Lethal Force by Trevor Scott Page A

skull. “Only up here.”
    â€œAll right. Now we know what we’re dealing with. We need to get you somewhere safe, make a copy of your work, and store it in a secure location.”
    Now Jake did his best to not screw around with the snowy roads. He couldn’t let his scenario come true, killing this man’s dream. That’s what the practical Jake kept telling himself. The realist within him said he should take the scientist out into the mountains, shoot him, and bury him in a shallow grave. He wasn’t sure if this discovery would render nuclear weapons obsolete, or just make it more likely that politicians would actually use the weapons at some time in the near future. And it could save the government billions of dollars with no need for forward deployment of troops. A moral quandary, Jake thought.

14
    The two men had traveled all day from Washington DC to Montana, touching down at Glacier Park International Airport in Kalispell just before midnight in a lull from the snow squalls earlier in the evening. From there they had rented a huge black Chevy Suburban and driven north to Whitefish, noticed the road block on the southbound lane, and found the rural farmhouse around one a.m.
    Neither of them had guns. Those would be provided by their comrade who was babysitting the scientist. Problem was, they had tried to call their friend after landing and he wasn’t answering his cell.
    Now they sat out front of the farmhouse, their lights on and engine running, a light snow falling across their path. Both of them were prepared for this cold weather, both from their upbringing in Eastern Europe, and from the weather reports they had read before departing.
    The driver grasped the steering wheel with his leather gloves. He had taken off his black watch cap, exposing his completely bald head. He didn’t shave it. He had started losing his hair in his early twenties and in twenty years it was all gone for good.
    The passenger, on the other hand, had a full head of thick, black hair, and it flowed out from his watch cap nearly to his shoulders. Most guessed he grew it long to cover up the scar on the left side of his face that ran from his forehead to below his left ear, the result of a car accident in his youth after too much drinking.
    â€œWhat do you think, Alex?” the driver asked.
    The long-haired passenger shook his head. “I don’t know. Try calling him again, Danko. I don’t want that idiot shooting us thinking we’re someone else. Like he did with that scientist in Oregon.”
    Danko did as he was told, but flipped his phone shut after four or five rings. “Still no answer.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” Alex said. “Call Milena.”
    â€œIt’s the middle of the night in Washington,” Danko said.
    Alex checked his watch. “So what. We are awake, she can be awake. We need her to check the tracker.”
    Danko punched in her number from memory and waited.
    â€œPut her on speaker,” Alex demanded.
    After a few rings, a woman’s voice came from the phone, “This better be good, Danko,” Milena said.
    Alex pulled his friend’s hand closer to him. “It is important.”
    â€œSorry, Alex. I thought it was Danko.”
    â€œYou have us both on speaker phone,” Alex said. “Check the tracker.”
    â€œCertainly.” The sounds of a computer clicking came through the speaker. “Where are you?”
    â€œNot our position,” Alex yelled and shook his head. “The tracker for Jake Adams.”
    â€œI know that, Alex. I was just saying. . .never mind. Okay, I have the two of you in Montana at Bogdan’s last location with the scientist.” She hesitated and then said, “I have Mister Adams traveling at about sixty miles an hour east of Spokane, Washington. Wait.” She clicked on her computer again. “There are no roads there. They must be on a train.”
    Alex let loose