He knew he needed to be exceptionally careful. He could have shot Dante through the vehicle’s windshield, but that would have served no purpose and would rob them of whatever intel Dante might possess. How to tackle the situation? But when he saw Dante throw the truck into reverse, his mind was made up for him. He still could not get his head around everything that had happened to him in the last several days—being drugged, becoming some kind of experiment for the NSA, and, most mysterious of all, having Whitman reverse the effects. Nothing made sense to him, but then, in war, nothing ever did. Time to put one foot in front of the other and not look back. He sighted, blew the right front tire. Pain shot through his rehabbing shoulder, and he gritted his teeth. Funny. It hadn’t bothered him at all until Whitman’s ministrations had brought him back down to earth. The truck groaned like a mortally wounded beast, sinking down into the soft ground. Flix was up and running as Dante began to climb out of the vehicle.
