He knew it, even before the map came flashing up on the TV screen, a cold feeling gnawing at his insides. The map was only confirmation.
Thirty agents dead.
And Harry was involved. No, he was more than involved. He was at the bottom of it…
The boy hadn’t spoken a word since they’d returned to the vehicles. Hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye.
His own anger was responsible for it, Korsakov realized, eyeing the boy in the rear-view mirror, Viktor’s face illuminated by the pale glow of his laptop. Misplaced anger. If it hadn’t been for Viktor’s insistence on the tracking chip in the beginning, they would have lost their target long before this.
Things looked dark enough as it was. He had gambled and lost with the FBI — and lost another four men in the process. He swore under his breath, trying to remain focused on the road as they sped south, out of the mountains.
He’d underestimated the CIA agent, underestimated his resourcefulness, his capacity for violence. It wasn’t going to happen again.
Inside the pocket of the assassin’s shirt, his cellphone began to vibrate, throbbing with an incoming call. Korsakov let out a long, weary sigh — one hand on the wheel as he plucked the phone from his pocket.
The number was blocked, but he didn’t need to guess at the identity of the caller. He knew. A long moment passed as he stared at the screen, then he slowly pressed the REJECT button.
The time for talk had passed. This mission was taking on a life of its own.
Night landings were something a helicopter pilot tried to avoid. Even with the moon, there were far too many things that could go wrong.
It wasn’t like he had a choice. Nearly four hours after departing from CHRYSALIS, they were over northern Kentucky and bingo-fuel. A helo wasn’t like a plane — you didn’t have a prayer of gliding.
If it hadn’t been for Carol…Harry glanced down at the luminescent screen of Han’s phone. It was a prepaid Tracfone — Internet capable and equipped with GPS. It was Carol who had figured out how to use it to pinpoint their own position — and located the small private airfield to their west. According to the website, they didn’t conduct night operations. It should be deserted.
Harry shut the phone down and pulled his night-vision goggles down low over his eyes, guiding the Sikorsky on a western course. Should be only a couple more minutes.
The landscape shone dark green in the glow of his night-vision, the helo’s downwash buffeting the leafless trees below them.
He eased off on the throttle, deliberately bleeding away airspeed as they closed in. They wouldn’t have time or fuel for a go-round. The airfield had a single runway, running east-west. Just a couple hundred feet, long enough for a Cessna…or a helicopter.
The cyclic came back in his hand, the Sikorsky rising slightly as they came up over the hill overlooking the airfield. Lights. Glare. Pain. Blast it! Harry ripped the night-vision goggles off his eyes, throwing them against the side of the cockpit. The long, slow rotor blades of the Sikorsky began to whip with the sudden movement of the stick and he fought for control of the aircraft, struggling to keep it to a steady airspeed of 55 knots.
The airfield was lit up like New York Harbor on the 4th of July, flares outlining the dirt runway, the headlights of a pickup truck aimed at a Cessna parked near the western end of the strip. Men running back and forth, shadowy forms flickering in and out of the light.
They didn’t have another choice. It was this — or crash in the trees. Harry pulled gently back on the cyclic, flaring the S-55 as they came in, tail-low.
Taking his hand off the collective for the fraction of a moment, he rapped hard on the cover of the co-pilot’s seat. Be ready.
It was his bladder that roused him, but it was the sound of the TV that brought him fully awake.
Reaching for his crutches, David Lay swung himself out of bed, grunting as his feet hit the floor. Losing some weight wasn’t a bad idea.
He’d only been out of bed a couple times since Rhoda had brought him to the trailer. She didn’t think he was ready.
Ready. He pushed open the doorway of the bedroom and tottered out into the hallway. She’d been sleeping on the couch ever since his arrival. There had been a time when that might have been different, but neither of them had been prepared to commit. Once burned, twice shy, as the saying went.
Rhoda was sitting at the table, her back turned to the hallway, a glass of milk in front of her. The channel changed just as he entered the kitchen. “What are you doing up, David?” There were moments when he could have sworn the woman was psychic.
He eased himself forward, bending down to kiss her dark lips as she turned to face him. That was how he remembered her. The smell of pot filled his nostrils and he grimaced. Yes, another of the reasons the relationship hadn’t worked out.
“What were you watching?”
She smiled, gesturing at the TV. “Cooking. Old re-runs of Paula Deen.”
Another time he might have found the response humorous, but not now. “Don’t lie to me, Rhoda,” he retorted, an edge of steel creeping into his voice.
Her gaze faltered and a cold chill seized his heart. Before she could react, the remote was in his hand and he pressed the button for channel return. CNN.
“…the death count is still climbing in West Virginia, with 34 FBI agents now counted among the fatalities. Sources within the administration have confirmed that the ambush of the Hostage Rescue Team was connected with the ongoing search for the rogue CIA agent. If you have information regarding this case, please contact…”
The voice of the anchor seemed to fade away, the room beginning to swirl around him. He felt his fingers grip the edge of the tabletop as he sank back into the chair, burying his face in his hands.
What had he set in motion?
The lights of a pick-up truck pierced the cockpit as Harry guided the Sikorsky to a rolling stop, placing the right side of the helo away from the Cessna and the lights. “Ready?”
Han nodded before ducking back down beneath the seat, disappearing. Harry reached into his jacket and extracted his Colt 1911, screwing a long suppressor into the barrel of the weapon. Who they were dealing with, he didn’t know — but it wasn’t legitimate.
And illegitimate meant people with guns.
He swung his legs out the window of the helicopter and clambered down. The cabin door was already open. Han wasn’t wasting any time.
Footsteps as he rounded the bulbous nose of the Sikorsky. Five men, moving across the runway toward him, their figures backlit by the lights. Amateur hour.
“Who the devil are you?” the leader demanded, a Kentucky twang flavoring his words. He was a big man, heavy. Some people might have said he had a beer belly — it looked more like he had swallowed the keg. “What you doing here?”
Harry smiled, taking in the odds. Five men, three white, two Hispanic. Only one visible weapon, a pistol-gripped Mossberg shotgun, but this was Kentucky.
“My name doesn’t matter,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m not a cop. As for what I’m doing here — just passin’ through. Ran out of fuel.”
The big man took a step closer, running a hand across his beard. At length he shook his head, spewing a viscous stream of tobacco into the dirt. “You sure picked a bad night for it.”
Sammy should be almost ready. Harry inclined his head, measuring the distance between them. “I agree — for you.”