Gavin looked at Jones. They were still sitting at the World Trade Bridge, in the OFFICIAL USE ONLY lane. Waiting. ATF agents with bomb-sniffing dogs were searching the bridge. "You heard him," Gavin said. "What's the mission?"
"I heard him," Jones said. "And I'm surprised a man with your resume tolerates such insubordination."
"It wasn't aimed at me."
"But he is your subordinate."
"He's a good man," Gavin said. "He's just frustrated. A feeling I share."
Jones didn't say anything. Just stared at Gavin, not even blinking. Like some kind of reptile. He was starting to creep Gavin out. "I need an answer," Gavin said.
"Recovering the video at this point is not as important as removing Greene from the equation," Jones said. "Even if the video gets out, without him to push the story, we can control it."
"Control it how?"
"We leak that the meeting was part of an undercover operation targeting the Sinaloa cartel. That way we're con-trolling the narrative by providing context."
Gavin nodded. "That's not bad."
"What I love about the American public," Jones said, "and one of the things that makes my job a little easier, is they are so easy to manipulate. Your average American will believe anything he or she sees on television or on the Inter-net, no matter how absurd and no matter how much it con-tradicts what that person already believes."
Speaking of manipulation, Gavin thought. Who uses phrases like remove from the equation? Typical CIA double-speak is what it was, purposely vague, intentionally as clear as mud. Even now, the man who was calling himself Jones and whom Gavin was sure he would never see again, espe-cially if this op went sideways, simply could not bring him-self to issue clear, concise instructions. He wanted Greene dead, but he wouldn't say it. Fuck that. Gavin was going to make him say it. "So the mission is what...exactly?"
"Remove Greene-"
"From the equation," Gavin interrupted. "You said that, but I want to know right here, right now, are you ordering us to kill Greene and not bother trying to recover the video?"
"Recover it if you can. Afterward."
"So kill him first," Gavin said, "then try to get the vid-eo?"
Jones nodded.
Son of a bitch did it again, Gavin thought. So he gave up trying to pin the slippery bastard down. Instead, he keyed his radio. "Air One, your primary mission is cancellation. Your secondary objective, if possible, is asset recovery." He hesitated. "Your authorization is hard hat."
* * * *
"Your authorization is hard hat," Marcus heard through his headphones, Gavin using their internal code to tell him that the authority to execute the mission had come directly from their employer, the CIA, not from him. The mission was no longer a snatch. It was an assassination.
"Roger that," Marcus said. Then he switched to the pi-lot's frequency. "We're close enough. Start circling."
The pilot banked the bird into a wide turn around the market. Marcus kept scanning the ground with his binocu-lars.
* * * *
The Suburban was going to roll right past them. Scott hugged Benny tight on the bench and kept the front of his sombrero angled down to hide both their faces. Behind the Suburban, a man who'd had to jump out of its way threw a tomato that splattered on the back window. The Suburban kept rolling, the front bumper passing just ten feet from the bench.
Then the SUV stopped, its tires chirping on the brick pavement. Right in front of Scott and Benny.
"Hey, Poncho," an American voice called out.
Scott couldn't see the Suburban or the men in it. All he could see was the underside of his hat. But he had no doubt that the man who had called out was talking to him. Scott ignored him. Hoping the Suburban would keep moving.
It didn't.
"Hey, amigo," the voice called out again. "You with the big hat. I'm talking to you. We're looking for an American. You seen one around here?"
Scott slid his hand behind his back and wrapped his fin-gers around the butt of the Glock. The SUV didn't move. Scott heard one of the doors open.
"What are we going to do?" Benny whispered.
Scott exploded off the bench and pulled the Glock. The sombrero tumbled off his head. The left rear door of the Suburban was directly in front of him and partially open. The man in the seat had one tan combat boot on the ground. They were riding four deep in the SUV. Scott drove his left shoulder into the door and heard a sharp crack as the man's shin snapped in two. Then the man screamed.
All of the Suburban's windows were down, and Scott saw four men, all fit, all buzz cut, all wearing khaki 5.11s and matching military green T-shirts. The two in the back held M-4s in their laps. The man closest to Scott kept screaming. The other one in the back seat tried to swing the muzzle of his carbine around, but Scott aimed the Glock through the window. The man froze.
The front passenger left his M-4 in his lap and reached for a holstered pistol. Scott couldn't cover them all. Then an-other Glock appeared in the right front window. It was Ben-ny's, and she ground it against the man's head. He raised his hands. Scott pressed the muzzle of the Glock against the back of the driver's head. "Leave the guns and get out of the vehicle."