“Not this time,” King said. “I can’t be in two places at once. All I need is a few seconds.”
The shuffling shoes came closer, this time complimented by a pair of equally hushed voices speaking Italian. “When I tap you, count to three Mississippi, then go. Don’t hold back.”
“Okay.”
The tap came thirty seconds later, when the sound of footfalls was only a few feet away, just on the other side of the foundation they were hiding behind. Pierce counted.
One Mississippi …
Two Mississippi …
TWENTY-FOUR
Chaco Province, Argentina
THE SHOULDER-DEEP WATER of the Negro River slowed Bishop and his team, but also helped quiet their approach. It didn’t, however, help the nerves of the team following his leadership. Designated Bishop’s Pawns One through Five, they followed his orders without question. But that didn’t stop them assigning two men to watch the water for crocodiles. Not that their night vision goggles could penetrate the river, which really was as black as its name implied.
During the daylight hours Bishop and his team, dressed as tourists, split into three teams of two, casually seeking out a sixty-seven-year-old man named Miguel Franco and his forty-five-year-old son, Nahuel. The pair lived together in downtown Resistencia with the single son supporting his out-of-work father.
Casual interviews with neighbors, local bars, shops, and churches revealed that the pair often spent nights camped out on the Negro River where the father would make up for his unemployment by catching a haul of fish, sometimes enough to sell at the local market.
Bishop could feel several of those large fish swimming circles around his legs. He pushed through them, closing on the campfire that revealed the team’s two targets sitting on a small sandy beach, lines cast and fishing rod handles buried in the sand. A half-finished twelve-pack of beer sat between them, which complicated the fact that a shotgun, presumably for warding off crocs, lay in the younger man’s lap. He had no doubt that anything bigger than a fish emerging from the water would be greeted by an explosion of lead pellets.
Making a mental note to wait for the men to move away from the firearm, Bishop paused by a log as the team gathered behind him. He turned to whisper the game plan when a snapping branch somewhere in the jungle cut through the cacophony of nighttime calls.
His first thought was that a jaguar or croc might be stalking the group, but they were hidden from the shoreline by thick vegetation. It could just as easily be a wild boar … or a person.
The team fell silent as one, all listening for another sound. For thirty seconds there was nothing but silence. Then it was broken by the elder Franco’s loud, drunken laugh. As Miguel’s amusement dulled to a chuckle Bishop again heard movement.
This time he brought his handgun up and aimed it at the jungle. Timing an approach to coincide with surrounding noise was a hunting technique used by only one predator on the planet.
Man.
TWENTY-FIVE
Taipei, Taiwan
KNIGHT LOOKED GOOD dressed in black slacks and a dark blue button-down silk shirt. As he approached Mackay Memorial Hospital, flanked by two of the five Delta operators assigned to him, he wore a large grin required by his cover. As a wealthy benefactor looking to donate money to the hospital and to the Presbyterian church that ran it, the plan was to tour the facility where he would meet an exceptional ninety-five-year-old man, Walis Palalin, who for the past twenty-five years had spent three days a week volunteering in the children’s ward. Apparently, the man had lost his son in this very hospital twenty-five years ago and had been paying tribute to him ever since.
Upon meeting the man, Knight would offer a million-dollar donation—if Mr. Palalin would accompany him to a dinner. Right then and there. No delays. Just the two of them and Knight’s two security guards.
Once in their vehicle, getting the man onto a ship and back to America would be a simple thing … if the man’s health didn’t become a factor. He had a clean bill of health and could very well live another ten years—perhaps longer—but the emotional jolt of being kidnapped could undo the man’s well-being fairly quickly, especially if he was on any medication, which is why the missing three members of Knight’s team were rummaging through Palalin’s apartment looking for any medications or supplements that the man needed.
The industrial hospital wasn’t exactly inviting-looking. Surrounded by the neon glitz of Taipei, it had a depressing facade. But the smiles Knight got from the women he passed on the sidewalk as he approached the front entrance were enough to lift any male hospital visitor’s spirits. Of course, in Taiwan they could be working women, but it was still mid-afternoon, so he doubted it. Ten feet from the concrete staircase leading up to the double-door entrance, he saw a stunning woman. She turned, met his eyes and smiled.
As he returned the woman’s smile, he noted that hers had frozen and become forced. The woman, dressed in a dark gray power suit, turned fully toward him. He noted her open jacket and the two items attached to her belt.
A badge.
And a gun.
With one hand the woman drew her sidearm.
With the other she spoke into a radio Knight hadn’t noticed before.
TWENTY-SIX
Asino, Siberia
THE DISTINCT SMELL of a cow pasture rolled over the open hill and wafted past Rook. Despite being a distasteful odor to many people, it reminded Rook of his home in New Hampshire, where he grew up down the road from a cow farm. He couldn’t see the farm itself, but the smell and distant cattle calls placed the farm somewhere on the other side of the green grassy rise to his left. To the right was a forest of pine and birch trees that was home to bears, reindeer, and, judging from the continuous buzz of chain saws, a thriving forestry business. The odors, combined with the cool mid-morning air, felt invigorating.
As Rook, dressed as a local in dirty work pants and a thick gray wool sweater, walked down the road toward town, his team followed along in the forest, wading through a sea of bright green ferns. Fortunately, the three targets lived on the outskirts of town, in a home that backed up to the forest. Rook would approach from the road, posing as a local in need of car assistance. When he was invited in to use the phone, he would drug the group and his team would abscond with them, each pair carrying one of the two women and one man—all that remained of the Chulym people. A truck hidden two miles away in the forest would transport the group to an airfield where a small plane, operated by a local CIA operative, waited to whisk them (with two landings to refuel) to neighboring Georgia, where a much faster transport would take them to the United States.
It was one of the more complicated and slower extraction plans Rook had seen, but that was to be expected when kidnapping three people from a country that wasn’t exactly on hugging terms with the United States. Quiet and careful was preferred to loud and fast in this case.
A sign ahead, written in Russian, read, “Thank you for visiting Asino. Population 28,000.” Rook quickened his pace, knowing the turn onto his targets’ street was only a mile ahead. He wanted to get this over with and the long trek home started.
The trees on the side of the road shifted under a breeze. A fallen tree caught in the grip of a second squeaked loudly as entwined limbs rubbed against each other. The sudden foreign noise returned Rook’s attention to what he could hear and he noticed something had changed. The cows had fallen silent. Perhaps feeding? But the distant whine of chain saws had quieted as well.