A sudden blow connected with the side of his head, which, pressed against the floor of the van, had nowhere to go. Chavez groaned, bracing himself for another blow that didn’t come. His ears rang. His stomach roiled. The blindfold made it difficult to draw a breath. The heavy blow hadn’t knocked him out, but he was not quite conscious of his surroundings.
He was vaguely aware of rough hands turning him from side to side as they rifled through his clothing, yanking the pistol from his belt — holster and all — and then his knife and wallet. He heard gasps when they found the radio, and the wire neck-loop microphone. The earpiece was inside the hood, and one of them knew enough about communications gear to hike up the cloth far enough to pinch the tiny monofilament hair and pull out the pea-size piece of plastic. They found it all — except the flat battery pack inside the lining of Chavez’s belt — which also contained the tracker he and Clark used to identify every team member’s position for the common operating picture.
Adara would realize he was missing soon, and when she let Clark know, he’d bring the cavalry. Chavez smiled reflexively, despite the searing pain in his head. It would be epic. He just hoped he was still alive to see it.
Michelle Chadwick found an open parking spot along 15th Street, across from Washington-Liberty High School — a lucky break for this time of morning, when joggers and cyclists flocked to the Custis Trail before they went to work. The school wasn’t far from her condo. She swam at the aquatics center there three days a week to burn off the stress of her job, not to mention the butter-pecan ice cream she scarfed down at least five nights a week. She skipped the pool this morning, in favor of a run. It was as good a place as any for a private conversation with that bastard David Huang.
The meeting was set for six a.m. Unable to find anything close to sleep, she’d arrived at five-thirty. His Range Rover was already there, three cars back from her. That made sense. He’d want to get there early, check out the location for surveillance and whatnot. He, or more likely someone who worked with him, was probably watching her now. Chadwick was not a spy, but she was sneaky, and that was the same thing, wasn’t it?
She sat for several minutes after she parked, finally banging on the steering wheel with both hands in an effort to settle herself before she opened the door. She and Huang had run together before, on this same trail. He’d complimented her tights then, saying he liked how they showed off her legs. She’d worn them again today, hoping they might throw him off balance. She felt exposed and stupid for it now.
The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but it promised to bring its sticky heat in just a few more hours. Having grown up in the deserts of Arizona, she found it impossible to understand how D.C. could be so muggy and chilly at the same time. She debated throwing on a light jacket from her trunk, but decided she’d let her hatred of Huang warm her until the run heated her up.
The Custis Trail generally followed Interstate 66 east and west. Chadwick dispensed with her usual stretching and headed east, toward the Potomac and Downtown Washington, D.C. Much of the trail ran between the highway and residential areas, but the half-mile or so that lay ahead of her cut through a semi-secluded greenbelt. They’d share the trail with other runners and cyclists, but, for the most part, she and Huang would be able to speak freely.
Chadwick hated running for the first couple of minutes of every workout. It took a while for her joints to warm up. Slowly, with each gliding step, her lungs and legs began to call an uneasy truce and started working together. After that she fell into an enjoyable pace. Still twilight, the trail through the greenbelt was shadowed and foreboding, made even more so because of this shitstorm she’d brought down on herself. She padded along glumly, dreading the thought of seeing David Huang’s face. Even the earthy root-beer smell of sassafras that grew alongside the trail failed to cheer her up.
He was bent over, tying his shoe, when she saw him, wearing unremarkable gray sweats, nothing like the running shorts he’d worn when he was trying to impress her. He wore a fanny pack, too, like a retired tourist or federal agent might wear. He’d never worn one before, probably started so he could carry a gun. Smart, because since that day at the restaurant, she’d felt herself constantly overwhelmed with the desire to claw his eyes out every time she had to look at his face. He glanced up when he heard her shoes on the pavement, his brow knit into a stern line — like a father waiting up for a daughter who had come home from a date smelling like rum and Coke.
She kept running and he fell in beside her.
“You would be advised,” he said, “to let me know more quickly when you come into possession of this type of information in the future.”
