Dark Revelations by Duane Swierczynski, Anthony E. Zuiker Page A

home?”
    “This is insane.”
    “Blair insists. He operates in total secret, and the existence of his organization depends on it. There’s always the chance, however slim, that you’re a wildly brilliant sociopath who’s seen through my cover all along, and in fact have been hunting me to get to them.”
    “Gee, you’ve figured me out.”
    “I thought as much. Now please, indulge me? It won’t be for long. You’ll hardly know you’re wearing it.”
    But he took the hood anyway. The fabric was soft and breathable, at least. He slipped it over his head.
    The hood turned out to be a diversion. For the moment he slipped the hood over his head Dark felt a sting in the side of his neck, and then his vision went black for real.

     
    AP News
     
    Breaking: Norman Wycoff under indictment, accused of abusing Defense Department powers.

chapter 15
     
    RIGGINS
     

Quantico, Virginia
     
    T he restaurant was quiet, dim, empty. Just the way Riggins liked it.
    “Come on,” he said. “It’s me . Don’t you think I could find out anyway?”
    Constance Brielle smiled. “Well, I could tell you . . .”
    “But you’d have to kill me, right?” Riggins smiled, swirled the ice around in his drink. “Well, sweetheart, many have tried, and somehow I’m still walking around.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
    Riggins had spent a lot of time with Constance in the hospital in the aftermath of the Tarot Card Killer case. She had gone head-to-head with a psychotic ex–Navy Seal in a fire tower of the largest building in San Francisco—the Niantic Tower. She had barely survived the encounter. Her arm had been broken in two places. She had been choked and then finally driven headfirst into a concrete wall, giving her a concussion. The fact that she had survived meant that Constance was tougher than any of them realized—including Constance. But it was Riggins who had carried her out of the burning Niantic Tower. Riggins who had stayed with her, holding her hand, telling her how tough she was. How if it had been him, he would have been curled up into the fetal position crying for his mommy. Constance had smiled, even through the morphine-drip haze, and Riggins knew she’d be all right.
    Riggins turned out to be wrong about that. Constance was not okay.
    And now, just six months later, Constance was quitting Special Circs.
    “Guess we’re born survivors,” Riggins said.
    They’d met up at a joint not far from Quantico—a dark, old-school chophouse with huge wooden booths and white tablecloths. Riggins liked it because it was quiet. It was also a good place for drinking. Constance ordered a bourbon, Black Maple Hill, neat, her first alcoholic beverage since getting out of the hospital. Riggins ordered a crème de menthe with pineapple juice on the rocks. Which was absolutely disgusting. And, which was the point. Riggins needed a drink, but he figured that sipping something disgusting would keep him from getting too drunk. He didn’t want to go bad on himself now, of all times. He eyed Constance’s bourbon, though.
    “Any news from King Asshole?” Constance asked.
    King Asshole = code word for Wycoff.
    “No. The man’s going down in flames, that much is clear.”
    “What’s that mean for you?”
    “Going to ignore it, do my job.”
    There was a sudden brightness in Constance’s eyes. “You’re on this Labyrinth thing, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah,” Riggins lied.
    Truth was, in the week since that first creepy video had been uploaded, nobody had said boo to him. Riggins decided to pursue it anyway. No evil overlord meant no accountability. At least in the short term.
    “You should be working this one with me,” Riggins said. “I need someone like you on this.”
    “Tom . . .”
    “I know, I know. And I lied. I don’t need someone like you. I need you, and I know I can’t have you.”
    “I just feel like I . . .”
    “You don’t have to explain. I understand better than anybody.”
    And she did. Tom