General Prentice Davy didn’t wear his uniform when travelling, there were just too many people who wanted to do the military harm, terrorists, fanatics, gun-nuts, and your everyday madmen. He did, however, wear a suit, an immaculate and very expensive suit, and he smoothed it down as he stood on the steps of the Pentagon and waited for his car to negotiate the security gate and pull up in front. He waited a moment for his driver to get out and open the door, but he seemed to be slow today, so he got in.
The Lincoln sedan moved off slowly while General Davy fastened his seatbelt and settled back into the soft leather.
“Is there a problem, Sam?”
The sedan stopped a little short of the exit onto the street, and the driver half twisted in the seat and looked back. “Sam’s sick today.”
General Davy opened his briefcase. “What’s wrong with him?” He almost cared.
“Lead poisoning.”
The general looked up and began to form the question, but froze when he saw the silenced gun pointing back from between the seats.
“Nothin’ personal,” said the driver.
Davy started to move, but it was pure instinct because there was just nowhere to go. The gun coughed twice, and he slumped sideways against the window. Asleep to anyone bothering to look. The driver eased the car slowly into traffic and headed for the airport—the general’s original destination, but now just somewhere to dump his body.