Against All Enemies by John Gilstrap Page A

wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter Eight
    “V ictor Carrington,” the man said as he took the seat next to Ian. “You look frightened. Don’t be.”
    Victor Carrington was Ian’s avatar on the Uprising boards. Alternatively, he called himself the Commander. “What would I have to be frightened of?” Ian said. He thought he’d pulled off the causal disinterest thing pretty well.
    The man visually scanned the inner circle around them, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “I think that high treason would be a good start,” he said. “Most people I know in your line of work get jumpy at that one.”
    Ian felt an icicle form in his chest. He chose to say nothing.
    “David Little,” the man said, offering his hand. “Sorry to be so confrontational, but I wanted to make sure I had your attention.”
    Reflexively, Ian accepted the man’s handshake. “I don’t . . .” His voice trailed away.
    “I know,” Little said. “It’s a tough thought. Life imprisonment. Death penalty. It’s a lot to absorb.”
    “Why are you here?” Ian managed to ask.
    “I’m going to convince you to take a walk with me. If only as an alternative to the above.”
    “Where are we walking to?”
    Little allowed himself a smarmy smirk. “Wherever I take you. I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but sometimes there are no delicate ways to say something. If it helps, I think you will find the trip to be a worthwhile investment of your time.”
    “Who are you really?”
    “I don’t have the authority to tell you that,” Little said. “And whatever conclusion you can draw from that statement will no doubt take you very close to the answer.”
    Ian’s brain worked the problem in a second. The guy had a name—or at least a pseudonym—but he had no authority to offer more. Put that in context with the thick neck and the fact that he didn’t bring a contingent of cops with him, and Ian’s instincts brought him to some form of covert operator. What he didn’t know—and apparently wouldn’t know until the appointed time—was for which agency. “You have my undivided attention,” he said.
    “Right answer,” Little said. “Really, this is good.”
    No one could possibly understand the garbled nonsense that poured from the loudspeaker, but Ian knew from experience that they were at the Rosslyn station, and when Little rose from his seat, so did he. Like every other corner of Washington, DC, and its surrounding suburbs, Rosslyn, Virginia, was the repository for a lot of spooky activity. Crystal City in Arlington housed much of the Navy, the farther-flung suburbs of Fairfax and Chantilly and Centreville housed the really scary parts of the CIA and the National Reconnaissance Office, and the really, really scary stuff was in far-flung areas of western Virginia and eastern Maryland. That left Rosslyn with the lesser-terrifying elements of a dozen different alphabet agencies. In his mind, Ian imagined that each of the long-term leases for those agencies was officially registered to Acme Greeting Card Company.
    Little said nothing as he led the two-person parade out of the Metro car and up the escalator to the concrete canyon that defined this northernmost part of Northern Virginia. Ian squinted against the sunshine and pulled to a halt as they stepped out onto the sidewalk on Wilson Boulevard.
    “Your head’s in the wrong place,” Little said, apparently reading Ian’s thoughts. “You’re thinking that you’re somehow being kidnapped, or led away against your will. What you should be thinking is that you’re very, very close to achieving your dream.”
    If that was supposed to make things clearer, it missed the mark.
    “Is the Uprising real or isn’t it?”
    Ian’s insides seized. He knows. He said nothing.
    “Of course we know,” Little said.
    Christ, he can read my mind!
    “Relax. We’re on your side.”
    “My side of what?” Ian said, floating a bluff. “And who’s we? ”
    Little chuckled. “The first