Slaton didn’t need the alarm after all.
His eyes cracked open and were immediately drawn to the red LEDs of the bedside clock: 5:25. The first thing he did was check his phone. He saw one message from Sorensen, received thirty minutes earlier: No changes. Expect updates for follow-on assignment after completion.
On the former he was encouraged; no changes meant fewer complications. The “follow-on assignment” he would worry about later.
He showered and dressed in the pilot’s uniform, adding a base layer beneath that would work with his tactical clothing. He reached the lobby twenty minutes early, purchased a bagel and a cup of coffee at the hotel coffee shop.
Thomas was ten seconds early—the kind of precision Slaton appreciated. Same van, same chauffeur’s uniform, same loading drill at the tailgate. They were soon running smoothly through early morning traffic.
“No changes,” Slaton said.
“I was told the same. The road we are going to access is rarely used. It’s a gravel path that was built during construction. There are no gates or barriers, and the groundkeepers still use it occasionally for course maintenance. For that reason, I plan to circle the area after dropping you off. I designed a route that will never put me more than five minutes from the pickup point.”
“Perfect,” Slaton said. “I should be back at the rendezvous point between 8:30 and 8:50. That assumes they start on schedule, and the exact timing will depend on how fast they’re playing.”
“If you give me ten minutes notice it will simplify things.”
“All right. I’ll send a text ten minutes prior to pick-up. As a backup, if you don’t hear anything by 8:40, plan to be at the exfil point at 8:50.”
Thomas said that he would. Slaton sent him an innocuous text to verify comm integrity, and Thomas did the same in reverse.
“Okay,” Slaton said, “time to gear up.” He shrugged off his pilot’s coat and began loosening his tie.
“They flew away in a seaplane,” Sorensen said.
“A seaplane,” Matt Gross repeated.
Sorensen held steady, her hands clasped coolly on the conference table. They were sitting in a minor White House briefing room she had never seen before. Gross had been waiting for her, expecting an update on the situation. The vice president was not in attendance, but Sorensen knew he would be filled in.
She had spent the first few minutes going over Slaton’s progress in Macau. Satisfied everything was going to plan, Gross diverted to the subject of how Slaton’s family had gone missing. CIA director Eraclides, apparently, had forwarded that gem.
“To begin with,” Gross said skeptically, “what’s a seaplane doing in Idaho?”
“There are a lot of lakes in those parts. Including one near Slaton’s home.”
Gross looked unconvinced.
Sorensen realized a few more facts would be required. “I spoke at length with the leader of the protection team. He said they heard an ATV crank up, so they went to investigate and found the house empty. They’d seen a seaplane fly past minutes earlier, so they put two and two together. Your team eventually found the ATV abandoned near a lake.” The word your was perfectly deliberate, and nothing short of an accusation. She didn’t know precisely how the changing of the guard had come to pass, but she knew Gross and Eraclides had conspired to make it happen. She hoped to imply that it was their move that had precipitated Christine and Davy’s disappearance. Conveniently omitted was the fact that Sorensen’s own fiancé was the getaway driver.
“Will we be able to track down this airplane?” Gross asked.
“I’m working on that, but it won’t be easy. No one saw the aircraft registration number, and since it was flying through mountainous terrain at low altitude, there won’t be any consistent radar return.”
“Consistent?”
“I’m told there were a few hits on a slow-moving target east of Coeur d’Alene—that’s north of the lake—but we’re not even sure it was the aircraft in question.”
“Could they have gone into Canada?” Gross wondered aloud.
“No telling.”
“Is it possible they’ve been abducted?”
“I doubt that. They obviously drove to the lake of their own volition. I suppose it bears mentioning that Corsair wasn’t happy with the new security situation.”
Gross nodded in agreement. “That’s it then,” he said harshly. “This is all Slaton’s doing.”
“Most likely. But if it was, it’s nothing sinister. He’s only looking out for his family.”
“The man is a loose cannon,” Gross fumed.
“I would agree. But right now he’s a cannon we’re very much counting on. Slaton has pulled America’s ass out of the fire more than once.” She glanced obviously at a clock on the wall. “And in less than an hour, he’s going to do it again.”
The access road was in good shape, a raised gravel roadbed that the van had no trouble negotiating. Slaton and Thomas had already agreed that if they encountered anyone on the property, they would claim Slaton was an environmental consultant performing a survey for Beijing. As covers went, it was soft, but the very mention of the Chinese capital was sure to buy time.
The drop-off point was half a mile from the main road. As the path curved through trees and high brush, the surrounding city disappeared. Slaton concentrated on the terrain. He’d seen countless overheads of the area, but there were always nuances from ground level. They had arrived early enough that he could modify the plan if necessary—possibly alter his ingress route, and take his time scoping out a shooting position.
The road degraded near the end, the van’s chassis groaning over ruts, stones skittering in the wheel wells. Thomas pulled to a stop on a broad parking apron where heavy equipment had probably been staged during the golf course’s construction. On the edges were old railroad ties and unused sections of concrete pipe, grass growing high between them.
Slaton took a final look around, saw no people or vehicles. He gathered his weapon and equipment, and said, “Okay, as briefed.”
“Happy hunting,” Thomas said.
Slaton momentarily locked eyes with his driver. Then he slid outside and disappeared.