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"It's a hell of a distraction," Cavanaugh agreed.
"'Hell' might be appropriate in this case," the Southern Baptist said.
"Got any leads?"
"Every extreme faction in every country who hates us. Take your pick. These days, there are plenty to choose from. And as for possible ultimate targets, plenty to choose from there, also. For starters, the president."
"We'd better keep moving." Worried about directional microphones, Cavanaugh pointed toward a street next to the park, where traffic accumulated. "Over there. Next to the refreshing smell of automobile exhaust."
"And the noise of car engines?" Jamie asked.
"Hey, what's the harm in a few precautions?"
"You're going to ruin this place for me," Rutherford complained.
They increased speed toward the street.
"How did the government protectors die?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Sniper rifles, remote-controlled bombs, car ambushes."
"No bladed weapons?"
"A few, but no pattern. Nothing like what happened to your GPS operators."
"Then why was GPS singled out for that kind of weapon?" Jamie wondered.
"Last night, when I was studying the printouts of my former missions--" Cavanaugh breathed quickly as he ran. "--I couldn't find any client who might want to kill me because of things I knew about him. But the idea of knives reminded me of somebody."
"Who?" Rutherford asked.
"A former GPS agent. Can you use your Bureau resources to get a profile of a man named Carl Duran? And while you're at it, do a deep background check on Gerald Brockman, Kim Lee, and Ali Karim."
"But aren't they--"
"The top officers in GPS. Something's wrong there. Maybe it's got nothing to do with what's going on, or maybe it's got everything to do with it. Either way, I need to find out."
Chapter 10.
"Who's Carl Duran?" Jamie asked, lying next to Cavanaugh on a motel bed.
"Bad news." Preoccupied, Cavanaugh removed the magazine from his pistol and pulled back the slide, letting Jamie see that the firing chamber was empty. "Clear?"
"Clear."
He pressed the release lever, causing the slide to snap forward. Then, as was the habit of many operators, he practiced raising the pistol and lining up its sights. It was the equivalent of fingering worry beads. "Carl Duran and I went through Delta Force training together."
Jamie was propped against pillows the same as Cavanaugh was. She removed the magazine from her handgun, then pulled back the slide. "Clear?"
"Clear."
She too practiced aiming. The pistol came with a wide-notched rear sight that had a white dot on either side to encourage focusing. The front post had a similar, easy-to-distinguish white dot that made sighting easy.
"Some people have a misguided notion about special-operations perso
"And Carl Duran didn't?"
"He almost got kicked off Delta Force."
"What was his problem?"
"Special operators are attracted to the profession because they enjoy the rush of taking risks. You might even say they're addicted to it. They crave the satisfaction of knowing they were in danger and had the strength and determination to survive."
Cavanaugh thought a moment, remembering Carl. "Special operators are also attracted to the profession because they like the reinforcement of belonging to an elite group. There's no place for a grandstander in a special-ops unit. As the old joke goes, there's no 'I' in 'team.' For most special operators, the bond they feel for their group is greater than what they feel for their family. They get a powerful satisfaction from knowing that they and their teammates survived unimaginable dangers, that they're among the most special human beings in the world, and that they can count on each other for support, even if it comes to dying for each other."
"Carl Duran was a grandstander?"
"He wanted to prove he was better than anybody else. For him, everything was a contest--not with himself, which is the way Delta wants it, but with everybody in his unit. He had to be superior. The best operator. The best gunfighter. And he had to make sure everybody knew it. Even when he was a kid, he acted that way."
Jamie quit aiming her pistol and looked at him. "You make it sound like . . ."
"I went to high school with him in Iowa."
"But you told me you were raised in Oklahoma."
"Until my dad beat my mom and me once too often, and she took me and left him. Eventually, we landed in Iowa City, where she got paralegal training, went to work for an attorney, and married him."
"How is it we need to be ru
"Why should I talk about what I want to forget?"
"Your stepfather wasn't kind to you, either?"
"He didn't know how to react to a child. He was a better husband than he was a father. Let's put it this way, he disapproved of mistakes, and in his eyes, I made a lot of mistakes. But he didn't raise his voice. He didn't beat me. He didn't beat my mother or the daughter my mom and he had. By comparison with what we'd been through, he was a saint. I was grateful that he gave us a home. Still am. Even so, I did my best to stay out of his way. When it came to ster