Through the fog of the drugs and vertigo, two things were now clear to Walker: he had been rendered some place, and it was some place from which he would not readily be liberated. Whatever was coming, it would be up to him to find a way out of it, at any cost. He closed his eyes and focused.
More correctly, it was extraordinary rendition.
Rendition meant he had been taken from one location to another. Extraordinary rendition was what happened when the CIA wanted you transferred to somewhere with fewer laws concerning how a prisoner could be treated. Syria and Egypt used to be popular spots. As an old Agency friend would often say, if you want them to be tortured, you send them to Syria; if you want them to disappear—permanently—you send them to Egypt.
So, this rendition meant a couple of things. With each passing minute, Walker’s vertigo was abating. Some nausea remained around the edges but he’d never been one to give in to that, no matter the circumstance.
Rendition. From LAX to here . . . by TSA officers.
No, by guys posing as TSA officers.
The cream of the TSA. Fit, strong, muscles bulging out clean pressed uniforms.
CIA? Guys like those he used to train.
Why? There was no reason. He was on the outer but on good terms with the Agency. They would take him back in a heartbeat, give him a choice of postings. He could be deputy director of operations if he wanted to, driving the operatives in the National Clandestine Service, the branch that did all the hands-on spy stuff.
No. They were not CIA. Ex-CIA.
Walker fought to keep his head steady, the vertigo tug drawing him to the left, as though his head were ten times its usual weight.
Unless . . . they had been compromised. They may think they’re on a legitimate rendition. Or had their orders been compromised? Activated by their superior, but masked through someone else.
Time on the outer had honed Walker’s cynicism toward what a country owed you when you had bled so much for it. He well knew to look at all the possibilities, to whittle them down to those most likely. He’d been burned by the Agency before. It was easy enough to get orders through to guys like these: compromise someone above them; use leverage—the kind of leverage that would tear a family apart, destroy lives—to get them to place the rendition order; get the guys down the chain to carry it out without question. Walker knew all about it because aside from being wary of it happening inside his old organization, he’d been on the other side. He’d used all kinds of leverage against foreign nationals to get the information deemed in the best interests of the United States.
Okay. So, either two serving or two ex-CIA operatives had rendered him. They knew the protocols, the channels, the aircraft and crews to use to make sure that it stayed secret—the days of reporters and Congress being able to track aircraft IDs back to dummy CIA corporations were long gone, thanks to far too many stuff-ups—the downing of a CIA rendition aircraft in 2007 carrying seven tons of cocaine into Mexico had been the final nail in the coffin. Since then, total secrecy had been obtained. Agency aircraft now either ran counterfeit IDs on flight numbers or were entered into logs doctored after the fact.
So, these two were either a legit op, or doing their own thing on the side for an extra pay check. A legit op he could talk his way out of, but guys in it for cash could only be stopped by brute force. And these operators were clearly ex-Special Forces, and when those guys encountered hand-to-hand combat, it was for keeps.
Walker knew he’d need to wait until his faculties fully returned, and that he’d need to make the most of every tiny opportunity. Fight or flight. Waiting.
The vertigo stopped. Walker opened his eyes. His world was steady. Color had returned. Sounds. Smells. Taste. Touch. He flexed his fingers, his arms. Felt the blood pumping in his heart. Listened to his rhythmic breathing. In and out. Calm. Steady. Ready.
Go time.
He looked around. The room was dark but for arrows of bright light spilling through gaps in boarded-up windows. His vision was still blurred. He couldn’t make out anyone in the room, but he felt a presence: the two guys were behind him.
And they could see that he was now alert.
That much was clear because the cuffs were undone. A knife was used to cut through two sets of cable ties.
Walker let his arms drop to his sides and paused. The contact to his wrists was unexpected; it wasn’t the action of someone on a legit CIA op—they would have kept him secure until he was maneuvered into whatever position was next: interrogation, or water-boarding, or to a cell. He rubbed his wrists and settled a little in the chair, hands on his thighs. Relaxed his shoulders. Felt his resting heart-rate settle close to normal, maybe ten percent over.
The vestibular system in his inner ear was still disrupted in its solution from the nerve agent buzzing through him, the antidote chasing it away, whispers of disturbance ghosting through him. His senses checked in with what he could take in. The room smelled damp. He felt beads of sweat running down his neck. It was warm, more humid than LA had been that morning. His watch was gone—he had no way of telling how long he’d been out. His shoes were gone too. And his belt, his phone and his wallet. He breathed through the last remnants of the sedative, and settled, feeling almost normal.
Almost, but angry. Pissed. Furious. Not an ounce of fear—it was all blind fury.
Walker looked up and to the side and, squinting against the gloom, raised a hand against a shaft of daylight. His eyes adjusted and focused as he scanned the room.
Seated opposite, was a figure facing him, in the shadows. A few meters between them.
Walker tried to make the person out.
A man. Similar size to him. Sitting still. Watching. Waiting. He leaned forward, into the light. The sunlight cut across the man’s face.
His father. David Walker.