Kilo

 

“Anyone hit?” Alpha demanded as he banked east over the Hudson River.

“Negative,” both Blade and I replied.

Alpha swapped his comms for a headset, then rapidly communicated with ATC before throwing up his mic and issuing orders. “Blade, call our contact at Teterboro. Have him start prechecks on the Gulfstream. Kilo, get November on cleanup at the heliport STAT. Then have him patch in the CIA contact over open frequency.”

Blade beat me to the obvious. “You use the radio, and both of those birds ahead of us will know what the fuck is up.”

“Intentional,” Alpha clipped. “I want them to know we’re coming, and I want to hold our contact to the fire. The asshole didn’t give us an ID on the HVT when he knew damn well who we were dealing with. He can answer to us now over open lines.” The radio squawked, and Alpha flipped his mic down to answer ATC as we skirted restricted airspace.

Blade made his call.

I spoke into my comms as we climbed to a thousand feet. “November, copy?”

“Roger,” November replied as heavy static sounded. “You’re a go.”

“Full sweep at heliport. Alpha off comms. We need the CIA contact patched in over open frequency.”

Another burst of static sounded before I got confirmation. “Copy. Hold.”

“Holding,” I relayed to Alpha as he turned north and pushed the Airbus to full throttle.

“A fucking helo chase,” Blade ground out.

November came back through comms. “Standing by with Alpha’s request. Switch frequencies.” He rattled off the number.

Glancing at Alpha, I repeated the open air-to-air helicopter frequency, hoping like fuck he knew what he was doing. “One twenty-three oh-two-five?”

“Roger,” November confirmed.

Alpha nodded.

I adjusted the radio. “Confirmed.”

“Patching in,” November answered.

I threw on a headset, and the fucking suit’s voice came through the radio transmission. “Airbus November-two-one-one-four-Oscar-Bravo, Foxtrot-Sierra, do you copy?”

Foxtrot-Sierra. Four Seasons. What a fucking tool.

Alpha replied in semi-code. “Foxtrot-Sierra, November-two-one-one-four-Oscar-Bravo. Charlie in sights. Additional cargo on board. Advise.”

The asshole suit paused. “Airbus November-two-one-one-four-Oscar-Bravo, unauthorized cargo?”

My fucking jaw ground as the Sikorsky and the R66 approached Teterboro.

“Foxtrot-Sierra, affirmative,” Alpha replied before warning the fucking suit we were out of time. “On approach to Teterboro. Four minutes.”

November interrupted through comms. “A Learjet 60 charter on the apron at Teterboro just requested to up their slot time and taxi for takeoff. Italian crew, no passenger manifest. The Sikorsky is incoming to its location.”

“Copy,” Blade answered November.

Alpha outright asked the suit fuck. “Foxtrot-Sierra, ground support?”

The asshole didn’t pause this time. “Negative.”

“Copy, Foxtrot-Sierra,” Alpha replied. “We have control.”

The suit fuck lost his shit. “Negative, November-two-one-one-four-Oscar-Bravo! You do not have control. I repeat—”

Alpha flipped the radio to Teterboro’s frequency as the Sikorsky landed. “Teterboro approach, Airbus November-two-one-one-four-Oscar-Bravo requesting clearance for landing.”

I took off the headset and spoke into my comm. “November, what’s the flight plan for that Learjet?”

Static was my only response.

I glanced back at Blade. “You know the range on that Learjet?”

“About twenty-five hundred miles. Why?”

“Calculating.” The Learjet would need two refuels to get to southern Italy. Our Gulfstream would make it in one shot. That bought enough time for a helo transport to get me within range of the Pelorus but not enough time to get a Zodiac out there. Which meant underwater infil and exfil, and remote detonation. I fucking hated remote detonation, especially with an amphibious assault. Not that I was completely against technology—only the added variables that came with it.

Blade tipped his chin past me. “Second bird’s landing. Our options just shit the bed.”

“Only at Teterboro.” The airport was too busy to risk another repeat of the West 30th Street Heliport. Carlos had been ballsy enough to fire at us on the New York public flyway, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t engage at a heavily traveled airport on US soil if he didn’t have to. “You get a hold of Alpha’s guy who works ground control?” I knew the contact moonlighted for AES. He was on payroll for this exact type of scenario. Not that I’d ever paid attention to who it was or bothered to program the number. I hated cell phones almost as much as detonations that weren’t hardwired.

“Yeah,” Blade replied. “He said it’d take him a minute to get to the G650. Not much of a head start on the precheck.”

In my world, fractions of seconds counted. “It’ll be enough. Alpha and I left the Gulfstream fueled up.” I knew where the fuck Carlos was heading.

Blade put it together. “Take the fight to Carlos’s turf?”

“Not his turf, but yeah.”

“Italy?”

“Tyrrhenian sea. Remember the Pelorus?”

“Big fucking yacht owned by a Russian. What of it?”

“Carlos has a boat loaded with arms. Alpha thinks it’s the Pelorus. Nine-figure sale. Going down soon according to the suit we met with earlier.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Blade muttered. “Tell me he’s not selling to the Russians.”

“No intel on who the buyer is.”

“In other words, the CIA dick didn’t know. Shocker.” Leaning back in his seat as Alpha descended, Blade’s gaze cut to the west side of the helo. “How does the redhead tie in?”

“Don’t know.” I followed his glance.

Carlos and his remaining men were spilling out of the R66 like ants. The asshole carrying the redhead got out of the Sikorsky. As his feet touched the apron, his shoulder hit the frame, and he jerked left to compensate. The redhead’s temple slammed into the open door.

I made a fucking vow. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”

“Get in line,” Blade retorted.

We touched down twenty meters from the Sikorsky’s position, but we were too late.

The Learjet was already taxiing with Carlos, his men, and the redhead on board as the crew pulled up the airstairs.

Alpha quickly shut down the helo’s rotors, then tossed his headset as he scanned the apron for trouble. “Let’s move before we have someone on us for this helo.”

Blade glanced toward the row of parked planes where the Learjet had just been. “Where’s the Gulfstream?”

“Across the apron. Brief-term parking was full. We’re in overnight parking.” Alpha flipped a few final switches on the Airbus.

“Fucking great. Oscar Tango Mike.” Blade got out of the helo.

I glanced at Alpha. “Why’d you really use the radio to contact the suit?”

“Because November would record the conversation, and I was testing him.”

I caught up. “You knew he was operating rogue.”

“I suspected.”

Now we had confirmation. “Protocol.” The suit didn’t follow it. “The time warning on our approach that you gave him.” Four minutes or not, the fuck would’ve followed procedure and called it in if he was running this op on the books. There could’ve been a dozen airport security and local law enforcement on those two helos the second they’d landed. They would’ve held them until the CIA could get their asses over here.

“Protocol,” Alpha confirmed. “He didn’t follow it.”

And November caught it on audio to cover our asses. “Cutting the suit out?”

“No need for him now. Let’s retrieve the female and see what’s on that yacht.” Alpha opened his door, but then paused to give me his signature Team Leader look. “Disposal of a hundred million in munitions is no small task.”

No shit. You’d see the explosion from space. But that wasn’t what he was after. Alpha knew my deal. He had copies of my medical and discharge papers. I’d ask where the hell my headspace was at too if I were him right now, but I was getting fucking tired of this tea party. “If I have anything to report, you’ll be the first to know. No need to check in.”

“I am anyway. Not just about the assignment, but also the target it’ll put on your back if we have to compromise taking down Carlos to prioritize the female and the arms.”

“I don’t plan to fucking miss Carlos a second time. Do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then let’s get to that boat first so I can rig it.”

“Copy that.”