arrived-and there were two of them.
Downing started the car. Not that he needed to: there was no cause for alarm, and he had no role other than to await the results-and to clean up any mess left behind when his SEAL snipers were done “protecting” Caine and Opal.
But twenty-five years in covert operations had taught him one lesson above all others:
When a perfect plan meets imperfect, unpredictable reality, things go wrong. And sometimes, the greatest damage can be done by the smallest unforeseen detail-
ODYSSEUS
Opal turned back toward him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about the map. But we’d better go back and get it.”
He matched her smile. “You’re proving to be nothing but trouble.”
Her eyes did not waver, but her smile changed slightly. “That is my mission in life.”
He heard the muted insinuation in her tone, felt his body begin to respond-and doused himself with a cold shower of reason:
“For now.” Her voice was still playful, still subtly provocative. Caine decided that he was starting to like Greece a great deal.
As he swung the car through a tight 180-degree turn, he saw two approaching plumes of dust on the roadway below: the approaching sightseers. He hit the accelerator; better to retrieve the map before the new arrivals reached the area they had to search. No reason to create a traffic jam on a cliffside stretch of road that was officially two-lane, but sure didn’t look or feel that way.
They plunged back into the sharply delimited shadow of the overhang.
MENTOR
The radio paged once, twice-and then the fateful third time.
Downing waited for his collarcom to chirrup-but instead, the handset toned another three times.
He snatched up the radio as he shifted out of neutral. “This is not a secure line. Reroute to command channel alpha-”
“Game Warden, this is Huntsman. We do not have time-repeat, do not have time-to wait for secure com clearance and switching.”
“Fox doubled back into our blindspot-”
“Your
“Our blindspot: a forty-meter stretch of road where we have no line of sight.”
“Game Warden, that is a negative. Our OpOrd requires we stay under aerial cover at all-”
“Huntsman, I
“Out.”
Downing rolled out of the convenience store’s parking lot, and northward into the heat shimmers of the two- lane macadam. As he accelerated-steadily, but not abruptly-he reached over and popped open the briefcase that was resting on the passenger seat…
ODYSSEUS
“Do you see the map?”
Opal squinted forward into the dust that was still hanging in the air from their uphill passage of half a minute ago. “No, I-”
The car lurched slightly to the right and Caine realized that, in scanning for the map himself, he had taken his eyes off the road. He snapped his attention forward again, but too late: he had veered toward the edge of the road and put the passenger side front wheel into the gravel of the partially completed drainage ditch.
He swung the wheel hard to the left-and immediately regretted it: the digital controls were too sensitive for performance driving. He felt the rear tires shudder, struggle, then lose traction-and suddenly they were speeding downhill sideways in a gradual spin.
He tried to countersteer, but the tires didn’t bite; driving on the slick macadam was like driving on a sheet of water. They skitter-screeched forward at an angle, heading straight for the flatbed. Opal snapped forward at the waist, hands over her head: he felt a flash of envy for the speed of her reflex, started into the same position-
He slammed into, then bounced back from, the dashboard. The shattering of glass and squeals of twisted metal were loud in his ears. The car continued to move, but no longer forwards; it slung him sideways as it completed its 180-degree counter-clockwise spin with a crunch against the side of flatbed, its nose pointed uphill. The PVC pipes rattled hollowly, shifted slightly toward the roof of the car; angry, drifting spirits of agitated dust swirled around them.
“You okay?” Caine dabbed a finger at his forehead; his knuckle came away shining dark red.
Opal nodded, hand tucked down against her right side. “Jesus, you really
“Sorry. Can I help-?”
“No, I’m fine. And I wasn’t serious about your driving. Lighten up: this road is a death trap.”
“Can you move?”
“I said I was fine-but this door’s mashed in and pinched against the flatbed. I’ll have to get out the driver’s side.”
Caine opened his door, assessed the damage as Opal clambered out: the car wasn’t going anywhere soon. Its sideways spin had, fortunately, brought it across the road and away from the precipitous ledge, but had also sent it straight into the protruding corner of the low-slung flatbed. The right front wheel had received the full brunt of the edge-on impact: the flatbed’s corner had crumpled the car’s front quarter panel and struts, sliced clean through the tire, and had half-bisected the wheel itself.
“Well, at least we’ve got company coming.” Opal stepped around to the rear of the car. “Maybe they’ll give us a lift.” As the two off-road vehicles rose into view over a hump in the road six hundred meters downslope, she started waving her arms in a slow cycle: wide arms to crossed arms and back again.
The reaction of the vehicles was peculiar; whereas most motorists confronted with an accident slow down, these sped up, the second vehicle moving out of line and taking up a flanking position in the other lane. Caine, who was moving toward the trunk, stopped:
— and his world slammed into slow motion, the way it did when he felt, more than saw, a threat approaching. The vehicles were moving in concert; their actions were sure, swift, coordinated. And their passengers, although he could barely make out silhouettes, were all dark, broad-shouldered masses: not a rabble of variously-aged, — dressed, and — shaped tourists.
“Get behind the flatbed-now.” He moved past Opal to the trunk.
“What are you talki-?”
“Just do it.” He popped the trunk, pulled up the liner.
Opal frowned at him, mouth open to object, then heard the revving engines of the closing vehicles, looked over in their direction: her eyes widened. She turned and sprinted around the corner of the truck.
Caine had found the small toolkit for changing flats, followed around after Opal-and found her crouched low, looking out under the long expanse of carrier bed by peering around the tires. She glanced up at him: he held out the toolkit, proffering the half-sized crowbar-wrench combination. She shook her head. “Would only slow me down.”
Caine looked at the flatbed, the pipes, the shovel, the weathered straps, fraying where their fabric attached to the buckles.
