Free Alien Hunter: Underworld by Whitley Strieber

shared, there was a lot of life lived together, friends as they were who were also enemies, lovers longing for each other across a gulf of conflicting agendas.
    â€œWe’re on a strict schedule,” she said.
    They rode to the airport in his car. He drove fast; he took chances. He liked to hear her yell at him, and she obliged him, saying he was going to lose his license, she’d see to it, on and on. Just made him drive faster. With this car and his reflexes, it wasn’t dangerous, and with no strange cargo to hide, things like tickets didn’t matter. Often enough, they got written, but the same hand that protected him from all other official harm made them go away. Her hand.
    He said, “As I said, I got three good kills.”
    She said nothing.
    They’d been given an excellent plane, not one of the cramped puddle jumpers he was used to. There was a private cabin, behind it an office and a small press unit. To the rear was a galley.
    â€œImpressive.”
    â€œYou could afford your own jet.”
    â€œNot interested.”
    â€œYour frequent-flier miles, I know.”
    â€œI haven’t been on a vacation in a real long time. I dream about it. First class, all the trimmings, on my way to somewhere sweet. Barbados. Ever been to Barbados?”
    â€œCourse not. My salary won’t take me that far.”
    â€œDon’t hand me that. You’re just like me, a rich dilettante. What I’ve become.”
    â€œYou’ve accepted your family. That’s not being a dilettante. And I’m not rich.”
    â€œSenator’s daughter. Senators are rich.”
    â€œThe senator is comfortable. That is not rich.”
    She called her dad “the senator,” her mother Mrs. Glass. She didn’t talk about it much, but it didn’t sound like a happy home. She had kept that powerful last name, though, even through her marriage.
    Once the plane was at altitude and heading into the sunset, the medics took over.
    â€œSir,” the doctor said uneasily, “I’m afraid I’ve only got some topical anesthetic. I didn’t realize—”
    â€œHe doesn’t need anesthetic,” Diana said. “He’s not like us.” He heard pride in her voice. He liked that.
    While they stitched away, he smelled steak cooking, and when they finally let him up, he found an exceptional meal waiting in the office, which had been reset as a dining room. A general’s plane was not Air Force One, but it had first class pretty well beat. He gestured toward the meal. “How many taxpayers did it take to pay for all this?”
    â€œNone. Or rather, one. I paid for it.”
    â€œThe poor senator. Did you leave him to starve?”
    â€œYes.”
    He picked up the wine. “An ’83 Romanée-Conti? That’s worth a trip to Barbados at least. First class.” Then he had another thought. “Is this my last meal?”
    â€œAny meal could be your last. Damn you, Flynn.” Her voice broke. She choked back her emotions. “What if they tell us something like they’ll kill the whole planet unless we kill you?”
    â€œI’d kill me.”
    She closed her eyes briefly, then looked away from him.
    They ate quietly for a few minutes.
    â€œThis spread looks to me like it’s meant for a celebration. Was something good supposed to happen, and you forgot to tell Transportation that it fell through?”
    She said, “You miss nothing.”
    â€œComes with the job.”
    â€œI’ve often wondered why you were hiding in that little job in Texas. A man like you.”
    â€œIt was a big job, and I wasn’t hiding.”
    â€œI mean, why weren’t you running an oil company or something? Doing something incredible?”
    â€œBeing a cop isn’t incredible?”
    She shrugged, then poured them both wine.
    â€œBy the way, that blocked number. Can’t be located.”
    â€œHow is that