Wired

PART TWO Encounter

David Desh vaguely felt his legs, arms, and torso being repositioned, and his body being dragged a few feet across the floor like a 180-pound sack of cement, and then heard the apartment door shut quietly. He could see Kira Miller out of the corner of one eye. She was holding a large black duffel with three zippered compartments. Her hair was now longer than in the photos he had seen and she had dyed it blond. She was wearing bulky clothing that was far too large for her, in such a way as to add ten pounds to her appearance, and wire-rimmed glasses. Even dazed as he was, Desh was impressed with the simplicity but effectiveness of her disguise. Unless you had reason to suspect this woman was Kira Miller, you’d be hard pressed to pick her out of a crowd.

Matt Griffin was a massive speed bump on the carpet a few feet away; unconscious or worse.

Desh’s attacker knew his paralysis would only last about five minutes and didn’t waste an instant. She moved as if a Guinness Book official had a stopwatch on her, removing his windbreaker and watch and frantically conducting a full body search, not leaving a single inch of David Desh unchecked. She immediately found both guns and both knives and relieved him of them expertly, along with his shoulder holster.

With this completed, Kira Miller pulled a pair of stainless steel fabric shears from her duffel and hastily cut through Desh’s button-down shirt and white undershirt, tossing both garments aside and producing a large gray sweatshirt from a bag beside her. She pulled the sweatshirt over his head and slipped his arms through as if he were an infant, with remarkable facility but with a decided lack of gentleness. Finally, she produced an assortment of thin white plastic strips from the bag, between two and four feet long.

Desh recognized these thin strips instantly: plastic handcuffs. These plasticuffs, also called zip-strips, could only be removed if someone cut through the hardened, injection molded nylon plastic; a surprisingly difficult task.

She pulled Desh’s right arm out from his body as far as it would go, wrapped the bendable plastic stick around his wrist, and ratcheted it tight. She pulled Griffin’s heavy, lifeless left arm closer to Desh and used a long plasticuff bracelet to cuff the two men together.

Finished, she quickly backed fifteen feet away; showing tremendous respect for Desh’s training and abilities. She was smart and careful. Even the fastest, most accomplished street fighter or martial artist couldn’t disarm a vigilant assailant as long as they maintained a respectful distance. In addition, she had tied him to a virtually immovable anchor—the 300 pound dead-weight of Matt Griffin—who, Desh noted with relief, was breathing shallowly, indicating that at least he wasn’t tied to a corpse. For the moment, anyway. So far, her tactics had been flawless.

When the effects of the stun gun were beginning to wear off, Kira Miller held up a sheet of paper on which she had used black marker to write a message in large, block letters.

SAY A SINGLE WORD, EVEN BREATHE TOO HARD, AND I’LL PUT A BULLETT IN YOUR HEAD.

She put a finger to her lips to underscore the point and pointed his own gun at him meaningfully. She held up a second sheet.

NOD IF YOU UNDERSTAND.

Desh nodded warily. From the look in her eye, he didn’t doubt for a second she would carry out her threat.

She pulled out a third sheet, already prepared, an indication that she had planned her attack with military precision.

STRIP. WAIST DOWN. COMPLETELY NAKED. NO WORDS. NO NOISE.

Desh kicked off his shoes and clumsily pulled off his socks, pants and briefs: a difficult task from a supine position and anchored to Griffin that involved flopping about like a fish out of water and contorting like a circus performer.

Desh was focusing too hard on the imminent threat to his life to waste any energy feeling self-conscious or humiliated about his nudity, but it was human nature to feel more vulnerable when naked, and he was no exception.

Kira tossed him a pair of gray sweatpants that matched the sweatshirt he was now wearing and motioned with her head for him to put them on. He was only too happy to comply. All in all, while she didn’t seem to like his taste in clothing, he was encouraged that she was taking the time to see that he was re-clothed. If her plan was to execute him in the apartment, this wouldn’t have mattered. On the other hand, Desh remembered Jeffrey Dahmer, and he realized it was dangerous to make any assumptions about her actions or motives. She could be dancing to a song that only she could hear.

When he finished re-dressing, she tossed him a pair of soft leather slip-on shoes from her bag, and he managed to get them on his feet. The fit was perfect. And why not? He had bought several pairs of shoes in the past, online, and she now had ready access to the e-mail confirmations of these orders.

She tossed three plasticuff strips to him, one after another, and he gathered them up wordlessly. She held up another sign.

ONE TIGHT AROUND EACH ANKLE. THE OTHER BETWEEN THEM.

It took several minutes, but Desh did as she had ordered. His feet were now cuffed together in a three-plasticuff chain, leaving about eighteen inches of play between them.

Kira motioned for him to roll onto his stomach and put his arms behind his back, which he found a way to do despite having to drag Griffin’s arm along for the ride. She held the gun against his head with one hand and slipped a plasticuff lasso around his crossed wrists with the other, yanking it so tight that it bit into his skin.

With Desh’s ankles linked and his wrists now firmly secured behind his back, Kira cut him loose from Griffin using his own knife and retreated rapidly to a safe distance the moment she had. Desh noted she was quite agile and light-footed.

Kira motioned for Desh to get up, which he did awkwardly and with considerable difficulty. She opened the door, checked the hallway, and directed him to enter. Only being able to move his feet a slight distance apart, he was forced to shuffle them in a rapid-fire series of tiny steps. Kira followed about eight feet behind, her gun tucked beneath her oversized sweater but not wavering from the target.

It was now after 10 o’clock and the hallway remained deserted. A rental car was parked just outside the exit from Griffin’s building; a large Ford sedan. As Desh shuffled toward the car, Kira pushed a button on the remote and the trunk popped open. It was completely empty.

Kira motioned for Desh to climb inside.

Frowning miserably, he bent at the waist and slid into the trunk headfirst, having to curl up into a ball to fit inside the tight quarters.

Kira didn’t waste a moment. The instant he was fully inside, she pushed the trunk door closed in a single, smooth motion, and Desh was plunged into an all-enveloping, claustrophobic darkness.

Kira Miller drove for about ninety minutes. The air in the trunk was stale to begin with and got steadily worse as time wore on. While there were long stretches during which the ride was relatively smooth, probably indicating highway driving, there were also brief interludes during which Desh was bounced around violently, jarring him inside and out and inflicting several minor cuts and bruises. Finally, after what seemed like forever to Desh, the car stopped for good. A minute later the trunk was popped open again.

“Get out,” ordered Kira in hushed tones, shielding Desh as well as she could from any possible onlookers. She held a stun gun in one hand and her black duffel in the other, and it was clear she had no intention of helping him.

“Back out. Legs first,” she instructed. “Silently. Call attention to yourself and you’re dead,” she threatened.

Restrained as he was, not to mention crowded into close quarters, it took a Herculean effort to comply, but he was finally able to manage it. They were at a seedy motel that stretched like a single-story serpent around a pothole-filled parking lot, forming three legs of a rectangle. The building was poorly maintained and the grounds were almost completely lacking in external lighting.

Kira had parked directly in front of one of the rooms and she quickly ushered Desh inside. The unmistakable stench of mildew assailed them as they entered along with a stale, smoky odor that could only have been generated by thousands of cigarettes smoked there through time. The door opened into a short corridor, about five feet long, with the bathroom on the immediate right, and then widened into a main room that was surprisingly large. Long, garish drapes were hung across the only window and a cigarette burn adorned the bottom of a faded bedspread. The room was one of a pair of front-to-back, rather than side-to-side, adjoining rooms. At the back wall, two thin wooden doors were both open, creating a narrow passage between the two separate but identical rooms. Kira had obviously rented both, but had left the lights off in the one adjoining.

“Get on the bed,” she commanded once they had entered. “With your back against the headboard.”

Desh climbed onto the queen-sized bed as instructed, and she looped a plastic restraint around one of the outer wooden posts that were on both sides of the thin headboard, and then through his plasticuffs.

A lamp sitting on a small end table by the bed currently illuminated the entire room. Kira had knotted a thin rope around its cord, with the free end of the rope tied in a noose. She lifted the noose off the floor and walked to the door, looping it around the handle and pulling tight. This caused the lamp cord to become as taut as it could possibly be and still remain plugged into the wall outlet. She must have measured this carefully beforehand. She then quickly and expertly ran a trip wire across the corridor where it met the main room, about a foot off the ground.

This done, Kira removed a pair of state-of-the-art thermal imaging goggles from her bag and strapped them on, leaving them on her head and ready to be slid over her eyes. She pulled out a black jumpsuit, made from an unusual material that appeared to be partially crystalline, stepped into it, and zipped it up, so that her entire body was completely covered all the way up to her chin. She then retreated to a wooden chair twenty feet away and moved it so that it couldn’t be seen from the doorway. All of her activities had been well planned and had been performed with military efficiency.

With her preparations completed, Kira tossed her wire-rimmed glasses into the open duffel, sat in the chair, and shifted her gaze to David Desh.

She let out a heavy sigh. “Are you okay?” she asked with what appeared to be sincere concern.

A look of disbelief came over Desh. After all this, this was her first question of him? Why the pretend concern for his welfare? “What am I doing here?” he snapped, now that speech was apparently no longer punishable by death.

She frowned, almost regretfully. “I needed to speak with you. Convince you that I’m not the villain you think I am. That I’m innocent.”

Desh was taken aback. “Innocent! Are you kidding? You go from, ‘quiet or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes’ to claiming you’re innocent.”

Desh hadn’t known what to expect—torture, threats?—but protestations of innocence wasn’t on the list. But to what end? He was already at her mercy. Was she simply attempting to keep him off balance?

Kira frowned deeply. “Look, I’m truly sorry for what I just put you through. Really. Believe me, this wasn’t the first impression I would have liked to make. But I’m innocent nonetheless.”

Desh snorted. “Just how stupid do you think I am!” he snapped. “You blast me with enough electricity to light up Broadway. You repeatedly threaten my life. You leave Matt Griffin for dead. And now you have me hogtied to a bed at gunpoint.” He shook his head. “I must be missing how this adds up to your being an innocent woman,” he finished bitterly.

“I can assure you your hacker friend will be fine. I just hit him with a very potent sleep agent. He’ll wake up tomorrow more refreshed than he’s been in years,” she added. “With no memory of what happened. But I had to handle things this way. You’re far too dangerous to be given even a little wiggle room. This was my only option.”

“How do you figure?”

“Put yourself in my shoes. If you wanted to have a friendly conversation with someone who’s been preconditioned to think you’re the devil incarnate, and who also happens to have Special Forces training and is constantly being monitored, how would you go about it?”

Desh ignored the question. “What makes you think I’m being monitored?”

“Because the people behind Connelly won’t spare any measure to get their hands on me,” she said with absolute conviction. “And not for the reasons you think,” she added. “Do you really think they just sent you off on your own recognizance? Just like that? I’m far too important to them for that. Rest assured, they’ve been tracking your every move since you took this assignment.”

Desh raised his eyebrows. “People behind Connelly?” he repeated.

“Connelly is just a dupe in this game. Just like you,” she said bluntly. “The people pulling his strings are the ones tracking you.”

“If they’re tracking me, as you say, how is it they didn’t intervene in my kidnapping?”

Kira shook her head. “They don’t have a physical tail on you,” she replied smoothly. “You’re too well trained for that. Even if they put two or three cars on you, you’d eventually spot the tail and it would blow up in their faces.” She paused. “Besides, it’s a waste of manpower. They figured if you managed to find me at all it would take you weeks. Remote monitoring was enough.”

“I see,” he said patronizingly. “I suppose they imbedded a subtle tracking device in my underwear.”

An easy smile lit up her face. “I have to admit, that is pretty unlikely,” she said sheepishly, an amused twinkle in her eye. “But I wouldn’t completely put it past them either. I’ve been erring on the side of caution and it seems to be working for me so far.”

Desh felt himself being instantly drawn in by her incandescent eyes and unselfconscious smile. Kira’s effortless charm and physical appeal were more powerful and disarming than he had at first realized. Her features could not have been gentler or more feminine. Her movements were lithe and athletic, despite her bulky clothing, and her voice was soft and appealing. Her eyelashes were long and her jaw and cheekbones delicate. Her wide, blue eyes were warm and expressive.

Desh forced himself to blink and break her momentary spell, annoyed with himself for responding to her with anything other than total revulsion. “You took great pains to ensure quiet in Griffin’s apartment. So you obviously think he’s bugged.”

She sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

“How would they possibly even know to bug him? I didn’t even know he existed until thirty-six hours ago.”

“They’re monitoring your phone calls. As soon as you arranged an appointment with him they probably set up listening devices in his apartment. Again, I’m not sure they did, but I operated under this assumption.”

“So you sent the text that lured me back to Griffin’s apartment?”

Kira nodded.

“Well done,” he said with a look of disgust, although this look was reserved for himself. How had he been so sloppy! But even as he chastised himself, he realized that Kira Miller’s boldness had helped force his error. She had been on to him, probably before he had even taken the assignment, and she had acted with stunning speed and decisiveness; using tactics she had never used before to totally blindside him.

Desh expected her to be gloating, but she appeared more apologetic than ever.

“By your own logic,” he said, “you carried out a very successful, silent abduction. My clothes, phone, car, and weapons are far away. Nothing left to bug or track.” He nodded toward the door of the motel. “So why the trip wire and other precautions? There’s erring on the side of caution and there’s irrationality,” he pointed out.

“Oh, they’ll track us here, all right. If we’re lucky, we’ll be long gone by the time they do. On the other hand, if they’re lucky, I need to be prepared.”

“And what form do you expect their luck to take?”

“Sooner or later—hopefully later—they’ll realize that the homing devices they put in your car, or your clothing, or … wherever, haven’t moved in a while. They’ll track them to Griffin’s apartment and realize you aren’t there. After you visited Griffin, they may have decided to surveil the parking lot of his building periodically via satellite. If they were lucky and managed to capture an image of the car I’m using, this will greatly accelerate their search.” Kira paused. “I just hope they don’t arrive before I’ve accomplished my mission,” she finished.

“Oh,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “And what mission is that?”

She gazed into his eyes for several long seconds and then sighed. “Recruiting you over to my side,” she finally said earnestly.

Desh sat on the bed, stunned, for several long seconds. A faint siren could be heard off in the distance through the thin motel walls.

Finally, he shook his head. “Then you can save yourself some time,” he said, scowling. “Do whatever you need to do, because I’m not going to join you. Under any circumstances.”

“Given what you think you know, this is an admirable position to take,” she allowed grimly. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll give it a shot. I say again, the report you have on me is a fabrication.” She sighed deeply. “But give the puppet masters their due. They’ve rigged things to make it very difficult for me to plead my case.”

Desh raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“They’ve told you I’m a brilliant psychopath. A master manipulator. The kind of person who can cut off your limbs one day and pass a lie detector test with flying colors the next. Correct?”

Desh said nothing.

“Which makes everything I say suspect. The more reasonable, the more suspect, since you’ve been preconditioned to believe it’s all manipulation,” she said in frustration. “Have you ever seen a faith healer on TV?”

Desh nodded, wondering where she was heading.

“There was a guy who gathered video evidence on one of them, showing it was all a scam. The faith healer’s accomplices were researching people waiting in line, feeding him information through a hidden ear piece so he would appear to have divine knowledge; that sort of thing.” She paused. “When the devout followers of this faith healer were shown the footage, do you know what happened?”

“They stopped being his devout followers.”

“Reasonable guess. But no. They were more his followers than ever. They claimed that the evidence was rigged. That it was the work of Satan who was trying to discredit the work of a great man.” Kira shook her head. “If you truly believe you’re up against the King Of Lies, no amount of evidence can ever change your mind.” She sighed and a weary expression crossed her face. “I just hope that’s not the case with you.”

Desh furrowed his brow in frustration. “Why do you hope it’s not the case with me?” he demanded. “Why do you care what I think? And even if you could recruit me, what good will I do you? You have entire terrorist organizations to do your bidding.”

“Try to at least entertain the possibility that I’m not who you’ve been told I am,” she said in exasperation. “I am not affiliated with terrorists.”

“Is your net worth a lie as well?”

“No.”

“So even if you’re telling the truth, you could hire as many bodyguards and mercenaries as you wanted.”

“Yes. I could. But I’m worth too much to the people after me. I’d never be able to fully trust these types. I learned that the hard way,” she added gravely. She gestured to Desh. “You, on the other hand, are motivated by doing what’s right rather than by material rewards. You are a man of integrity and compassion, despite the violent profession you chose. And along with that, you have a very unique personality, philosophy, and array of talents.”

Desh raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a character sketch you’ve put together based on a bit of information on a laptop,” he noted.

She smiled knowingly. “Read hundreds of personal e-mail messages and you’d be surprised at how quickly you can get a feel for someone. But your laptop wasn’t my first stop—it was my last. Everything is accessible by computer now if you know where to look. Everything. Your college records. Extensive military records and evaluations. The kinds of books you purchase online. Everything.”

“Psychiatric evaluations?” added Desh accusingly, recalling how his soul had been laid bare during the few sessions he had had with the military Psychiatrist after his team had been butchered in Iran. Of all the records to which she had access, this would be the biggest violation of privacy of them all.

Kira lowered her eyes and then nodded uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, appearing once again to be completely sincere. “From the moment you were assigned, I studied everything I could get my hands on to understand you as a person. Including that. I won’t lie to you.” She lifted her eyes and locked them onto Desh’s once again. “I studied the others Connelly sent after me as well,” she said. “Just as thoroughly. But they weren’t what I was looking for.” She leaned toward Desh intently. “You are. I’m sure of it.”

The corners of Desh’s mouth turned up in a small, ironic smile, and he shook his head in clear disbelief.

“I know, I know,” she said in frustration, “Flattery is also a tool of a master manipulator, and you’re not buying it. Be that as it may, it happens to be the truth.” She paused. “Look … David … you yourself pointed out I could have easily recruited others with your skill set.”

Desh said nothing, but silently bristled at her use of his first name.

“So why would I choose you and go to such pains to abduct you,” continued Kira, “putting myself at this kind of risk, instead of just calling a mercenary—or one of my terrorist friends for that matter—on the phone?”

“Because I have special qualities,” he said skeptically. “I get it.”

Kira frowned. “I knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she said resignedly. “There’s only one way I can ever hope to gain your trust. I know that. So I’ll tell you what, when I’ve said my piece, I’ll remove your cuffs and give you my gun. If that doesn’t demonstrate my sincerity, nothing will.”

Desh didn’t respond. She was trying to get him to lower his guard by giving him false hope, to perhaps stave off an escape attempt, but it wouldn’t work. He would believe this when he saw it. In the meanwhile, he would continue to assume that if he didn’t escape he was a dead man.

Still, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the unexpected course of the discussion. “Okay,” he said finally, pretending to believe her. “It’s a deal. By all means begin your persuading. Tell me your version of the truth.” He pulled at his restraints and added bitterly, “Consider me a captive audience.”

She winced at this; regret at having to restrain him etched in every line of her face. Her body language seemed totally genuine, and Desh realized she was as brilliant an actor as she was a biologist.

“The information you have on my childhood and schooling is correct,” she began softly. “Except my parents really did die in a tragic accident—I had nothing to do with it.”

“The report never said you did.”

“But you assumed it, didn’t you?”

Desh remained silent.

“Of course you did,” she said knowingly.

“Are we going to argue about what I assumed, or are you going to make your case?”

Kira sighed. “You’re right,” she said unhappily. She visibly gathered herself and then resumed. “I excelled in school and later found my calling in gene therapy. I was told by many in the field I had the kind of insight and intuition that comes around once in a generation. Over time, I came to believe it myself. In fact, I became convinced that I could truly change the world. Make a dramatic impact on medicine.” She paused. “But the key to making an impact is choosing the right problem to solve. I wanted to tackle the most challenging problem right from the start. At the risk of sounding immodest,” she added, “if you come to realize you’re Da Vinci, you owe it to the world to paint masterpieces rather than cartoons.”

“Let me guess,” said Desh. “You’re going to tell me the project you chose has nothing to do with bio-weapons.”

“Of course not,” she insisted, irritated. “I decided to solve the ultimate problem, one whose solution would make the solutions to all other problems, medical or otherwise, child’s play.” Her blue eyes twinkled, even in the dim light. “Any guesses?” she challenged.

She looked at him expectantly, obviously wanting him to arrive at the answer on his own. She waited patiently while he mulled it over.

“What?” he said uncertainly after almost a minute of silence. “Build a super-advanced computer?”

“Close,” she allowed. She waited again for him to connect the dots.

Desh’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. The only way to universally make problems easier to solve was to have better tools to solve them. But if enhancing computer capabilities wasn’t the answer, what was? His eyes widened as the answer became obvious. She was a molecular neurobiologist after all, not a computer scientist. “Enhancing intelligence,” he said finally. “Human intelligence.”

“Exactly,” she said, beaming, as if pleased with a star pupil. “Just imagine if you could have infinite intelligence. Unlimited creativity. Then you could easily solve any problem to which you turned your attention—instantly.” She paused. “Now of course there is no such thing as infinite intelligence. But any significant enhancements to intelligence and creativity would truly be the gift that keeps on giving. What better problem for me to solve?”

“Are you suggesting you actually solved it?” he asked skeptically.

“I did,” she confirmed wearily, not looking particularly triumphant or even happy about the supposed accomplishment.

“What, like a Flowers For Algernon kind of improvement?” he said, knowing that even she wouldn’t have the audacity to claim she had achieved increases in intelligence as great as those described in this story.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. “No. My results were far more impressive than that,” she said matter-of-factly.

Desh was almost prepared to believe she had managed some kind of improvement in her own intelligence, but not this. “Impossible,” he insisted. “Even for you.”

“Not impossible. I have a deep knowledge of neurobiology and a genius level intuition with respect to gene therapy. Combine this with single-minded devotion and trial and error and it can be done.”

“So what are you trying to say, that I’m talking to someone with an IQ of 1000? More?”

She shook her head. “The effect is transient. I’m just regular me right now.”

“Very convenient,” said Desh. “Not that I have an IQ test with me anyway,” he conceded. He thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m not buying it. We’ve evolved to become the most intelligent creatures on the planet. I’m sure there’s a limit. If we haven’t reached it yet we have to be awfully close.”

“Are you kidding,” she responded ardently. “You can’t even begin to imagine the potential of the human brain. Without any optimization, it’s already faster and more powerful than the most advanced supercomputers ever built. But it’s theoretical capacity is staggering: thousands and thousands of times greater than a supercomputer.”

“The human brain isn’t faster than a supercomputer,” argued Desh. “Hell, it isn’t even as fast as a dollar calculator.”

“We’re not wired for math,” explained Kira, shaking her head. “We evolved, remember? All evolution cares about is survival and reproduction. The brain is optimized to keep us alive in a hostile world and induce its owner to have sex. Period. And when it comes to preoccupation with sex,” she noted, amused, “Male brains are especially optimized.” She continued to look amused as she added, “But don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to criticize men. I’m sure some of our male ancestors didn’t think about sex all the time,” she said. “But this trait died out. Do you know why?”

Desh remained silent.

“Because the horny guys had all the children,” she said, smiling.

In other circumstances Desh might have returned her smile, but he forced himself to remain expressionless and maintained his icy stare. He was a hostage to a psychopath, and he couldn’t afford to let her charm him.

“Anyway,” she continued with a sigh, clearly disappointed that her brief attempt at levity had had no effect. “My point is that we’re not wired for math. How does a square root help us kill a lion or stay alive? It doesn’t. What does help us is the ability to throw a spear accurately. Or to dodge a spear thrown by a rival clan,” she added. “And remember, unlike a computer, the brain is controlling our every movement, breath, heartbeat, and blink of an eye, and even our every emotion. And all the while it’s taking in massive amounts of sensory information—nonstop. Your retina alone has over one hundred million cells constantly relaying visual information to your brain; in ultra-high definition I might add. If a computer had to monitor and manage your every bodily function and download, process, and react to this never-ending barrage of information, it would melt.”

Desh was fascinated despite himself. Maybe she was the devil, he thought grimly. Here he was fighting for his life and inexplicably, against his will, he continued to respond to her both physically and intellectually.

“The roundworm C. elegans functions quite well with a nervous system containing just 302 neurons,” continued Kira. “Do you know how many neurons the human brain has?”

“More than 302,” said Desh wryly.

“One hundred billion,” said Kira emphatically. “One hundred billion! And on the order of one hundred trillion synaptic connections between them. Not to mention two million miles of axons. Electrical signals are constantly zipping along neuronal pathways like pinballs, creating thought and memory. The possible number of neuronal pathways that can be formed by the human brain are basically infinite. And a computer uses base two. A circuit can either be on or off; one or zero. But your brain is far more nuanced. The number of possible circuits your brain can use for calculation, or thought, or invention, puts the possible number available to computers to shame.”

“Okay,” said Desh, nodding toward her with his head since his hands were still cuffed to the headboard and unavailable for any gesturing. “Whatever else is true or false, you are an expert molecular neurobiologist, so I’ll concede the point. The brain has massive potential.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “But how do you tap into this potential?”

“Good question,” she said. “If you’re me, you start by studying differences between the brain architecture of geniuses and those that are moderately mentally handicapped.”

“What does moderately mean?”

“IQ of forty to fifty-five. They’re able to learn up to about a second grade level. The dynamic range in human intelligence is remarkable. From the severely mentally handicapped with IQs less than twenty-five to those rarities with IQs above two hundred. Nature has already demonstrated the plasticity of the human brain and human intelligence before I came along,” she pointed out. “I also learned everything I could about autistic savants.”

“Is that a new name for what they used to call idiot savants?”

“Exactly. Like Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man?”

Desh nodded. “I’m familiar with the condition.”

“Good. Then you know there are autistic savants who can rival your dollar calculator at math, able to multiply large numbers and even compute square roots instantly. Some of them can memorize entire phone books,” she added, snapping her fingers, “just like that.”

Desh’s eyes narrowed in thought. Idiot savants did provide a unique perspective on the potential of the human brain.

“They can perform amazing feats in a specific area, but their emotional intelligence is very low, and their understanding and judgment is poor. Why? Because they’re wired differently than you and I,” she explained. “My goal was to understand the genetic basis for these differences in their neuronal patterns. To map the differences between autistic savants and normals. To ultimately find a way to cause a temporary rewiring in a normal brain; to achieve autistic-savant-like capabilities, but differently, more comprehensively, and without the notable deficiencies. Not just to optimize the brain for math and memory tricks, but for intelligence and creativity. Tap into the brain’s almost limitless raw power.”

“Using gene therapy?”

“Correct,” said Kira. “The structure of our brain is always changing. Every thought, memory, sensory input, and experience actually remodels the brain—very, very slightly. I learned that the differences between the brains of autistic savants and normals were surprisingly subtle. And almost like crystal formation, once you nucleate a tiny portion of the brain into a more efficient, optimized structure, you get a chain-reaction that re-orders the rest. There are a number of fetal genes instrumental in setting up neuronal patterns during initial brain development that are turned off after birth. Using gene therapy, I could reactivate whichever of these genes I wanted in a given sequence and at a given expression level.”

Kira paused for a few seconds to allow Desh to absorb what she was saying and see if he had any questions.

“Go on,” he said.

“I started by experimenting on rodents. I used NeuroCure’s facility late at night so I could keep the research secret.”

“Why secret? The approach makes intuitive sense—even to a dumb grunt like me.”

“I’ve studied you far too carefully to buy the dumb grunt routine, David.”

“I ask again,” persisted Desh, “why not pursue this avenue openly?”

“I only wish I could have,” said Kira. She held up a finger. “First off, fellow scientists would think it was a wild-goose-chase that couldn’t possibly succeed.” She held up another finger. “Secondly, the FDA let’s you risk putting foreign biologics or chemicals in a person’s body, but only to help relieve them of a disease or adverse medical condition. Trying to improve someone who has nothing wrong with them is, ah … frowned upon.”

“Too much like playing God?” guessed Desh.

“That, and it’s also considered an unnecessary risk. The FDA would never sanction something like this. And without the agency’s approval, it’s illegal to test this approach on humans.”

“Even on yourself?”

She nodded. “Even on myself. I was risking my entire career and reputation. If someone found out, believe me, I wouldn’t be applauded. Especially in this case. Think about it, trying to alter the brain’s architecture, the very seat of the human soul. Playing God, as you said. There’s an ethical and moral dimension here that is quite complicated.”

“But you didn’t let that stop you,” said Desh accusingly.

She shook her head firmly but there was a note of regret in her expression. “No,” she replied with a sigh. “I was convinced I could succeed. I was only risking myself. And the potential rewards were staggering.”

“The ends justify the means?”

“What would you do?” she demanded defensively. “Assume for a moment you had reason to believe you could solve key problems facing humanity; invent technologies that could revolutionize society. But you had to skirt some of society’s rules. Do you do it?”

Desh refused to be drawn in. “What I would do isn’t important,” he replied. “It’s what you did that’s important.”

Kira was unable to fully hide her disappointment, but she picked up her narrative where she had left off. “NeuroCure’s lab was ideal for my needs. We were working on Alzheimer’s, so it was already set up for the study of intelligence and memory. I used everything I had learned about the brain and autistic savants and developed cocktails of viral vectors with novel gene constructs inserted. Mixtures I thought would achieve my goals. I tested them on lab rats.”

“I’d like to think that rat brains and human brains aren’t very similar,” said Desh.

“It would be fair to say there are … slight differences,” she said, amused. “But if you’re questioning if there are enough similarities to make the results meaningful, the answer is that there are.”

“So, were you able to create your Algernon?”

“Yes. Algernon was a mouse and I worked mostly on rats,” she pointed out, “but yes. Rat number ninety-four showed dramatic improvements in intelligence. I spent another year perfecting the cocktail.”

“And then you tried it on yourself.”

She nodded.

“And what—you became a super-genius?”

“No. It almost killed me.” She frowned deeply and looked troubled as she remembered. “Apparently, rat brains and human brains aren’t exactly alike,” she noted wryly. “Who would have guessed?”

“What happened exactly?”

Kira shifted in her chair and a pained expression crossed her face. “There were a multitude of negative effects. I won’t describe them all. Complete loss of hearing. Some ‘trippy’ hallucinogenic and bizarre sensory effects like those caused by LSD. A killer headache.” She paused. “But the worst part was that I found the re-wiring had impacted parts of my autonomic nervous system. My heartbeat and breathing were no longer automatic.” She shook her head in horror. “Every single second for the three hours the transformation lasted—while dealing with LSD like hallucinations—I had to consciously instruct my heart to beat and my lungs to inhale, just as you would have to instruct your hand to clench, over and over.” She shuddered. “It was the longest, most terrifying three hours of my life—by far.”

Desh found himself totally absorbed. “And this result didn’t scare you off?”

“Almost,” she said earnestly. “Almost. But the rat work had shown me that it was an iterative process. The first seventy-eight rats died, so at least the research with them gave me enough direction that I avoided this fate—narrowly. But starting with rat seventy-nine, I was able to gradually refine the rewiring without further casualties, leading to number ninety-four.”

“So you thought you could replicate this result with yourself as the lab rat?”

“Exactly. The next few experiments I conducted inside a flotation tank. This way I didn’t have sensory input constantly bombarding my brain and tying up neuronal real estate. I could focus on what was happening in the creative centers of my brain.” She paused. “It took me another eighteen months to build to the current, stable level of intelligence, fifty to one hundred IQ points at a time. The more I improved my own intelligence the more obvious additional improvements became. At each new level, problems I had struggled with for weeks became solvable in minutes.”

Desh thought about her claim. Could she really have shown this magnitude of improvement? Maybe. The existence of autistic savants certainly made this a possibility. As she had pointed out, it was undeniable that these rare humans could effortlessly calculate square roots or memorize entire phone books. How long would it take him to match these same feats? The answer was easy—never.

Her story was far-fetched, but at the moment it all held together and explained her after-hours experiments at NeuroCure and why a sensory deprivation tank had been found in her condo.

“And your final IQ?”

“In the end, there was no way to measure it. The most challenging problems on a standard IQ test were instantly obvious. Any number generated on this scale would no longer have meaning.”

Desh considered. “So how do you administer this viral gene cocktail of yours?”

“Injections in the beginning. But I ultimately made advances and was able to imbed the solution inside hollowed-out gellcaps. This is basically the same as drinking the mix, except the gellcaps deliver precise doses and are more convenient. A gellcap hits the stomach, dissolves almost immediately, and releases the collection of genetically engineered viruses. They travel to the brain instantly and within a relatively short time they’ve inserted their payload genes into cellular chromosomes, which are rapidly expressed.”

Desh paused in thought. “Were you able to eliminate the negative effects?”

Kira sighed heavily. “For the most part,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“I lost my ability to feel emotions. I became purely analytical, achieving thought in its purest form, divorced from any bias or emotional baggage. I did the experiments in my condo,” she explained. “I locked myself in and was alone, so I can’t be certain there weren’t other personality changes that would have been noticeable to people who knew me.” She lowered her eyes. “But there was one effect of the rewiring that was particularly troubling to me,” she admitted.

Desh looked on expectantly.

“During the short time the effect lasted,” said Kira Miller, “my thoughts became more and more,” she paused as if searching for a word. She frowned and shook her head worriedly. “I guess the best word for it would have to be, sociopathic,” she finished disturbingly.

Desh’s eyes widened. Once again, Kira Miller had surprised him. She had made such an effort to convince him she wasn’t a sociopath, chipping away at his resolve with worrisome effectiveness, only to make a statement like this.

“That’s convenient,” said Desh. “You’re a model citizen. It’s this procedure of yours that somehow brings out the psycho in you. Is that it?” he demanded, annoyed that he had let himself be taken in by her for even a moment.

“Look, David, I didn’t have to share this with you. But the only way you’ll ever trust me is if I tell you the absolute truth about everything. And no, I still didn’t do any of what Connelly says I did. These were thoughts only. I didn’t act on them,” she insisted. “They were simply strong predispositions, and they went away when my brain architecture returned to normal.”

“So tell me about this state of sociopathy,” said Desh.

Kira frowned. “Just so I’m clear,” she said, “sociopathy isn’t the exact right word for it either. Neither is ‘psychopath’ or ‘megalomaniac’, although they come almost as close. Basically, it’s pure selfishness with a complete and utter lack of conscience. Whatever you choose to call it. A ruthless selfishness, so to speak.”

“As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to this same condition with a sadistic element attached.”

Desh considered. “I see,” he said. “So you don’t get your jollies by torturing others, but if you had to do so to achieve an end it wouldn’t trouble you in the slightest. Is that about right?”

Kira nodded reluctantly.

“That’s comforting,” said Desh with a look of disgust. He paused in thought. “This something-like-sociopathy of yours seems like an unlikely side effect of your treatment,” he said suspiciously.

Kira frowned. “I thought so too before the experiments. Now I realize it’s more of a natural outgrowth of enhanced intelligence than a side effect of the re-wiring.”

“How so?”

“The concepts are quite complicated. To be honest, when my intelligence is at normal levels, they’re beyond me. But I’ll do my best to give you the gist of it.” She gathered her thoughts and exhaled loudly. “Let me start at the very beginning. When our ancient relatives first arrived on the scene, they weren’t the king of the hill. Far from it. They barely managed to stay on the hill. Pre-humans were just one of thousands and thousands of species battling for a tiny niche on a planet teaming with life. If you were a betting man, we were a million-to-one underdog to survive, let alone climb to the top of the food chain. No armor. No speed. No physical weapons.”

“But then intelligence came along,” said Desh.

“That’s right. The polar bear could survive just fine without it. But we desperately needed it. Intelligence was the only way out for our ancestors, and they achieved it just in time.” She paused and eyed Desh meaningfully. “And intelligence in survival terms means cunning, utter ruthlessness, and utter selfishness.” She raised her eyebrows. “What you might consider sociopathic behavior in its primal form.”

Desh reflected on what he had seen of the underbelly of human behavior during his time with Delta Force. He had seen things that would make a veteran pathologist vomit. Decapitations and other unspeakable tortures—displays of cruelty that defied the imagination. Without question, violence and brutality—and bloodlust—were intrinsic to human nature. Scratch any century throughout recorded history and staggering displays of cruelty came gushing out: the slaughter of helpless innocents on a massive scale, brutal wars, enslavements, tortures, mass rapes and murders, and other atrocities far too numerous to ignore. Hitler was just one example in a seemingly endless parade. Humanity could wrap itself in the cloak of civilization and pretend this side of its nature didn’t exist, but the hostility and savagery that drove the most dangerous predator on the planet to the top of the food chain was always seething, just below the surface.

“To survive,” continued Kira, “Homo sapiens evolved intelligence, and a ruthlessness and selfishness hardwired into our genes. That’s one side of the equation.” She paused. “But a cunning and ruthless intelligence alone wasn’t enough. Along with intelligence we had to use teamwork to bring down the mastodon. And our brains were so complex they still needed to develop long after birth. Human infants were helpless for far longer than any other animal on Earth. So our selfishness had to be tempered. We had to evolve some sense of teamwork and fair play. We had to sacrifice for our children and put the clan’s survival above our own.”

Desh was totally drawn into the conversation intellectually now, temporarily forgetting to remain suspicious of Kira’s every word and action.

“So those who were only selfish,” she continued, “died out in the long run. Those who were wired to be totally ruthless, but could also cooperate and work in a pack, survived to have offspring. To this day, a delicate balance of pure selfishness in some respects and pure selflessness in others is hardwired into our genes. For the sake of discussion, let’s use extremes. Call this selfishness sociopathy. Call this selflessness altruism.”

“So you believe there is such a thing as altruism? That Abraham Lincoln got it wrong?”

Kira Miller titled her head, intrigued, and gazed at Desh approvingly, impressed that he was familiar with the apocryphal story attributed to Abraham Lincoln.

In the story, Lincoln was traveling on a train and discussing human nature with a fellow passenger. The passenger insisted that such a thing as altruism existed, whereas Lincoln maintained with great vigor that all human acts were purely selfish. During the discussion, Lincoln noticed a baby goat lying across the tracks far ahead. He immediately called for the train to stop, got out, and gently lifted the goat off the tracks. The train started up again and the passenger said, “Why Abe, you just proved my point. You just committed a totally selfless act.” To which Abe replied, “Quite the contrary. I just proved my point. The act was totally selfish.” The passenger was confused. “How so?” he asked. To which Lincoln replied, “If I would have done nothing to save that poor animal, I would have felt just awful.”

Kira’s eyes sparkled as she considered her response. “Insightful question,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I actually think Lincoln was right. But for the sake of this discussion, this is more semantics than anything. Altruistic behavior exists and is hardwired into our genes. Whether it is merely another facet of selfishness isn’t germane to my point.”

Desh raised his eyebrows. “Which is?”

“Which is that this delicate balance between the competing poles of sociopathy and altruism can be shifted in one direction or another very readily. Granted, some people are born with a strong genetic predisposition one way or the other, but most of us are balanced on a razor’s edge. An average man who is the recipient of acts of caring and kindness will often perform charitable acts in return. This same man, given a slight push the other way, will pursue his self-interests even at the expense of others—even at the suffering of his own friends and family. In order to ensure that civilization can exist, that the scales are slightly tipped toward altruism, human intelligence had to invent religion.”

Desh frowned. “Invent religion?”

“That’s right. There have been thousands of different religions through time. And the followers of each of these religions believe that their founders received the divine answer, and that the religious mythology of all other religions is delusional. Almost everyone agrees that all the other religions were invented by man, just not the particular one into which they were born.”

Desh decided not to argue the point. “Go on,” he said.

“Most religions subscribe to the belief that there is something bigger than us out there,” continued Kira. “That there is some purpose to human suffering. That there is a form of continued existence after death. All of this helps to bolster the altruistic side of the human equation. Why not be totally selfish?—especially now that we don’t really need clans to survive: we can take down the mastodon alone. The answer: because there will be a reward or punishment in the next life.” She paused and shook her head. “But what if you knew with absolute certainty that when you died, that was it? There was no afterlife of any kind. Why not be totally selfish? With no God, what is the point to anything? There is no right and wrong: there is only doing what will make you happy. You have a short time to be alive—why not maximize the experience? To hell with anyone else.”

Desh looked thoughtful. “Because even if you believed there was no afterlife, altruism is still wired in. That was Lincoln’s point: altruism provides its own reward. Being good makes people feel good.”

“Excellent,” she said. “This is true. So a certainty that there is no afterlife doesn’t necessarily imply that pure sociopathy reigns. It isn’t perfectly straightforward. But it’s definitely a step down that path.” She paused. “And our society does have laws. So even if you reasoned that nothing really mattered, that good and evil were relative, and were determined to be completely selfish, you would have to perform a risk-reward analysis. Why not steal that luxury car that you love? One reason is that if you get caught, you’ll go to jail. There are risks that your selfish act would lead to a worse existence rather than a better one.”

Desh’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you had absolute power,” he noted.

Kira nodded. “Exactly. I won’t resort to the overused cliche, but if you didn’t believe in the afterlife and could get away with doing anything you wanted, sociopathic behavior would become more and more likely.”

“So that’s the connection,” guessed Desh. “In your enhanced state you feel that you can do whatever you want.”

“Exactly. With intelligence this great, you can’t help but feel superior and almost invincible. And you really could get away with almost anything. At the same time, you clearly see the stark reality. There is no God. There is no afterlife.”

Desh bristled at this pronouncement. “Why would increased intelligence necessarily make you an atheist?” he challenged.

“The change in brain architecture transforms you into a purely intellectual creature. There is no longer room for faith, something you have to have to sustain a belief in God and the afterlife.”

“So how does your enhanced intellect grapple with the question of how the universe came to be? It surely must have been created, which implies a creator.”

“I can’t come close to understanding my thinking on this subject while in the transformed state. What I do know is that when I’m enhanced, I’m absolutely convinced that God does not exist.” She paused. “You asked me who created the universe. Let me ask you this: who created God?”

Desh frowned. “God is eternal. He didn’t need a creator.”

“Really?” said Kira. “Then why does the universe need one? If God can exist without a creator, why can’t the universe? No matter how you slice it, at some point you get to something that existed without being created. Which is impossible for even an enhanced mind to fully comprehend. Conjuring up a God to explain creation is just a convenient cheat unless you’re prepared to explain how God originated.” She paused. “And even if you accepted God for the sake of argument, why would an omniscient, omnipotent being waste his time creating humanity? The more intellect you bring to bear on the question, with faith out of the picture, the more certain you become that God is just a construct of the human mind, nothing more.”

Desh shook his head in irritation and disagreement but didn’t argue further. “So enhanced intelligence alters the balance of power in the altruism versus sociopathy war.”

Kira nodded. “It takes very little reasoning in this state to justify any selfish act I can contemplate. If someone is in my way—killing them makes perfect intellectual sense. What does it matter if they die now or in thirty years? Either way, existence is meaningless. God is dead. Why shouldn’t I do what is needed to achieve my potential?” She raised her eyebrows. “Remind you of anything?” she asked pointedly.

Desh had minored in philosophy in college, as Kira was no doubt aware from her study of him. He looked troubled. “Friedrich Nietzsche’s will to power,” said Desh unhappily. Nietzsche had glorified the concept of a superman. Not the Clark Kent variety, but a man whose sense of good and evil was based solely on what would help him succeed or fail. Good was anything that would help him achieve his potential. Evil was anything that would hamper him. What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness.

Kira frowned. “I’m afraid so,” she confirmed. “In the enhanced state, as soon as you contemplate any of the eternal questions, you quickly reinvent this school of philosophy before taking it to a level of sophistication that the world’s greatest philosophers couldn’t possibly comprehend.”

There was a long silence in the room.

“But you said you haven’t acted on any of these sociopathic tendencies,” said Desh finally. “Is that right?”

“So far, no,” she said gravely. “My inherent sense of altruism and fair play has been strong enough—barely—to prevent me from acting on these impulses. But they’re quite strong,” she admitted. “It’s been tempting to let go of my last bit of pesky Neanderthal wiring and release myself from all moral and ethical bonds,” she said, a deeply troubled look on her face. “Very tempting.”

Desh was unsure of just how to respond to this.

“I haven’t enhanced myself for some time now,” she continued softly.

“Afraid the pull will become too strong for you to resist?” said Desh

She nodded. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly in a humorless smile. “Sometimes I think of myself as Frodo in the Lord of The Rings. In my case the ring’s power is that of almost inconceivable creativity and intellect. But like Frodo’s burden it is easily accessible, right there around my neck at all times, exerting its magnetic pull. The temptation to use it, especially when I’m desperately in need of some insight, is almost irresistible.”

Desh considered. He had never really thought about the ring from the Tolkien trilogy as yet another manifestation of the old cliche regarding power, but of course it was. The ring didn’t turn its wearer evil; the power inherent in the ring did this. “Power corrupts,” he began, unable to stop himself from reciting the cliche Kira had avoided using. “Absolute power corrupts abso—”

Desh never finished his sentence. With a sound like a shotgun blast the door to the room exploded inward, propelled by vicious, simultaneous kicks expertly applied by two men on the other side.

Desh’s head jerked violently from the startling intrusion, and his arms were nearly yanked from their sockets as he instinctively tried to assume a defensive posture: his startle reflex not caring that his arms were immobilized behind his back. Along with the thunderous sound of the door crashing in, the room was instantly plunged into impenetrable darkness as the rope Kira had attached to the door handle yanked the lamp cord violently from the wall outlet.

The momentum from the intruders’ explosive kicks propelled them into the room, guns drawn, and they hit the trip wire instantly, about the same time their brains registered that they were now blind. With two surprised grunts, followed immediately by two loud thuds, they crashed to the floor only seconds after their attack had begun.

They had counted on a precision surprise attack executed so quickly that even if the girl had been holding a gun she wouldn’t be able to stop them. They had not counted on their actions killing the room’s only light or being greeted by a trip wire.

Kira Miller had also jumped in shock when the door was kicked open, but she recovered quickly. While the attackers lay sprawled on the floor, dazed, wondering what had hit them and why the world had suddenly gone dark, she slid her thermal imaging goggles down over her eyes. The two intruders instantly became visible as glowing, highly resolved three-dimensional silhouettes.

“Don’t move!” she barked.

The taller of the two attackers had now fully recovered his wits after the surprise fall. The girl wasn’t as clever as they had been led to believe, he thought arrogantly. The room was as dark as a cave, but she had foolishly given them the upper hand by speaking and giving away her location. He ignored her command and soundlessly lifted his arm and pointed his gun in the direction from which her voice had originated.

She shot him in the chest with her stun gun as he prepared to fire.

The tall man convulsed violently and lay still on the ground while Kira quickly retracted the dual electrode harpoons, ready for another shot. The man’s partner silently began to change position on the floor so that he could attempt an attack as well, not having learned from his colleague’s miscalculation.

“Just because you can’t see,” hissed Kira, “doesn’t mean that I can’t.”

The man froze in place. Like his paralyzed partner, he had assumed she couldn’t see him or detect his movements, a foolish and potentially fatal assumption. They had been warned that she was very clever and not to underestimate her.

“That’s right,” she said smugly. “I’m wearing night-vision goggles. So let’s try this again. Don’t. Move.” She emphasized each word as if speaking to a stubborn toddler.

Desh’s mind had been racing since the attack began, considering his options. But he realized that even if he could free himself, escape was hopeless. He couldn’t see any better than the attackers could.

Kira pulled a Glock from her bag with a silencer already attached, although given that the sound of the door being forced open would already have awakened every last motel resident—several of whom, at least, were now calling the police—the silencer had questionable value.

“I’m now pointing a gun at you,” she explained. “How many others are with you and what is their location?” she demanded.

“No others,” replied the man, shaking his head. “Just us.”

Kira fired. The silenced gun issued a spitting sound as she sent a bullet tearing through the meaty part of the man’s thigh. “I’ll only ask once more,” she growled. “How many others are with you and what is their location?”

“One other,” grunted the man as he desperately began trying to staunch the flow of blood from his leg. “He’s taken up a sniper position facing your room to prevent any escape. He’s equipped with a thermal imager.”

Kira said nothing. She adjusted a setting on the stun gun and fired. The intruder convulsed and lay still, unconscious. She reloaded the gun, adjusted the setting once more, and shot the first man again, rendering him unconscious as well. She pulled a ski mask from her bag, made from the same material as her jumpsuit, and stretched it over her goggles. The material snapped back into shape to fit snugly over her face and nose, fitting perfectly around the goggles and leaving not a single section of her face exposed.

“Shit!” she fumed. “We needed more time. They shouldn’t have tracked us here for five or six more hours,” she said despondently, as much to herself as to Desh. “By then we would have been long gone.” She had been in complete control when dealing with the two attackers, but she was distraught now, as if she had just suffered a terrible loss. Desh was still blind but could hear it clearly in her voice.

“I have to get out of here,” she said after a few seconds of silence. “Now.” Desh noted that any hint of vulnerability had once again disappeared from her voice. “I can’t trust you untied, and I don’t have time to drag you with me.”

Desh’s heart raced furiously. So what would she do with him now? Would she decide to put a bullet in his brain before she left? Desh knew she intended to go through the adjoining room and out the other side of the motel. Her planning had been extraordinary. Just as she had expected, the attackers were only watching the door on the front side of the motel, thinking it was her only exit.

“What if he lied?” said Desh in desperation. “What if they have a sniper watching the back as well?”

“He’ll miss,” she said simply. “I’m covered head to toe by a jumpsuit, goggles and a ski mask, all designed to completely block my heat signature. I’ll be invisible to thermal imaging, from snipers or from the air.”

Desh shook his head. “That’s impossible,” he insisted. “The military has been trying for years. There is no such technology.”

“There is now,” replied Kira smoothly.

Desh’s eyes widened. Could it be true? If she could be believed, she had dramatically enhanced her own intelligence. Had she turned her amped-up genius to the problem of defeating thermal imaging technology? If this were true, it would go a long way toward explaining how she had managed to remain in the US and elude the manhunt for so long.

As this was flashing through Desh’s mind, Kira approached him and quickly sawed at his restraints with a knife until his hands were free, retreating from him rapidly once they were, despite being armed and having the advantage of sight.

“I have to go,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll leave the knife and gun in the bathroom of the adjoining room. By the time you shuffle over there and remove your ankle cuffs, I’ll have gotten the head start I need.”

Desh allowed himself to breathe again. Would she really let him go?

“Damn!” she fumed again. “There’s much more to tell. We should be leaving together as allies!” Kira gathered herself. “They’ll know I took the risk of kidnapping you,” she mumbled rapidly, “but it’s unclear how they’ll interpret this. They may decide to kill you or they may decide just to use you. I don’t know.” She paused. “I know you’re still not sure about me. But even if you think every word I told you was a lie, your survival depends on believing this: don’t trust anyone. Be prepared for anything,” she warned anxiously.

Kira gathered her bag and rushed into the adjoining room. After a ten second detour into its bathroom, she unlocked the room’s outer door. “We’ll have to finish our conversation at another time,” she called to Desh through the doors between the two rooms.

There was a slight pause. “Be careful, David,” she added earnestly. “I hope you’re as good as I think you are.”

And with that, Kira Miller opened the door and stepped out into the night.