Hicks gave the safety briefing to an airplane full of closed eyelids — warning everyone of possible turbulence on their departure from Dallas.
“We’re looking at a fifty-three-hundred-mile flight,” the first officer said. “Depending on winds aloft, we anticipate eleven hours and thirty-six minutes in the air.”
Chavez, who was seated in the front, nearest the cockpit, opened one eye. He was so exhausted his skin felt like it had been buffed with a belt sander, but as team leader, it was his responsibility to pay attention to the details.
“That’s a long-ass trip. Will we have to stop and refuel?”
“Negative,” Hicks said. “We should be good. We’re well under gross with you guys and full fuel. That gives us a range of better than sixty-six hundred miles.”
“Outstanding,” Chavez muttered. He closed his eyes and pondered the eleven wonderful hours to recharge his depleted internal batteries — but the thought of the long flight made him open them again. “What about you guys?” he said. “You’ve just flown three hours to get here. That puts you in the air…” Chavez shook his head, lack of sleep robbing him of the ability to do even simple math. After several seconds, he finally said, “Nearly fifteen hours. Don’t you have an eight-hour limit?”
Hicks turned and put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone.” He smiled. “Seriously, we’ve thought of that. The autopilot does the heavy lifting, but we’ll take turns napping as needed. We’ve got Provigil up here if it comes down to that.”
Provigil, or modafinil, was a “go pill” medication the Air Force sometimes issued pilots to help them stay alert during critical missions. Hendley Associates pilots rarely used it, but they kept the medication available for times like this.
Chavez started to dream even as he nodded. Unfortunately, he rolled toward his right side and his sidearm dug into his waist. “Well, shit,” he grumbled, pushing the button on his armrest to bring his seat upright.
The Gulfstream rumbled along the taxiway. Lisanne smiled, strapped into the aft-facing seat in front of him.
Chavez coughed, clearing his throat. Sometimes it sucked to be the only working brain in the group. “Heads up!” he said in his best team-leader bark. It came out more like a yawn, but wary eyes flicked open in any case. Jack turned and glared at him, cheek pressed against the leather upholstery of the couch cushion.
“Everybody secure your weapons in the bulkhead storage,” Chavez said. “We’re business folks out for a scouting trip to Argentina. If for some reason we have an unplanned landing in some other country, I don’t want us stumbling around trying to hide our guns at the last minute.” He was about to get to his feet, but Lisanne stood and stopped him.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, giving a serene but serious look. “Not sure any of you should be handling weapons at this point.”
Chavez passed her his M&P Shield. “Many thanks…”
Sidearms were stowed, and Robertson returned to her seat. The Gulfstream began its takeoff roll at five twenty-seven a.m., departing to the southeast and climbing 2,700 feet per minute.
Helen Reid flew the airplane while Hicks worked the radios and tended to other duties on the takeoff checklist.
“Positive rate,” Hicks said, looking at the altimeter just a few moments after they left the tarmac. “Gear coming up.”
The landing gear settled into the airplane’s fuselage with an audible thud, but Ding Chavez didn’t hear a thing.
It was almost six a.m. by the time Caruso and Clark made it back to the Omni Hotel with Gavin Biery in tow. They helped him get his duffel and the big Pelican case full of computer gear up to his room, which was directly across from Caruso’s. Biery had slept on the flight and promised to get right to work on the USB drive.
Biery ordered breakfast from room service and kicked the others out almost immediately. Dom walked toward his own room, but Clark turned at Biery’s door, passing a folded scrap of paper and whispering some sort of instructions. The computer guru listened, rubbing his unshaven face. He mumbled a couple questions and then shut the door, still looking at the paper as he did.
“What was that about, boss?” Caruso asked, keeping his voice low.
“Better you don’t know,” Clark said. “For now, anyway.”
“You say so.” Caruso shrugged. “Okay, what’s the plan?”
“You link back up with Special Agent Callahan,” Clark said. “See what else she found out from Eddie Feng. Maybe his near-death experience has shaken loose something of value.”
“Copy that,” Caruso said, looking at his watch, wishing for — and knowing he wouldn’t get — a few more hours of sleep. “What are you going to do?”
“I think I’ll go for a drive,” Clark said.
Caruso narrowed his eyes. He knew that look. “Need help with anything?”
“Nope,” Clark said.
The elevator chimed and both men turned out of habit to check for threats. Caruso shot a glance at Clark when Kelsey Callahan stepped into the hallway holding two paper cups of coffee. Shoulder-length hair hung loose around her shoulders, still wet and darker red from a morning shower.
“Hey, Dom,” she said, offering him one of the coffees. “You never gave me your cell number, so I decided to drop by and let you know I was getting an early start.” She raised an eyebrow, looking at Clark. “Want to introduce me to your friend?”
Clark extended his hand. “John,” he said.
“John…?” She grinned, trying to coax out the rest of his name.
“That’s right.”
“I have two names,” she said. “Kelsey Callahan, FBI.”
“That sounds like three names,” Clark said, smiling. “Dom’s told me about you.” He turned to Caruso. “Listen, it was good to talk to you. We’ll catch up later.” He turned to go, speaking over his shoulder as he walked away. “Nice to have met you, Kelsey Callahan, FBI.”
Callahan watched Clark disappear into an elevator before turning back to Dom.
“I don’t remember telling you where I’m staying,” Caruso said. The look of surprise was evident on his face. “You must have some friends in pretty high places to find that out.”
Callahan smirked. “Do you even remember who we work for? And anyway, you’re the one with friends in high places, getting dropped on me like this. Is John one of them?”
“He’s a normal low-places friend,” Caruso said.
“Well, your friend looks like he bites the heads off baby birds for lunch.”
“Nah,” Caruso said. “He’s harmless. He’s just got one of those… resting bird-eating faces.”
Callahan took a sip of her coffee. “I thought we were past all that.”
“What’s the news on Eddie Feng?” Caruso asked, hoping to steer the subject away from John Clark. “Did he pull through?”
Callahan sighed. “Seems one of the corrections officers gave him a near lethal dose of the same stuff that killed Prince.”
“Fentanyl?” Caruso said.
“Yep. Looks like he put up a fight, but the detention officer still got enough injected to knock him out. Murderous bastard decided to do the rest of the job with a dead-leg hanging. He hog-tied Feng and ran a noose from his neck to his ankle, hoping to let the weight of his own leg cut off the circulation to his brain and kill him. Lucky for Feng, another DSO showed up and cut him loose. Paramedics gave him enough Narcan to revive a horse, but he’s in pretty bad shape from the noose.”