Goose pushed himself to his feet. A bad feeling came over him because he was fairly certain the man was one of the CIA agents looking for Icarus in Sanliurfa. Goose knew Icarus was desperate enough to kill to save himself. Whatever secrets he held were big and dangerous to more than just himself, or else the CIA wouldn’t have searched for him so thoroughly and Icarus wouldn’t have taken such pains to hide.
But the beating looked fresh. Whoever had administered it had gotten bloody.
Goose tried to remember if Icarus had looked bloody but couldn’t. Still, Icarus had driven; he wouldn’t have stopped to beat a man on foot he could easily escape from.
Then someone else had administered the beating. With growing discomfort, Goose figured he knew who was behind that coldblooded act. Remington was searching for Icarus, and he had assigned some of the company hardcases to look for the man. This attack breached the grudgingly granted no-man’s-land between the CIA and Remington regarding the Icarus matter.
“Get him up,” Goose growled. “Let’s get him to the hospital. The defensive perimeter there could use some shoring up.” Reports flashed constantly over the headset, relaying information about incoming wounded and continued flurries of attacks by Syrian infantry trapped inside the city.
If Icarus was true to his word, the man was waiting there. But it didn’t mean he was going to tell Goose everything—or anything. Icarus would tell only whatever suited him.
This time, Goose was determined not to let Icarus get away. Whether he answered questions or not, Icarus was no longer going to be a player.
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 2148 Hours
“Leslie, why don’t you come away from that window?” Megan suggested. She stood still, knowing if she closed on the girl that she could upset the delicate balance they’d maintained over the past several minutes. But she was also afraid one of the overzealous or overwrought MPs outside might chose that moment to neutralize the potentially explosive situation inside the Hollister home.
“The MPs are still here?” Leslie lifted her left hand, the gun-free one, and shaded her eyes against the pulsing amber lights that came from outside.
“Yes.” Megan resisted the immediate impulse to go to the girl and pull her from the window.
“This is really weird.” Leslie turned from the window, lurching a little unsteadily. The pistol hung heavily at her side. “I’ve never dreamed in this much detail before.” She looked at Megan with rising panic in her eyes. “What if I’m not dreaming? What if I was in a traffic accident? What if I’m in a coma, on life support in the hospital or something like that? Maybe that’s why I can’t wake up! Maybe that’s why I’m dreaming so vividly!”
“Leslie.” Megan struggled to make her voice reasonable. “You’re not in a coma. There’s been no accident.”
“You’d say that, though,” Leslie accused, growing increasingly hysterical.
“Why would I say that?”
“Because.” Leslie sounded petulant and frantic. “Because maybe you’re the thing that’s trying to keep me in here.”
“What thing?”
“The sedation.” Leslie waved, obviously pulling at straws. She shifted her weight from foot to foot restlessly.
Panic swelled within Megan, but she knew she was siphoning off most of the emotion from the girl.
“Don’t you see?” Leslie wailed. “The doctors could be working on me now! I could be in the ER on base while they’re trying to save me!”
“Leslie, listen to me. That’s not what is happening.”
Leslie pushed her sweaty hair back from her forehead. “You can’t say that! You don’t know that!”
Megan knew the girl’s voice carried through the window and could probably be heard at least by the MPs if not the surrounding neighbors.
“You’re me!” Leslie went on. “You can’t know anything more than I know! That’s impossible!”
“Leslie, you’ve got to stay calm.”
The girl started to pace like a caged animal, but she kept her distance from Megan.
Megan respected the distance. In other counseling sessions under tense circumstances, she’d seen teens exhibit the same restlessness. The need to move seemed ingrained in so many of the young who had emotional problems and needs. That instinct made dealing with them even more problematic.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Leslie said, shaking her head. “I can’t stay like this. I’ll go crazy.”
“It’s going to be all right,” Megan said.
Leslie wheeled on her, stepping into the intervening space between herself and Megan. “How can you say that? You don’t know!”
Megan held her ground, feeling a queasy sensation coil in her stomach. With Leslie approaching her with a weapon in her fist, Megan felt certain the MPs could scarcely contain themselves.
“Leslie, you’ve got to stay calm,” Megan said. She didn’t move, fearing that any sudden attempt on her part to get away from the young girl—any visible sign that she wasn’t somewhat in control of the situation—would trigger the MPs into action. Maybe Kerby even had a sniper standing by, ready to kill or incapacitate Leslie Hollister if she looked like she was going to be a threat to the neighbors or his squad.
“I can’t be calm!” Leslie roared. Tears poured down her face. “I can’t wake up, Mrs. Gander! Don’t you get it? I’m trapped here!” Her voice broke. “I just want out of here! I want my mom!”
Leslie raised the pistol toward Megan’s face.
Despite the fear that filled her, Megan stood on trembling legs. Her lungs felt like a vise had closed around them, making breathing almost impossible. Don’t shoot! God, please don’t let her shoot, and don’t let those young men outside make a mistake! Tears blurred Megan’s vision, and it was all she could do not to give in to her own panic.
Shaking with anger and fear, clearly out of control, Leslie shoved the pistol barrel against Megan’s cheek.
“Don’t do this,” Megan said softly. “Please don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. Everything is going to be all right.”
Leslie quivered. Her eyes narrowed. More tears coursed
