Vision Impossible

  He took them and turned them over to read the names on the back. “Viktor Kozahkov and Richard Des Vries,” he said.

  I nodded. “The short fat dude is the one that feels the most suspicious,” I said pointing to the first photo I’d set in front of him. “But let me clarify that. I’m not sure he’s actually responsible for stealing the drone. He feels like he might be coming into this from the side.”

  “From the side?” Director Tanner repeated.

  “She means his relationship to the thief is tangential,” Dutch said, eyeing me to see if he got that right, and I nodded. “In other words, he didn’t steal the drone, but he probably knows who did and is in on the deal to sell it.”

  “Lookit that, cowboy,” I told him, nodding in approval. “Three years together and you’re finally speaking psychic.”

  “And Des Vries?” Gaston asked, holding up the other photo I’d flagged.

  “Same thing but even more distant. I’d say at most he might have heard about the drone being stolen, but he didn’t actually take it. Still, he feels connected to this in a singular and significant way, but his connection feels even more sideways, yet equally significant.”

  Gaston turned the photo back around and squinted at the picture thoughtfully. He then looked at Dutch and a sly smile played at his lips. “Agent Rivers,” he said. “May I see you privately for a moment?”

  “Yes, Director,” Dutch said, getting up and following Gaston out. Agent Tanner then gathered up her folder and photographs and thanked me for my input.

  “There’s just one more briefing to go before we’ll turn you two loose for the night. They should be in shortly.”

  She left me then and I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes and relishing the peace and quiet. After a while I went to the door and looked out into the hallway. Dutch was nowhere in sight. I wondered what Gaston had wanted with him, and why it was taking so long. About ten minutes after that, the door opened and two men in uniform with a whole lotta brass attached to the lapels came in, carrying several files with them. Along for the ride was a guy dressed completely in black, head to toe, with slicked-back black hair, brilliant green eyes, and a thin firm mouth set in a square but fairly handsome face. He moved with the stealth of a panther, and entered the room with an air of pernicious intensity. This is the part in the story where I also admit that he personally scared the crap out of me, which was just awesome, ’cause I don’t think I’d been scared enough for one afternoon.

  The men introduced themselves, starting with the brass.

  The first man, who looked a whole lot like a walrus, said, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David McAvery.” I believe I forgot his name in the very next second.

  His military buddy, who walked like a penguin, said, “I’m Colonel John Hughes.”

  The MIB (man in black) said, “Agent Frost. CIA.”

  Think I’d be skipping him on my holiday card mailing list.

  “Agent Rivers stepped away with Director Gaston,” I said.

  “We’re not waiting,” Frosty the Snowman snapped, taking his seat and looking pointedly at the brass.

  The two of them wasted no time getting down to business. “We believe the drone is somewhere in the Canadian province of Ontario,” Walrus said. “Due to the highly sensitive nature of Project Intuit, the drone itself was equipped with several tracking devices. These were all removed once the drone reached Canadian soil, and separately mounted onto freight trucks, each heading in different directions all across the country. It took us several days to track down the devices and conclude they were not still attached to the drone.”

  “How do you know it’s in Ontario province, then?” I asked. “I mean, it could be in another country by now.”

  Walrus looked at me like I’d spoken out of turn, and Agent Frostbite narrowed his eyes at me, which made me squirm.

  “We’re fairly certain it’s still in Canada,” Walrus said. “Professor Steckworth received a signature ping off the software somewhere in the lower Ontario province area, and we believe Intuit is now somewhere within the Greater Toronto metropolitan area.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Walrus. “Signature ping?” I asked. What was with these guys and their inability to speak plain English anyway?

  “As a precautionary measure, Professor Steckworth equipped Intuit with its own locator beacon, so to speak. The device is designed to send out a small pulse every forty-eight hours, which can be detected by any passing satellite. By calculating the angle of the ping, we can approximate the area where Intuit is located.”

  “Okay,” I said, understanding better. “Where in Toronto did the signal say Intuit was?”

  Walrus nodded to Penguin, who opened up a folder, took out a piece of paper, and said, “The radius of the ping only narrows it to a twenty-square-mile area within the greater metropolitan area. It doesn’t give its exact location.”

  Of course it didn’t.

  “At this point we’re waiting on another ping, set to happen within the next two days, from the device, and if we’re lucky, it will bounce off a different satellite, which could help to narrow the search area.”

  “Do you have any leads at all on where it might be stored, or who might want to buy it?” I asked.

  Walrus and Penguin looked to Agent Frostbite. “Yes,” he said, without any further elaboration.

  Ah, charm. Watching it in action really warms the cockles.

  “Could you be a little more specific?” I asked, silently patting myself on the back for having the guts to do so.

  “No.”

  “Helpful,” I said, with a big ol’ smile.

  “We are narrowing the list,” he said crisply. “We will give you a full briefing before you leave on your assignment.”

  “We?” I repeated, hoping there was someone—anyone—a little warmer than ol’ Jack Frost here who could give us the final lowdown.

  “Me,” he said, looking me square in the eye like he’d really love to take me outside and personally show me the many, many ways to interrogate a terrorist. “I will be giving you a full briefing. And I will be your handler while you’re in Canada.”

  Of course he would. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have none at all.

  Chapter Two

  Dutch and I were finally turned loose around eight o’clock that evening. My eyes felt dry and gritty and my normal slightly sarcastic side was starting to take on a real edge. It’s a tough thing when you know you’re acting inappropriately and you’re still unable to rein it in.

  The truth was that I was flippin’ scared. Not necessarily of going in undercover to find and recover a lethal weapon, but of failing in that mission. The consequences of either being discovered by the enemy or not returning with Intuit were far too big for me to deal with, and I felt like what I really needed was a phone call home.

  So while Dutch was in the shower, I called my sister, Cat. “Hey,” I said, feeling weary down to my DNA.

  “Hi, honey!” she said, all perky. “Did you get my e-mail?”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Busy at the conference, huh?”

  I’d told Cat that I was going to Washington for a weeklong conference on crime fighting. As lame as that story was, Cat bought it. “Yep. There’s just so much information to take in.”

  “Oh, I know how those things go. The way to play it is to absorb only what’s useful and toss out the rest. That’s what I always do.”

  I nodded dully—like she could see me. “What was in the e-mail?”

  “Wedding dresses. Well, more specifically, pictures of wedding dresses.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “Cat, Dutch and I haven’t even set a date yet. I mean, I’ve been engaged for less than a week.”

  There was an excited squeak on the other end of the line. “Can you believe you’re getting married?”

  I smiled and eyed my beautiful ring. Four carats of soft emerald green reflected in the lamplight. ??
?God, I love that man,” I said, thinking dreamy thoughts about my soon-to-be husband.

  “Anyway, I’m thinking mid-October might be good.”

  My attention returned promptly to the phone. “October? You mean this October?”

  “Yes,” my sister said as if I were slow on the uptake. “Why not?”

  “Uh . . . ’cause that’s in, like, six months!”

  “So?”

  “Cat,” I said, using my best “I am going to be reasonable” voice. “I can’t get married in six months.”

  “Why not?” Cat said.

  “Why not?” Dutch echoed from the door of the bathroom.

  I looked at him and winced. “What I mean is . . .”

  “Yes?” said Cat.

  “Yeah?” said Dutch.

  “See, the thing of it is . . .”

  “What?” said Cat.

  “What?” said Dutch.

  I stood up from the bed. “Will you two stop that?!”

  “Stop what?” said Cat. “And who else are you talking to?”

  Dutch was eyeing me moodily from the door.

  “Cat, I gotta go,” I said. I hung up the phone and flashed my fiancé a big ol’ smile. It worked about as well as the last time I’d used it.

  “Why can’t you get married to me in October?”

  My smile faded. “It isn’t that I can’t get married to you specifically,” I said. “I can’t get married to anyone in October.”

  Dutch crossed his arms. “Anyone? You mean you’re fielding other offers?”

  I shook my head. “No! I don’t mean anyone-anyone. I meant . . . I mean . . . the thing is . . .”

  “You don’t want to get married to anyone, including me?” he said, and I could hear the hurt in his voice.

  I lifted my chin and yelled, “Aaaaagh! Why are you taking me so literally?!”

  “Why are you telling me now of all times that you want to back out?”

  I glowered at Dutch, really glowered at him. And then I marched over, placed my palms on his shoulders, and said, “Cowboy, you just don’t get it, do you?”

  He didn’t say anything, which was probably wise, so I continued. “I don’t want to marry you in six months because it’s only six months to plan the most amazing day of my life. The day I get to be Mrs. Dutch Rivers, and sugar, I want that day to be so perfect that I just don’t think I can rush it.”

  Dutch’s granite expression cracked into the most amazing smile and he curled his arms around me, pulled me close, and said, “Well, why didn’t you just say so, dollface?”

  He kissed me long and deep then, and I went with it. Later, when we were curled up in bed, he said, “How about November?”

  I laughed. “Push, push, push,” I said. “Why the rush, anyway?”

  “I like November,” Dutch replied. “It’s a great month to get married. Not too cold. Not too hot.”

  “It’s too soon,” I told him.

  “Then when?”

  I sighed and turned to spoon against him. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe next summer?”

  “Too long,” he said.

  I closed my eyes. I was so exhausted I could barely talk. “Later,” I told him. “We’ll set the date later.”

  I was fast asleep soon after, but I didn’t stay that way for long. My dreams were moody and turbulent, filled with poisonous darts and the feeling of being chased. And then, I had the worst nightmare of all. I dreamed that I was free-falling from a very great height. There was no indication of what I’d fallen off . . . a bridge maybe? All I knew was that the landscape came rushing up to greet me and there was nothing to slow me down. The moment I struck was the same moment I sat straight up in bed with a loud gasp.

  “Edgar?” Dutch asked, using his favorite pet name for me, after famed psychic Edgar Cayce.

  “I’m okay,” I told him, still breathing hard.

  He mumbled something and took my hand, holding it to his chest. I could feel the beat from his heart against my palm. More than anything, that helped to calm me down, but it was a long time before I actually got back to sleep.

  The next day Dutch and I were separated. This bothered me for a whole lotta reasons, but I didn’t want to let it show. . . . That worked for all of two seconds and then I started shrieking at the poor guy who came to deliver that piece of news. “What do you mean, you’re splitting us up?!”

  “Abs,” Dutch said cautiously.

  “I don’t want to be separated, Dutch! You’re supposed to be my partner! These guys freak me out with their poison darts and their pings and their superspy stuff!”

  “Ms. Cooper,” said the agent who’d suggested the idea. “There are certain aspects to your preparation for this mission that will be redundant for Agent Rivers, and there are certain aspects to his briefings that it would not benefit you to know.”

  “Like what?” I challenged. I can be a real pistol when I want to be.

  “Well,” said the agent, “we understand that you have limited weapons training. Is that correct?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, irritated that he’d pulled that particular fact out of my file. “I’ve probably killed more people than you, Agent . . . uh . . . you.” What was his name again?

  “Agent Rosco,” he reminded me with a smile. “We know about the shooting in Waco. Is there someone else you were forced to eliminate?”

  I crossed my arms and thought. “You mean, as in someone else I personally shot?”

  “Yes.”

  Crap on a cracker. I’d never been so ticked off that I hadn’t actually killed more than one guy in my life. “Well, no.”

  Agent Rosco smiled, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d call a friendly sort of grin. “I had seven kills last year alone in Afghanistan.”

  I scowled. “Don’t tell me,” I said to him. “You’re my weapons trainer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I sighed and looked up at Dutch, who was actually grinning. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked him.

  “Yep.”

  Dutch had been trying to get me to learn how to use a gun properly for weeks, and I’d barely managed to hold him off after the one time we actually visited a gun range together and he’d forced me to fire a few rounds. With a sigh I said, “What specifically does this specialized training I’m supposed to endure entail?”

  “Extensive weapons training, self-defense, survival skills, interrogation techniques, and basic first aid along with syringe practice.”

  I looked at him in astonishment. Was he kidding?

  “Why the syringe practice?” was all I thought to ask.

  “You’ll need to practice injecting yourself and a partner with the antidote should you or Agent Rivers get hit by one of the toxic darts.”

  Gulp.

  Agent Rosco took advantage of the fact that for the moment he’d managed to shut me up, and handed me a blue folder embossed with the CIA’s seal. He gave an identical one to Dutch. “Agent Rivers, someone will be along shortly to brief you on the next item on your schedule. Ms. Cooper, if you would follow me, please?”

  I trucked along behind Rosco without a backward glance to Dutch, still a little miffed that he was enjoying this so much. We walked to the elevator and Rosco pressed the down button. Once we’d stepped off the elevator on the basement level, he led me to the women’s locker room and said, “In locker number seven you will find a duffel bag. In that duffel bag will be a change of clothes, earplugs, noise cancellation earphones, and protective eyewear. Please change and meet me back here in ten minutes.”

  I barely resisted the urge to grumble a complaint and simply got on with it by marching into the locker room. Once I’d changed into the dark blue tracksuit with gold piping (which I was seriously hoping was a party gift, ’cause it was super cool), I met Rosco out in the hallway again and followed him to a set of double doors where he swiped his ID card and we went in.

  Not surprisingly, we ended up at the indoor shooting range, where several agents in similar t
racksuits were lined up in small cubicle-looking slots shooting off all manner of weapons. Well . . . no grenade launchers, but the day was young.

  Inside the range it was loud. Like, surround-sound loud. Even with the earplugs and earphones on I still jumped at every pop, bang, boom.

  Rosco led me to the last booth and unholstered his weapon. He offered it to me, muzzle down, and said, “Let’s start you off with a Ruger SR9c nine-millimeter and see how you do.”

  I eyed the gun suspiciously, wondering if it could go off by itself. Rosco waited me out and I took the gun much like you’d pick up a dead smelly fish.

  Attempting to remember the “training” Dutch had given me a few weeks back, I pulled back the clip, cupped the deceptively heavy weapon, and held it up level with my right eye. Working to ignore the hail of bullets being fired feet away from me, I took a breath . . . exhaled . . . held perfectly still . . . and squeezed the pad of my finger against the trigger.

  The gun fired and kicked up, hurting my wrist a little, but it wasn’t too bad. I then lowered the muzzle, held it between my two fingers (dead-smelly-fish style), and attempted to hand it back to Rosco.

  He looked at me like I had to be joking.

  “I don’t like guns,” I told him.

  “You’re kidding,” he said woodenly, refusing to take the gun from me.

  With a scowl I turned and laid it on the counter in front of me, then pointed to the target. “I got a hole in one,” I said. My black target was showing a nice round hole in the chest area.

  Rosco crossed his arms and eyed the target. “Yep. You probably punctured his lung. Too bad he’s only wounded. Too bad he’s just popped off six rounds into you. Too bad now you’re dead.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to pick up the weapon and shoot the shit out of that target!” he shouted in a voice so icy I felt cold down to my toes. Apparently there was a darkish side to Agent Rosco.

  And I don’t cotton to darkish sides. “Or,” I snapped, “since I’m dead and all, maybe my ghost will just move on outta here!”

  With that, I edged past him and made like a bullet out of the shooting range.