Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(5)

He sat back in his leather seat. Were they headed for an air force base or FBI helicopter landing pad? After all, their boss, Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, hadn’t yet issued him a plane ticket to Denver. Maybe they were flying him in a government or military jet—it was the least the Bureau could do, given the shit he’d been through. Unlikely: now that word would soon be coming through of Pickett’s promotion to Associate Deputy Director, he was probably too busy packing his own bags for D.C. to think of anything else.

“Hey, Pendergast,” he said.

Pendergast glanced up.

“I thought we were headed for Miami International.”

“That had been my assumption.”

“Then what’s going on?” He looked out the window again. “Looks like we’re hell and gone from Miami.”

“Indeed. It would appear that we have overshot the airport.”

At these words, Coldmoon became aware of an uncomfortable tickling sensation—something like déjà vu, but distinctly more unpleasant—manifesting itself in the rear of his brain. “Overshot? You’re sure we aren’t coming back around for a landing?”

“If we were actually headed for Miami, I doubt we’d be over Palm Beach right now.”

“Palm Beach? What the hell—?” Coldmoon looked down. Another narrow barrier island covered with mansions was passing below—including one particularly large and garish pseudo-Moorish compound their shadow was crossing over at present.

He sat back again, momentarily dazed by surprise and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I confess I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Pendergast.

“Perhaps you should ask the pilot,” Constance said without looking up from her book.

Coldmoon glanced at the two with faint suspicion. Was this some kind of joke? But no—his gut, which he always trusted, told him they were as in the dark as he was.

“Good idea,” Coldmoon said, unbuckling his harness and standing up. He made his way forward from the passenger compartment to the cockpit. The two pilots, with their headsets, khaki uniforms, and brown hair cut to a similar regulation length, could have been twins.

“What’s up?” he asked the pilot in command in the right seat, cyclic between his knees. “We’re supposed to be going to Miami.”

“Not anymore,” the PIC said.

“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”

“Just after we took off, we got new orders from dispatch. We’re to proceed to Savannah.”

“Savannah?” Coldmoon echoed. “You mean, in Georgia? There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” said the PIC. “The orders came from ADC Pickett himself.”

Pickett. That son of a bitch. Standing in the doorway of the cockpit, Coldmoon thought back to the final conversation they’d had with the assistant director before taking off. I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah…Pickett must have waited until they’d taken off, then ordered the flight to be diverted.

Of all the backstabbing, ungrateful…Well, Coldmoon had already been suckered into taking on a second case with Pendergast and his unorthodox ways—it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.

“Turn the chopper around,” he demanded.

“Sorry, sir,” the PIC replied. “I can’t do that.”

“You got shit in your ears? I said, turn this chopper around. We’re going to Miami.”

“Respectfully, sir, we have our orders,” the other pilot said. “And as it happens, they’re the same as yours. We’re headed to Savannah.” And taking his hand from the collective, he unzipped his light windbreaker just enough to display the butt of a handgun peeping out from a nylon shoulder holster.

“Agent Coldmoon?” It was Pendergast, speaking from what seemed like a long distance away. “Agent Coldmoon?”

Coldmoon wheeled around, lurching slightly with the motion of the helicopter.

“What?”

“It’s obvious we can do nothing about this unexpected course of events.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Coldmoon blazed. “We’re going to Savannah. Frigging Savannah, when I should be on a flight to—”

“I did indeed hear,” said Pendergast. “Something most unusual must have occurred, to say the least, for Pickett to abduct us like this.”

“Yeah. He’s being promoted and, as a result, has become even more of an asshole. What the hell are we going to do?”

“Under the circumstances, I would suggest nothing—except sit down and enjoy the view.”

But Coldmoon wasn’t about to let it go. “This is bullshit! I’ve got a mind to—”

“Agent Coldmoon?”

It was Constance who spoke. She said his name in her usual deep, strangely accented voice, without any particular emphasis.

Coldmoon fell silent. This woman was capable of saying, or doing, anything.

As it happened, she did nothing but gaze mildly at him. “You might find it calming to consider just how paradoxical this situation is.”

“What do you mean?” Coldmoon said angrily.

“I mean, how often do you suppose an FBI agent finds himself being kidnapped by his own people? Aren’t you intrigued as to why?” And with that, she returned to her reading.