CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Make a right up here,” Carver instructed, studying the map open on the tablet in his hands. Two red dots, so close they nearly overlapped into one, showed a position about a mile down the dirt road cutting between two vast Virginia orchards.
The driver, a Division man named Denham, eased the black sports car to the right. “I still don’t get it,” he muttered. “Why’d the CIA declare Zero dead if they think he survived that fall?”
Carver held back his sigh of irritation. Like most of the Division’s ranks, Denham—and his compatriot, Barrett, seated in the back seat—was thick-necked, handy with knife and gun, and unaccustomed to thinking on his own. It was a trait that made them apt soldiers, but made Carver prone to repeating himself.
“Because Agent Zero is smart,” Carver
