Running Dark

35

WHEN BANNER WOKE, IT WAS FULL DARK. THE HOUSE HELD A quiet, restful feeling. His shoulder, however, was less than restful. In fact, it was throbbing in a persistent rhythm. The ice pack remained full of not-yet-melted ice. Stromeyer must have replaced it recently, but for the life of him Banner couldn’t recall her doing so. He heaved himself to a sitting position, catching the ice bag as it dropped off his shoulder. He headed straight to the shower, studiously avoiding looking in the mirror. While the hot water was not the greatest for his swollen shoulder, it did wonders for his mood. He dressed and strolled to his living room, where a light glowed through the open door.

He found Stromeyer there, sitting in his favorite reading chair, next to his favorite reading lamp, her feet on his favorite ottoman. She had a stack of paper next to her, along with a glass of red wine, a plate of cheese, and a highlighter pen. Banner’s gas fireplace threw flickering color around the Oriental carpet on the floor, and in the background his integrated music system played soft jazz.

“How do you like the chair?” he said.

Stromeyer looked up at him, and a smile lit her face. “How do you feel?”

He wanted to shrug, but the movement would cause unnecessary pain, so he settled for rocking his left hand back and forth. “Okay. Shoulder is bad, but not as bad as it could have been.”

She rose. “Do you want to sit?”

He waved her back down. “You stay there. I’ll use the other one.” Banner sank into a matching chair opposite Stromeyer. She went to a minibar set in a corner of the living room, poured him a shot of his preferred cognac, and walked across the room to hand it to him. He noticed she was barefoot. Her toes were painted a nude color.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

Stromeyer settled back into her prior position, folding her legs underneath her. “Eight hours. The police were here. At first they insisted that I wake you up. I refused, and I opened the door to the bedroom so they could see you. One look at your face and they agreed that the interview could wait until after you woke.” She picked up a business card off the cocktail table in front of her. “Here’s the detective’s number. He said just call the interview in. He’ll take it from there.”

“How bad do I look?” Banner was so busy focusing on his shoulder pain that he’d forgotten about the temple shot. He reached up to touch it gingerly. There was a swelling that felt like a small egg, but it didn’t throb nearly as much as the rest of him.

Stromeyer cocked her head to one side as she assessed him. “Like you’ve been in a car accident. The side of your face is a lovely black with red around the edges. Not to worry, though—I don’t think you’ll have any lasting marks. Your good looks remain.”

Banner snorted. “Who cares about my looks as long as everything continues to function?”

Stromeyer took a sip of her wine. From her expression it appeared as though she wanted to reply, but she refrained. She held the cheese plate out to him. “Hungry?”

Banner leaned forward to pluck some cheese from the platter. “Starving. Want to go to dinner? There’s a great trattoria around the corner. Run by an entire Italian family. It’s not fancy, but the food is outstanding.”

Stromeyer nodded. “Sure. But before we go, I have some bad news and some much worse news.”

Banner didn’t like the sound of that. He grimaced and took a swallow of his cognac. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Ahmed never made contact with Caldridge. He was found dead in his apartment.”

“Who found him?”

“The neighbors called the authorities after they smelled a stench. No signs of a struggle. The authorities are conducting an autopsy.”

“And Caldridge? Is she still in Nairobi, then?”

Stromeyer shook her head. “Roducci said she insisted on flying a khat flight into Somalia. Vanderlock flew her.”

Banner leaned back in the chair. “That’s a lucky break. Vanderlock’s fairly reliable.”

“The Price Pharmaceuticals jet went up in flames after landing at the Hargeisa airport.”

Banner stilled. “What in the world was a Price corporate jet doing in Hargeisa?”

“No one seems to know.”

Banner took another sip of his cognac while he digested this information. “A bomb blows up at an ultra where Price is a sponsor and Caldridge a Price-sponsored athlete. During the race someone targets Caldridge and injects her with a performance-enhancing drug. And now the Price jet blows up in Somalia. Quite a set of coincidences.”

Stromeyer nodded. “Too many coincidences for my taste, but I can’t figure out if all of this is somehow tied into your getting beaten up.”

Banner pointed his shot glass at her. “I beg to differ. I wasn’t beaten up, I was the one doing the beating.”

Stromeyer raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should go look in the mirror.”

Banner always took pains to avoid looking in the mirror after any pummeling. In his experience the aftereffects of a beating were always worse than the actual injuries. It was better not to dwell on them. Otherwise he might think he was more broken than he really was.

“I have a hunch the whole thing is tied to Price somehow. The mousy assistant—”

“Susan Plower.”

“—said that Price manufactured the vaccines. Maybe whoever’s at the bottom of this got wind of Darkview’s mission to secure the ship and they’re covering all bases. One of those bases includes threatening me.”

Stromeyer looked pained. “That’s a bad thing on so many levels, I don’t know where to start. If you’re correct, then they must already know what the ship is carrying. And if that’s true, then all this secrecy is wasted effort. We might as well send in seven different aircraft carriers to surround the ship and escort it to port. You think they tapped our phones and that’s how they heard we were hired?”

Banner considered her suggestion. “Doubtful. The DOD call came through on this home line. We’ve never detected a tap here.” He stood up. “Let’s go to dinner. Maybe it will all become clearer on a full stomach.”

The night air was fresh, with more than a hint of summer. Banner enjoyed this time of the year, and he found himself relishing the walk through his neighborhood. The only dark spot on the evening was right before they left, when Stromeyer had insisted he carry concealed. He had a license to do so but rarely did. He’d spent so many years carrying guns that he was loath to do it on civilian territory. Besides, he figured Stromeyer had one on her person somewhere. He thought his weapon was overkill. Also, Banner preferred a shoulder holster, but his injury didn’t make that feasible. Currently the gun was located at the small of his back in a holster that wrapped around his waist. He wore a casual blazer to hide the bulge of the gun.

They made it to the restaurant, ordered dinner, and, as if by mutual consent, changed the topic to current events. It was only when the espresso order came that the subject veered back to their immediate circumstances.

“Are you going to sleep at the town house?” Stromeyer asked.

Banner sighed. “No. I’d be an easy target. I thought I’d pack a bag and head to the airport hotel.”

“And from there?”

“Dubai.”

Stromeyer didn’t seem surprised at all. “You’re due to speak at the local Rotary Club.”

Banner groaned. He’d forgotten all about it. “Can you cover for me? Tell them I’ve been in some sort of accident? God knows it wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

“Of course I can cover for you. I expect to see Cooley there.”

“Cooley! Why?”

“He’s a member. Didn’t you know?”

Banner put his espresso cup down a little harder than he intended. The noise of it hitting the saucer clanged through the room. He really disliked Cooley.

“All the more reason for me not to go. You do the speech. If Cooley’s there, pull him off to the side and tell him just what happened to me in the basement of his office. Let me know if you think he was involved in some way.”

Stromeyer shook her head. “I’d be shocked if he was. He’s a jerk, I’ll admit that, but he doesn’t seem to be the type to beat up rivals.” She caught the waiter’s eye and made a writing motion. He appeared at their table with the check.

Banner took it, extracted his business credit card, and slapped it down on the vinyl wallet that held the bill. Ten minutes later they were back outside and working their way toward the town house. Banner’s arm throbbed, his face hurt, and his torso felt as if someone had used it for a punching bag—which, when he thought about it, was exactly what had happened. What he wanted more than anything was to sleep in his own bed that night. He turned the corner to his house, and three of his best men were lounging on the front steps. They all stood up to greet him and Stromeyer.

“Hey, Banner,” Gage Johnson said. Gage worked most of England and Ireland for Darkview. He was a trained knife fighter, and so he thrived in settings where guns were not the norm. He was in D.C. for only a few days on a brief layover from Los Angeles before heading back to England. Standing next to him were Steven Cardill and Tyler Walter. Both worked Northern Europe.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” Banner asked.

“We heard about your close encounter with several of D.C.’s finest criminal elements. We figured you might need some security. Are you up for a poker game? Should keep us occupied most of the night.”

Banner stepped into the pool of light thrown by the outdoor lamp, and he watched the men grimace.

“That’s bad,” Tyler said.

“Don’t tell me. I haven’t looked yet. But I’d like to sleep in my own bed. If you guys stand guard, I’ll be more than grateful. But I’ll pass on the poker game. It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.”

“Major Stromeyer, you could be the fourth.”

Stromeyer shook her head. “I’m out, sorry. I’ve got to prepare a speech for tomorrow. My car is parked just down the street.”

“I’ll walk you,” Gage said. Stromeyer waved at them all before leaving.

Half an hour later, Banner dozed off to the murmur of conversation and the thud of thrown poker chips emanating from his kitchen. Once again he was thankful for sleep.