“Can your information specialist be tracked any further?”
“I was told no.”
“Whoever tipped the killer about Lizuca knows that you put her up to that search. They’re going to figure you’re at least involved in the second one. Going after that information again so soon could have been a mistake.”
Danielle’s tone grew short. “Don’t you think I thought about that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Goose answered. “I just wondered if you thought about it before or after the incident.”
Some of her anger dissipated.
“The information specialist you were using for the second attempt should have known that too,” Goose stated. “I don’t know how professional that person is—”
“Good enough to get into OneWorld’s computers as well as the CIA’s.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand that. But he was also good enough to call the dogs down on you. If they sent a man after him, intending to do what was done to your friend, they may well come after you.”
Danielle nodded. “I know.” She hesitated. “I’m scared.”
“Do you believe you’re in danger?”
“Of course I’m in danger,” Danielle snapped irritably. Then she took a moment to get herself under control. “I sent Lizuca the picture. I think the only thing that’s saved me this far is that no one knows I know as much as I do.”
“What do you know?” Goose lowered his voice. He was confident that the noise of the church and the pounding rain would defeat any electronic eavesdropping the CIA surveillance team might attempt, but he still felt exposed and vulnerable standing there.
“What I need to know,” Danielle said, “is whether I can trust you.” Her eyes searched his.
Goose didn’t answer. The trust couldn’t come from his end; she had to choose to trust him. And in that moment, he understood more about the faith issues Baker had talked about. Faith was a matter of trust as well, and it had to come from the person who wanted it, not be worked out by actions and demands put upon God.
She wanted him to say something or do something that would let her know she could trust him, but he knew if he said or did anything to persuade her, that trust would be false. She would base her trust on his persuasion rather than on his actions and what she knew of him, not how she really felt.
A memory unlocked in his mind. Chris had been three when Goose had built the fort in their backyard. Though only four feet off the ground, the fort had at first been scary to Chris. The bridge between the two main units had rails, but Chris had been afraid. Still, he’d wanted to cross it. Goose had hunkered down at the other end and held his arms out to his son.
Goose had talked to Chris, cajoled him, and tried to build his confidence. In the end, as he’d sometimes done when working with soldiers trying to improve their performance on the obstacle course, Goose had simply sat and waited, becoming a rock and letting them know by his stationary position that he would not move. After a time, Chris had released his hold on the other end of the bridge and run across. That had been trust—the innocent trust of a child, which can so quickly evaporate. The Bible distinguished between the trust of a child and the trust of a man as well.
“Okay,” Danielle said after a short, intense silence, “if I hadn’t thought I could trust you, I wouldn’t have come looking for you, and I wouldn’t have told you everything I’ve told you so far.” She smiled, but there was little humor in the effort. Fear lingered in her gaze. “The problem is, once I tell you what I know, there’s no taking it back. If anyone finds out I’ve talked to you about this, your life will be in danger too.”
Goose thought about Icarus and the secrets he was already holding on to, about the way he had betrayed Remington’s confidence in him. “My life is already in danger, ma’am. And that’s in addition to being out here on this battlefield.”
Danielle shook her head. “It’s just hard to know how much you know.”
“Enough to get me killed,” Goose assured her.
She was silent for a moment, and she looked sad. “Do you trust me?”
Goose had to think about. A lot of things were at stake, and secrets seemed to be tumbling out of the woodwork.
“If you don’t trust me,” Danielle warned, “if I unload what I know and you try to hold back on me when you know I’ve put my neck on the chopping block to come this far, I’m gone. I swear to God on that, Goose.” Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes and her voice grew hoarse. “Lizuca lost her life because of me and because of these people. What I have to tell you is big. If we don’t handle this carefully, we could both end up dead. The people we’re after don’t hesitate to kill. And they’ve got too much at stake to just go away quietly.”
“I trust you,” Goose said, knowing he was going to step across the line in one fell swoop. “But there’s something you should know. About your boss.”
“I already know,” Danielle said, letting out a tense breath. “CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody works for Nicolae Carpathia. And it was probably Carpathia who ordered Lizuca’s death.”
Goose looked at her for a moment, then nodded. Maybe she hadn’t put everything together, but she’d put together enough. And she’d put together the fact that CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody worked for Nicolae Carpathia, who was quite possibly the Antichrist warned of in the book of Revelation.
Standing there in front of Danielle, Goose felt the eyes of
