throat in a lock of his forearm. Legs thrashed for a few seconds until finally the soldier lay still, fighting only to breathe.
Jessie leaned forward, tearing off the man's goggles and pushing back his hood. He was a dull blond with hair the color of soiled straw. His blueberry-blue eyes had a wild look; his cheeks, pockmarked under the stubble, had missed a few shaves. She brought the tip of her gun's snout an inch from their captive's left eye.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes," he whispered in reply.
His breath smelled like a bad can of tuna.
"I'm Special Agent Jessamyn Mayfield of the FBI. You always have that gap between your lower teeth?"
"Very funny. You broke my jaw."
"Sorry. You got a little excited."
"Who's strangling me? Tonto?" the man said, holding his face, while Kier maintained an armlock on his neck.
"According to your dog tags you're Sergeant Miller of the National Guard."
"You can read."
"Where you from?"
"Omaha, Nebraska. I'm a Sears floor manager."
"Well, then you won't mind if we search you. Just to make sure."
"My commanding officer is Captain Doyle. And I have a job to do."
She hesitated.
"I don't believe him," Kier said. "National Guard wouldn't play around out here. It's wintertime."
He looked to Jessie, who resisted, then relented. "I guess I'll risk an ass-chewing to search him against his will."
Jessie reached under the man's parka and pulled a pistol with a silencer from its holster. Neither of them recognized the make, and it bore no markings. He had three full clips of ammunition velcroed to his holster.
"Well," Jessie said, "this isn't military issue. Shoots .45 slugs, steel tipped to puncture a Kevlar vest. The bullets are called Talons."
"It's mine . . . personal."
"In that case, you're under arrest, because the Talons and the silencer are illegal."
On his belt she found a two-way radio with an exotic-looking digital push-pad. It was turned on and crackling. He also carried a military-issue 9-mm. semiautomatic pistol, ammunition, and a pair of handcuffs.
"These aren't military issue either," she said, nodding at the cuffs. "Where are the keys?"
"Pocket," he replied when Kier compressed his neck.
After they cuffed his hands behind his back, Miller sat and spat out blood, along with a few tooth chips.
In his pack they found a black high-intensity Techna light; Zeiss binoculars; eight more clips of ammo for the M-16; a grenade belt with four hand grenades; high-energy Power Bars; a Sterling compass in expensive-looking brass; a hand-held satellite navigation device; a Bic lighter; a stiletto knife made in Italy; a canteen; a money clip full of hundred dollar bills; an accordionlike stack of plastic sealed cards with hundreds of names and numbers in fine print; and a geodesic contour map, also encased in plastic, complete with elevations. On the map, about three miles north of the Donahues', there was a single red square. The man carried no other I.D. and wore a Kevlar flak jacket with a steel plate across the breast for maximum protection. It, too, bore no indicia of government ownership. They studied the plastic cards, but they were incomprehensible, possibly a code for the radio.
"You have the right to remain silent. . ." she began in a whisper.
Kier bet she had never spoken the words in an actual arrest situation. He sat stone-faced, impatient, while she gave the required Miranda warning. His eyes never stopped moving as he peered out through the tree branches, looking for more men.
''Did you find the jet?" The man was ignoring Jessie's litany.
"Yes."
Kier shook his head at Jessie, concerned that she not disclose any information.
"What do you know about it?" she asked.
"Did you go inside?" Miller asked, worry plain in his voice.
"Tell me why you care."
"Did you go in the damn jet?"
"Whisper, asshole," Jessie said. "What difference does it make?"
"You did go in the jet. Well, that's just great."
The man lapsed into silence.
It didn't take long to establish that the
Jessie leaned forward, tearing off the man's goggles and pushing back his hood. He was a dull blond with hair the color of soiled straw. His blueberry-blue eyes had a wild look; his cheeks, pockmarked under the stubble, had missed a few shaves. She brought the tip of her gun's snout an inch from their captive's left eye.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes," he whispered in reply.
His breath smelled like a bad can of tuna.
"I'm Special Agent Jessamyn Mayfield of the FBI. You always have that gap between your lower teeth?"
"Very funny. You broke my jaw."
"Sorry. You got a little excited."
"Who's strangling me? Tonto?" the man said, holding his face, while Kier maintained an armlock on his neck.
"According to your dog tags you're Sergeant Miller of the National Guard."
"You can read."
"Where you from?"
"Omaha, Nebraska. I'm a Sears floor manager."
"Well, then you won't mind if we search you. Just to make sure."
"My commanding officer is Captain Doyle. And I have a job to do."
She hesitated.
"I don't believe him," Kier said. "National Guard wouldn't play around out here. It's wintertime."
He looked to Jessie, who resisted, then relented. "I guess I'll risk an ass-chewing to search him against his will."
Jessie reached under the man's parka and pulled a pistol with a silencer from its holster. Neither of them recognized the make, and it bore no markings. He had three full clips of ammunition velcroed to his holster.
"Well," Jessie said, "this isn't military issue. Shoots .45 slugs, steel tipped to puncture a Kevlar vest. The bullets are called Talons."
"It's mine . . . personal."
"In that case, you're under arrest, because the Talons and the silencer are illegal."
On his belt she found a two-way radio with an exotic-looking digital push-pad. It was turned on and crackling. He also carried a military-issue 9-mm. semiautomatic pistol, ammunition, and a pair of handcuffs.
"These aren't military issue either," she said, nodding at the cuffs. "Where are the keys?"
"Pocket," he replied when Kier compressed his neck.
After they cuffed his hands behind his back, Miller sat and spat out blood, along with a few tooth chips.
In his pack they found a black high-intensity Techna light; Zeiss binoculars; eight more clips of ammo for the M-16; a grenade belt with four hand grenades; high-energy Power Bars; a Sterling compass in expensive-looking brass; a hand-held satellite navigation device; a Bic lighter; a stiletto knife made in Italy; a canteen; a money clip full of hundred dollar bills; an accordionlike stack of plastic sealed cards with hundreds of names and numbers in fine print; and a geodesic contour map, also encased in plastic, complete with elevations. On the map, about three miles north of the Donahues', there was a single red square. The man carried no other I.D. and wore a Kevlar flak jacket with a steel plate across the breast for maximum protection. It, too, bore no indicia of government ownership. They studied the plastic cards, but they were incomprehensible, possibly a code for the radio.
"You have the right to remain silent. . ." she began in a whisper.
Kier bet she had never spoken the words in an actual arrest situation. He sat stone-faced, impatient, while she gave the required Miranda warning. His eyes never stopped moving as he peered out through the tree branches, looking for more men.
''Did you find the jet?" The man was ignoring Jessie's litany.
"Yes."
Kier shook his head at Jessie, concerned that she not disclose any information.
"What do you know about it?" she asked.
"Did you go inside?" Miller asked, worry plain in his voice.
"Tell me why you care."
"Did you go in the damn jet?"
"Whisper, asshole," Jessie said. "What difference does it make?"
"You did go in the jet. Well, that's just great."
The man lapsed into silence.
It didn't take long to establish that the
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