Silent Arsenal. Don Pendleton

was unwrapping a cigar when he spotted the trio of black vehicles rolling his way. They parked curbside in front of the Smithsonian. Government plates, black-tinted windows all around, two unmarked sedans sandwiched a limousine. Doors opened and four suits with earpieces got out, scanned the street, the Mall, before one of them beckoned for Brognola to climb into the limo. The sunglasses were a little much, he supposed, figured the shades for intimidating intent.

      The big Fed crossed Jefferson, squeezed through the doorway, claimed an empty section of cushy seat beside a minibar. The door closed and Brognola found another pair of sunglasses across the well. He had a full head of coiffed black hair, cashmere coat, but beyond that the guy was nondescript. Another civil servant. Yet there was something in his silence, the way Brognola found himself measured, wishing he could see the emissary’s eyes…

      Sunglasses to wingtips, the guy was spook, Brognola concluded.

      “Time is short on this one, Mr. Brognola,” Sunglasses said, producing a thick letter-size envelope stamped with Classified-Eyes only and the presidential seal, handing it to the big Fed. “The fate of the free world and a not-so-inconsequential matter of the possible extinction of the human race may have just fallen into your hands.”

      “LOVE THE ‘Miami Vice’ look, but don’t you think the sunglasses are overdoing it?”

      Lyons pushed the Blues Brothers shades snug up his nose. “What can I say? Your presence is blinding.”

      Cop instincts flaring up, he could see her gears mesh, Susie-Candy wondering how to handle him, but already knowing what problem had walked into her life. All of three seconds looking at her, Lyons heard the bullshit radar in his head blipping off the screen, blond bogey at twelve o’clock.

      She finally took a seat in the booth across from Lyons, blowing smoke his way, glancing around, then crossing a leg, the strap-on pump going back and forth like a piston. The damsel-in-distress look wasn’t about to aid his cause, but Lyons didn’t plan on staying any longer than it took to get the answers he wanted.

      She sipped from a glass of watered-down champagne that Lyons had promised and paid twenty bucks for after slipping a fifty into her garter when she was on stage, shaking it for her coat-and-tie hyenas. A friendly chat, he’d told her, was all he wanted, nursing a beer while she took her sweet time getting over to him, working her platoon of admirers for a few dollars more. Now that she was his for the moment, Lyons felt the resentment and hostility from wannabes—more than likely on the lam from husband and father duties—boring into the side of his head. He wondered how much of her time he could commandeer before she either turned snippy during Q and A or the security kid with the mouth came over to tell Don Ho his money was no good here. He knew he was being watched, every fiber of instinct screaming the softer, kinder approach was probably just a dream.

      Lyons gave it a few seconds before he cut to the chase, treated Candy to a smile that would have come from the heart under other circumstances. The frilly one-piece Roaring Twenties get-up did little to hide a package Lyons surmised lightened many a fat wallet, but the painted face was already showing wear and tear around the eyes from all-night shenanigans. He figured a few more years of life in the fast lane and she’d look every bit the jaded, used-up whore she was acting. Well, he was no one to judge character flaws, and so far he was unmolested by the security quartet. Still, something felt wrong, a lurking menace in the air, and he wondered who was about to do the fishing. A check of his six, and the guy he figured for either the manager or the owner still had the evil eye aimed his way, ready to march out the troops.

      “Who’s the guy over there with the bad perm, looking all mean and surly?”

      “The owner.”

      The way she answered, sure she was in control, Lyons knew he was on the clock. He produced the photo Evans had given him, laid it on the table. It was a shot of the daughter in the saddle of her horse back at the ranch. She appeared relaxed, content enough in the photo, a beauty like Evans claimed, but there was something forced in the expression that told Lyons she wasn’t the happiest camper in Idaho. Chalk it up to youthful disillusionment maybe, but Lyons had seen something more than suppressed rebellion. The truth was, he knew if he discovered Evans had lied about any abuse, he was prepared to walk away. These days, he thought, there was an epidemic of children being savaged, scarred for life by adults, if they weren’t outright murdered. In all good conscience he knew he wouldn’t be a party to returning Evans’s daughter to a torture chamber of psychological and physical abuse if that happened to be the case.

      “Tell me where I can find Dee-Dee.”

      She laughed, nervous eyes darting around, body language a stone wall of defiance.

      “You think this is funny, Susie? She’s sixteen, that by itself means I could get this place shut down, then you’d be out of a job, on the street, probably hooking, unless you’re working the johnson on someone’s husband, or pimping for some scumbag takes your money for crack.”

      “Kiss my ass.”

      “I’ll take a rain check.”

      Lyons read the sudden fear in her eyes, but sensed it wasn’t about being unemployed as she made another roving search of the crowd.

      “Look at me, Susie.”

      She did, the cigarette trembling in her hand. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

      “Maybe. If that’s true, why?”

      She blew smoke in his face. “You’re a cop, like her old man. I can tell, all cops have this look…”

      “Was a cop. I’m not interested in your psychoanalysis of a job I’m sure you’ve ever only been on the wrong side of.”

      “Touché. So, you a friend of his? A private detective? What?”

      “I’m just some guy he used to know and he asked a favor.”

      She grunted, choosing her words. “Loneliness.”

      “What?”

      Lyons watched as she paused, thought about something, the tough-street act almost fading away. “Look, she’s a sweet kid, I like her, I’m her only real friend. All she needed was a friend, you know.”

      “Who doesn’t.”

      “You want some answers, Miami, listen.” Another look past Lyons, then she went on. “Dee-Dee was always kind of sad. She spent most of her time alone, but it was more than me feeling sorry for her. She has what I call a special heart, an innocence she deserves to keep, something I lost a long time ago.”

      “Oh, I’m sure she’ll stay special working here.”

      “It’s all an act, Miami. It isn’t some free-for-all whoring you might think, like hand jobs under the table.”

      “Girl has to make a living, that it?”

      “Dee-Dee deserves a lot more out of life than small-town Nowhere, U.S.A., and she knew it. How’s that for psychoanalysis?”

      “And so you come along and offer her the Promised Land.”

      She ignored the remark, went on, “She wrote poems, pretty good ones, and told me how her father didn’t like that. He actually tore them up one day in front of her, told her he wasn’t going to stand by and watch her dream her life away. Might as well called her a nobody. I’d say that’s reason to want to leave home—wouldn’t you?—someone reaches in and rips your soul out. She never wanted to leave Los Angeles in the first place.”

      Lyons resisted the tug at his heartstrings, but knew he failed.

      “Yeah, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

      “Telling me she ran away with you, her mentor, because she missed the big-city lights?”

      “If you’re asking did her old man sleep with her, the answer is no. But he’s a drunk, and he can be mean, and he’s a control freak. As far as I know, he never hit her, either.”

      “I