Lethal Exposure by Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason

splashed against the rocks. He waved at Bretti, who was too terrified not to wave back. Bretti was back in his car and jockeying into the fast lane in less than a minute.
    “Not enough time as it is,” he muttered while clutching the steering wheel. And I’ve just shot a man over a difference of ten minutes . The embassy can damned well treat me like a VIP for once. And the man was FBI yet! They’ll be crawling all over my ass.
    Racing down embassy row near Lakeshore Drive, Bretti passed stately buildings hidden behind ten-foot wrought-iron and brick fences. Immaculate guard shacks nestled by every gate partially obscured by thick shrubbery. Some embassies were protected with bullet-proof glass windows; others were more inviting, giving an impression of openness—friendly nations, proud and colorful flags. The whole area oozed high society—the kind of life Bretti deserved, not some apartment hole in the burbs.
    Bretti pulled up to the guard gate of the Indian embassy. Inside the shack, a guard took notice and motioned for him to stop. He hadn’t thought what he would say, but he rolled down his window anyway.
    The faint smell of flowers and spice drifted into the car. A curving cobblestoned driveway wound around immaculately kept gardens. Not much like the boring homes around Batavia and Aurora—he would sure as hell be glad to get away from that. But first he had to get through the gate.
    The embassy itself stood behind a fortress of aesthetically pleasing protective buffers—beige flower planters each the size of a small car, thick stone columns, ornate wrought-iron fencing. Unseen among the splendor, Bretti knew sophisticated microwave sensors stood watch over the compound.
    A dark man wearing a white coat and turban, maroon pants, and a long ceremonial sword emerged from the guard shack. The man smiled through a black beard and mustache, but his eyes never lingered on Bretti. Instead, they swept back and forth along the red car for unforeseen threats.
    Bretti recognized him. This was the same guard who had been present the two previous times he had visited the Indian Embassy.
    Placing his hand on the silver hilt of a ceremonial curved sword, the guard smiled tightly. “Welcome to the Indian Embassy, sir. What may I do for you here today?”
    “I’m Nicholas Bretti,” he snapped, irritated that the man didn’t recognize him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Chandrawalia.”
    “Very good, sir.” The guard reached into the shack, pulling out a clipboard. He ran his white gloved fingers down a list. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bretti. You are somewhat late. Would you please park your car outside and enter through this gate?”
    “I have an important . . . delivery for Mr. Chandrawalia. It’s in the trunk.”
    The guard lifted an eyebrow. “You may unload the item here if you please while you park your car outside.”
    “It’s quite bulky and—look,” said Bretti in exasperation, “this is extremely important, and Mr. Chandrawalia is expecting this right away. I’m late as it is, and I’m sure you don’t want to upset anyone else.” Especially me . He felt sweat prickling along his clothes.
    He wondered if the FBI agent’s body had been found yet. His stomach lurched with nausea. My God, he had killed a man, shot him—how many times? Bretti didn’t even know.
    “Why don’t you pick up the phone and call Mr. Chandrawalia. I’m sure he’ll authorize you to let me in with my car.”
    “I will do what I can, but we usually do not go to such lengths to accommodate a guest.” Turning briskly, the guard’s white coat flapped in the air. His eyes continued to scan the street as he spoke to Bretti, as if a horde of terrorists might suddenly appear to storm the embassy. And in Chicago, for God’s sake. Can you believe the security?
    Rapidly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Bretti felt confined. What if someone had seen him leaving Fermilab? He had to get to cover somehow, and the Indians were his