The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum

but not quite—that for all his precautions, he would be delayed by a simple mechanical glitch. He inserted the card again; still, it failed to activate the arm. The bored-looking parking attendant came out of his booth, came up to Bryson’s open window, and said, “Let me give it a try, sir.” The attendant inserted the ticket into the machine, but still it was rejected. He glanced at the blue paper ticket, nodded with sudden understanding, and approached the car window.
    â€œSir, is this the same ticket you were issued when you entered?” the attendant asked, handing it back to Bryson.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” Bryson said irritably. Was the attendant questioning whether this was in fact Bryson’s vehicle, whether Bryson might be trying to take someone else’s? He turned to look at the attendant and was immediately bothered by something, some aspect of the man’s hands.
    â€œNo, sir, you’re misunderstanding me,” the attendant said, leaning in. Bryson suddenly felt the cold hard steel of a gun barrel pressed against his left temple. The attendant held a small-caliber, snub-nosed pistol to Bryson’s temple! It was insane! “I’m saying, sir, that I want you to keep both of your hands on the steering wheel,” said the attendant in a low, steady voice. “I’d rather not have to use this thing.”
    Jesus Christ!
    That was it! The hands, the manicured nails—they were the soft, well tended hands of a man who took inordinate care with his appearance, who likely traveled in exclusive, moneyed circles and had to fit in—not the hands of a parking-garage attendant. But the realization had come an instant too late! The attendant abruptly opened the car’s rear door and leaped into the backseat, the gun once again to Bryson’s temple.
    â€œLet’s go! Move it!” shouted the fake attendant, just as the barrier lifted. “ Don’t remove those hands from the wheel. I’d hate to slip, pull the trigger by accident, you know? Let’s go for a little drive, you and me. Get some fresh air.”
    Bryson, having stowed his weapon in his glove compartment, had no choice but to drive out of the garage and onto K Street, following the false attendant’s directions. As the car entered traffic, Bryson felt the gun barrel cut into the flesh of his left temple, and he heard the low, steady, conversational banter of the man behind him.
    â€œYou knew this day was going to come, didn’t you?” the professional said. “Odds are it’ll happen to all of us at some point. You overstep, go a little too far. Push when you should have pulled. Stick your nose into something that’s no longer your business.”
    â€œCare to fill me in on where we’re going?” Bryson said, trying to keep his voice light. His heart hammered, his mind raced. He added, as an aside, “Mind if I put on the news…?” He casually reached out his right hand for the radio knob, then felt the pistol’s barrel slam into his head as the hit man roared, “ Goddamn you, get those hands back on the wheel! ”
    â€œJesus!” Bryson exclaimed as the pain spread. “Watch it!”
    The killer had no idea that Bryson’s Glock was nestled against the base of his spine, in his rear waist holster. But he was not going to take any chances.
    Then how to retrieve it? The hit man—for he was a hit man, Bryson knew, a professional, whether on the Directorate payroll or a contract employee—insisted that Bryson keep his hands visible at all times. Now he had to follow instructions, waiting for a moment of distraction on the part of the hit man. The earmarks were in everything about the man: the confident plan of action; the quick, efficient moves; even the glib speech.
    â€œLet’s just say we’re going someplace outside the Beltway, someplace where a couple of guys can talk freely.”