stopped again as traffic ground to a halt.
Coke exhaled a long, lamented sigh and was about to return to his notepad when a familiar chirping sound grabbed his attention. Reaching down into his pants pocket, Coke pulled out his cell phone and opened it. The thumbed the call button just as the fourth chirp was about to go off.
"You're getting slow," the nicotine voice greeted him. "Is everything all right?"
Coke was in no mood for a long discussion, although he was now more awake than he had been the last time they had spoken.
"Yeah, everything's fine. What's the situation?"
There was a momentary pause on the other end of the line before the boss spoke.
"I have some bad news for you, Stephen," he said, sounding annoyed and yet in control at the same time. "Kiviat has jumped ship on us."
Stephen let out a sigh of frustration. Oh well, he knew this might happen.
"Thanks for the heads-up chief. Anything else I can help you with?" he smiled, relishing his condescending tone. If the chief noticed, he didn't let show.
"Actually, you can't help me. But you might be able to help yourself. A word of advice: the FBI has been alerted."
Coke's jaw dropped. A (soon to be wanted) felon had actually contacted the FBI…for help? What was this?
"What's going on, chief?" Coke asked, unsure of how to proceed. FBI involvement could make the situation a whole lot trickier. "Is she trying to cut a plea bargain or something?"
"No, Stephen. This has nothing to do with that." Another pause. Coke thought he heard the flick of a lighter in the background. And then "She's contacted Mulder, Coke."
Mulder? Damn. There goes my easy recovery, thought Coke to himself, bitterness washing over him. The boss continued.
"Agent Mulder has been a thorn in our side for quite some time, Stephen. I am growing quite sick of his meddling. However, the information that Kiviat has is encrypted. As far as we know Mulder and his partner don't even have the data yet. We just know that Kiviat left him a voicemail message at the Bureau. Why she chose to contact him we can't say just yet, but we have a pretty good idea what he's going to want to do with it once he hears from her. One way or another, he'll be getting into the office soon, so you've got to work fast. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," Coke responded. The other end of the line went dead. Coke snapped his phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket. Coke felt the salty tang of rage slowly crawling up his spine and into his brain. Just leave it to that idiotic Agent Mulder to make things difficult. Oh well, Coke thought to himself, forcing his hands to relax their grip on the wheel. He had faced plenty of things far tougher than Agent Mulder in his day, that was for sure. X-files or no, Kiviat was going down. He eased up on the break and let his car crawl forward as the traffic ahead began to move.