Just after the Gulfstream V touched down at the Fort Smith Regional Airport, the pilot announced that the local time was 10:20 a.m. Max Garcia had just finished resetting his watch for the Central Time Zone when his sat phone rang. He punched the button to answer. "You cut it close."
"It wasn't easy," said the CIA liaison man.
"But that means you got it."
"He gets his mail at a PO box two towns over in Bokoshe. I had to email a fake grand jury subpoena to the postmaster in Bokoshe to get him to give me—"
"What's the physical address?" Garcia interrupted.
"The box is registered to Gordon McCay at 13281 Highway 59, Happy Valley trailer park, lot number thirty-six, Shady Point, Oklahoma."
"Congratulations, you get to keep your job and the ulcers that go with it."
Garcia was about to hang up when the liaison said, "There's something else."
"What?"
What the liaison man told him made Garcia smile.
A few minutes later, the jet taxied to a stop at a secluded spot on the Tarmac beside a waiting Chevrolet Suburban. As the jet's twin turbine engines wound down, Garcia followed Blackstone out of the cabin door and down the stairs.
The Suburban was brand new and black, its windows covered in limo tint. The four buzz-cut hardasses standing outside the vehicle wore tan cargo pants and tactical vests. They sported nylon utility belts with low-slung holsters strapped to their thighs, real twenty-first century gunfighters, Garcia thought. Then he paused at the foot of the stairs and said to Blackstone, "You do understand we are a covert agency, right?"
"I gave them a very short frag order," Blackstone said. "I'd rather have them on time than wearing the right clothes."
"Would it have been too much to expect both?"
"They're here and they're ready to go. We're forty minutes out from the target. Let's get it done."
Garcia nodded. Then he and Blackstone crawled into the third seat of the Suburban while the hardasses piled into the front and middle seats. The driver caught Blackstone's eye in the rearview mirror. "Ready, sir?" When Blackstone nodded the driver goosed the pedal and the Suburban leapt away from the Gulfstream with a jerk, its big engine growling.
Driving this blacked-out behemoth into that trailer park was going to be like riding in on a Mardi Gras float, Garcia thought.
Blackstone glanced at Garcia. "Are we backstopped?"
"I have credentials identifying me as a chief deputy US marshal," Garcia said. "We were attempting to apprehend federal fugitives. They resisted and we were forced to defend ourselves."
"Are you sure that's the play?" Blackstone asked. "Don't you want to question Favreau?"
"I don't want him to ever speak again, not to me, not to you, not to anybody. The quicker we shut him up, the better and the safer we all are."
"And the two FBI agents?"
"Only one of them is an agent," Garcia said. "The other one is an analyst."
"But she's a woman," Blackstone said. "And this is Oklahoma. The local cops might not take too kindly to her death by gunfire."
Garcia turned so he was facing Blackstone. "Is there anything you've heard me say today that indicates to you that I give a shit what the local police think?"
Blackstone shook his head.
"Good. Then follow your orders. Everyone in the trailer resisted. There were no survivors."
"That's assuming they're there."
"They are there right now."
"How do you know that?"
"That call I got," Garcia said. "NSA picked up a radio transmission from the only cab company within fifty miles of Shady Point, Oklahoma. The company dispatcher sent a taxi to pick up three people at the local airport and take them to the Happy Valley trailer park."
"So you were right," Blackstone said. "They went to see Miller's old man."
Garcia nodded.
Blackstone looked at his watch. "Then this whole thing will be over in...forty-five minutes."
"Maybe."
"You don't think the six of us can handle it?"
"Favreau has proven himself very resourceful."
Blackstone pointed to the four ninjas in the seats in front of them. "We have some resources of our own now. And your Frenchman has anchored himself to a hack writer, a rookie FBI agent, and a girl."
"I never count my money until I cash in my chips."
Blackstone shook his head. "Have it your way." He glanced again at his watch. "But in less than an hour, you can book your flight back to Miami and reserve a spot at tonight's bingo game."
Garcia didn't answer. He just stared out through the windshield at the dusty countryside.