Free The Silent Man by Alex Berenson

rep. He was nearly forty, and he’d taken a lot of abuse the last two years, but physical therapy and constant exercise and his natural strength had saved him. He still looked like the football player he’d once been, his muscles laced atop one another like illustrations in an anatomy textbook.
    “Come on, sit on my back,” he said.
    “What are you, fourteen? You just showered. Now you’re going to be sweaty again.” Nonetheless she kneeled atop him while he finished another twenty reps. Wells was showing off, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. He was never more endearing than when he was acting like a big kid. And she found touching him this way nearly irresistible. He finished and she stayed on him, not wanting to move.
    “Up,” he said. “You’re going to break me.”
    “You asked for it.” She ran a finger across the sweat on his back. “Come on. Let’s get dressed, go to work. Such as it is.”
     
     
     
    EXLEY’S DODGE CARAVAN was six years old and had a deep dent in its back fender from a tailgating cabbie. Inside, the carpets were grimy and cluttered with broken pens, coins, half-filled bottles of diet soda. Its heaters poured out an indefinable but vaguely unpleasant odor.
    “You ever going to get something nicer?” Wells said. “A seventy-two Pinto, maybe.”
    “Didn’t you used to say that Western materialism disgusts you?”
    “Western materialism? Western? Have you checked out the Indians and the Chinese lately? I give up.”
    “Really?”
    “No, but I make an exception for cars. So sue me.” In fact, Wells had just bought a Subaru Impreza WRX, a turbocharged rice rocket that didn’t look special but could go from zero to sixty in just over four seconds. “Seriously, you’ve got to do something about this thing. It belongs on Pimp My Ride. Maybe I’ll send them a video.”
    “How do you know about Pimp My Ride ?”
    “I’m hip.”
    At that, Exley laughed. “You are many things, John, but hip isn’t one of them.”
     
     
     
    WASHINGTON WAS NOTORIOUS for its traffic, but even by those standards the city was having a miserable morning. Constitution Avenue went bumper to bumper at 18th Street, a full five blocks from the ramp to the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, one of the main routes connecting D.C. and Arlington.
    Wells flicked on the radio only to hear that someone had ditched a car at the end of the bridge, by the exit ramp to the George Washington Parkway. The 14th Street Bridge was messed up, too, thanks to a car fire that had started around 6 a.m. The fire had quickly been put out, but the incident was still being investigated. Wells turned off the radio. “We should have stayed in bed.”
    “Told you so.”
    A Ducati zipped by on the left, a beautiful bike, low and red, sailing through the narrow aisle of asphalt created by the stopped cars in each lane. The driver and passenger were bundled against the cold, wearing thick gloves and black helmets with mirrored face-masks. They peered at the minivan as they rolled by.
    “I believe they’re laughing at us,” Wells said. “That bike is probably worth ten times as much as this thing.”
    “Let them laugh. It’s freezing out there.”
    “If we’d taken my bike we’d be there already.” Harley and Honda sold the romance of the open road in their ads, but cutting through traffic jams was one of the underappreciated pleasures of riding.
    “Who rides a motorcycle when it’s thirty degrees?”
    “You’ve got me to block the wind.”
    “Nothing blocks the wind in weather like this.”
    Wells’s cell phone rang—Steve Feder, who ran their security detail during the day. Feder was riding shotgun in their chase car, a black Chevy Suburban directly behind them. “Should I turn on my flashers, get us out of here?”
    “Not unless there’s something you think we need to be concerned about,” Wells said. He looked back and Feder gave him a little wave, Queen-of-England style.
    “Nothing specific.”
    “Then