Page 31 of Silent Target

“I never answered with one word.”

“Three, then.”

His mouth nearly curves.

I’m beginning to think that almost-smile is as expressive as Caleb McDougal gets.

We reach an old gravel road where a vehicle waits beneath a stand of pine trees.

Calling it a vehicle might be generous.

The aging green pickup has rust covering both doors and duct tape holding one headlight in place.

I stop beside Caleb. “This?”

“It doesn’t attract attention.”

“It looks incapable of attracting movement.”

“It runs.”

“I’ll believe that when it starts.”

He opens the passenger door for me before circling the hood. The engine fires immediately.

I blink.

Caleb looks almost pleased with himself.

“I told you.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.”

“Of the truck?”

“It surprises people.”

“I can see why.”

We drive west as the first streaks of dawn appear on the horizon.

Farmhouses and rolling fields emerge from the mist. In another life, it might be a peaceful morning.

It feels impossible that only hours ago I was walking through Langley believing my greatest concern was an unfinished intelligence report.

Now my agency wants me dead.

Men have fired at me twice.

An entire house has been destroyed.

And I’m riding through Virginia with a former sniper who barely speaks but somehow makes me feel safer than anyone ever has.

I watch him for several miles.

His left shoulder is stiff.