SIX
PRESENT DAY
The tiny 1981 Cessna 206 Amphibian flew low and lights out over the moonlit ocean, buffeted by rough air. It banked hard to starboard, nearly standing on its wing as it turned south in the darkness.
Just sixty feet above the water, the pilot leveled his wings again as he put the nose on 120 degrees, then pushed the throttle forward and descended even more.
Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty-five.
Court Gentry was the lone passenger on board and he sat in the copilot’s seat, staring out into the darkness. He and the pilot were shoulder to shoulder, but they had barely spoken a word during the two-hour flight, and neither of them said a word as they approached the Venezuelan coast, just a couple of miles ahead.
Court could just make out a thin stretch of lighter gray in the black distance. It grew and grew, and then moments later they went “feet dry,” racing over a beach at thirty feet, the single-engine aircraft churning the warm salty air at full throttle.
The strip of stark-white sand was the only landform Court had been able to make out in the darkness, but within moments the pilot began banking again, left and right, and he alternately climbed and dove while doing so.
Court turned to look at the pilot and was comforted by the shape of the ATN PS15 dual-tube night vision goggles attached to a mount on a headband and positioned just in front of the man’s eyes.
The passenger was happy he couldn’t see a thing out of the windscreen in the cloudy evening now, but he was damn glad the pilot could. He knew they were winding through a forested mountain range, and they were likely a lot closer to impacting with terrain than he’d ever want to know.
He and the pilot had only met a few hours earlier at Oranjestad airport in Aruba, but the man and his aircraft had come well vetted and highly recommended.
Other than some surveillance gear, weapons, and other small items, Court wasn’t using any CIA assets on this operation. He had his own contacts and his own methods of support while operating in the field, including a clearinghouse on the dark web known to only a select few, where men and women could procure a specific category of goods and services, almost any good or service one could imagine.
Court used it from time to time when he had a special need. The laundry list of skills on offer was impressive. Undersea transfer of goods from Colombia, paramilitary fighters for hire in Myanmar, political assassination in Japan. And Court had been pleased to see earlier in the day that airborne insertion of personnel into Venezuela was listed—even if it came at a high price.
Those few hundred on Earth who knew of and used the clearinghouse also knew that all the buyers and sellers were carefully assessed and rated on their abilities by other buyers and sellers. Court could read reviews of providers, though no names were anywhere to be found in the data, and this gave him some peace of mind when he contacted the pilot earlier in the day and arranged for the late-night air transport of one man into the Caracas area, and then ground transport to a location to the south of the city.
No, Court didn’t know this son of a bitch next to him—Court’s internal defense mechanism meant the man was a son of a bitch until proven otherwise—but he had no doubts that the pilot was incredibly skilled. Court imagined that this man and this plane had made many incursions into Venezuela over the past several years, sneaking in intelligence officers, sneaking out drugs or other contraband to sell on the black market, or even helping Venezuelan citizens escape the misery of the economic and political stranglehold on their nation.
The Cessna weaved through the mountains for more than a half hour, Court’s stomach contents fighting to stay down all the while. And still there was no conversation between him and the pilot. Once or twice the clouds above cleared enough for starlight to filter in, and Court could briefly make out terrain. Thick woods of pine whipped by outside his starboard-side window, seemingly one hundred feet or less from ripping off the wing and turning the tiny seaplane into a rolling ball of fire and twisted metal across the mountainside.
The underlying nausea he felt wasn’t Court’s only malady. He was weak and tired; he knew he was in no way fit to be operational right now. He understood that the infection was much better than it had been, but he also knew it wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t going to go away unless he got daily infusions of antibiotics.
But he was here on Hanley’s orders, and as tough as tonight was going to be for him, he knew things would only get tougher if he defied the CIA on this.
Again.
Court had spent years working for the Agency, first as a singleton operative, sent in deep cover, alone, to fulfill CIA objectives around the world. And then he was assigned to a team of paramilitary operations officers, working in the coveted Special Activities Division on Task Force Golf Sierra, and there he and his mates conducted renditions, assassinations, recovery missions, and anything else that called for a team of Agency trigger pullers.
And then, some five years ago now, Court Gentry’s life changed in an instant. Task Force Golf Sierra suddenly turned on him, tried to murder him. He fought his way out of the United States, realizing the CIA had a kill order out on his head, though he had no idea why. It took four years to reconcile with the Agency, and in that time he worked off grid as an assassin for hire, accepting only operations he felt to be righteous and worthy.
Now he was back with the Agency, more or less, as a contract agent, working in a program called Poison Apple. He and the other two agents in the program were deniable assets for Matthew Hanley, sent out on missions where any CIA fingerprints were forbidden.
Court had also taken a few freelance gigs recently—again, only objectives that satisfied his personal moral compass—and while Hanley had not approved of any of them, Hanley always knew that Court would come back and be a “good soldier” when he was done with his private crusades.
And now, even though he felt like shit, it didn’t matter; Hanley had come calling, and Court knew he needed to make him happy.
Especially after screwing him over the last time.
His team leader back when he was on TF Golf Sierra had been Zack Hightower, the man now languishing in a cell here in Venezuela. Court knew he’d be within a few miles of Helicoide prison on his operation here, and he also knew that his proximity to Hightower wouldn’t help Hightower’s predicament one damn bit.
Court wasn’t here for him, so Zack was shit out of luck.
This was a tough business. Friendships and loyalty got you nowhere; Court knew this better than anyone.
On paper, Court’s mission here in Venezuela was not particularly complex. Go to some asshole’s house, get around his security, and scare him into coughing up the information Hanley needed.
Don’t have to be in top physical condition to pull that off, he told himself.
He also told himself he’d get back to Maryland in a couple of days, and then he’d resume his treatment. For now, he just had to focus on his objectives.
They banked left and right for several minutes more, sometimes gently, and sometimes the pilot yanked so hard on his controls it felt to Court as if the man were trying to turn his aircraft on the head of a pin.
And then he noticed the plane seemed to be in a steady climb, and for this reason only, he decided to end the silent treatment.
“I thought we were staying below radar.”
The pilot did not answer.
Court waited a moment more, and then when the Cessna increased its rate of climb, he turned to the man and spoke more authoritatively.
“What are you doing?”
The pilot was Hispanic, under forty, short, bald-headed, and built like a fire hydrant with a human head on top. He kept his night vision goggles focused out the windscreen as he answered. “You want me to talk, or you want me to fly?”
Court felt his mission was in jeopardy now, and his tone conveyed his concern. “I want you to do both.”
“This shit isn’t easy, you know.”
“Really? So that’s why you’re charging me fifty grand?”
“That’s exactly why I’m charging you fifty grand.”
“Tell me why we are climbing.”
“So we don’t hit the peak of that mountain right in front of us. That okay with you, amigo?”
Court peered ahead; he saw nothing but blackness. “How far?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got this.”
“But won’t we show up on radar?”
The Hispanic sighed, annoyed that he had to account for his actions. “Venezuelan air defense systems are good along the coast—gotta fly below eighty feet, lower even—but they can’t cover these valleys that well. We’re fifty miles inland now. We’re fine.”
“Okay,” Court said, but he had no way of knowing if this guy was right or wrong.
The pilot clarified now. “We’re fine, unless we hit that mountain.”
The man was a smartass, Court could see, but he respected that. The flight finally leveled off, they dove down for a minute, and then they leveled again and continued on in silence.
It was not yet eleven p.m. when the Cessna 206 Amphibian banked gently to the left, and the pilot pulled back on the power and set the flaps. They flew slower and slower, and Court could tell from the instruments that they were descending, but only when they were less than fifty feet from landing did he see the glassy shine of a large body of water below him.
This was the Agua Fria reservoir, deep in Macarao National Park, just southwest of the city of Caracas. It was secluded, especially at this time of night, but shortly before the plane’s pontoons made contact with the surface, Court saw a light flash on, dead ahead, perhaps a quarter mile distant.
“Is that for us?” Court asked the pilot.
“Why you always gotta talk when I’m concentrating?”
The man didn’t seem worried in the least by the light, so Court dropped it.
The touchdown was smoother than Court expected, especially after the weaving, bumpy flight, and they taxied to a dock with a single light on a pole. The pilot cut the engines and the airplane floated closer, and soon Court saw a lone man appear on the dock out of the darkness. The pilot opened his door, stepped out on the pontoon below his seat, and pulled a rope from a hatch there. He tossed one end of the line to the stranger, and the man just held it in his hands; he didn’t tie it off.
Court hefted his pack over his right shoulder; it was nearly forty pounds of gear but felt much, much heavier due to his sickness. He climbed out of the aircraft and onto the dock, nodded once to the pilot.
“I’ll contact you for extraction.”
There was no reply, and then the man on the dock tossed the line back to the pilot, and the seaplane began floating slowly away from the dock while the pilot stood on the pontoon, pulling one of several gas cans from the rear of the cabin to begin refueling.
Court didn’t wait around. Together he and the other man began walking towards a small Honda four-door.
“Habla Español, amigo?”
“Poco,” Court responded. In fact, he spoke Spanish well enough, but he wasn’t looking for conversation.
“My name is Diego,” the young man said. “I am from Barquisimeto, but I know Caracas well. It will take us forty minutes to get to your destination. It’s not too far.”
“Good,” Court said, and he followed the young man to the lone car parked near the dock.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Shit, Court thought. The last guy wouldn’t talk, and this dude won’t shut up.
“Call me Carlos.”
“Carlos?” the Venezuelan said, perplexed. “You are Latino?”
Court didn’t answer, he just kept walking.
“You look like you could be Latino. But you don’t talk like a—”
“I’m not looking to make friends tonight.” Court opened the back door, threw his pack inside, and climbed into the front passenger seat.
The young man didn’t seem hurt by the exchange, but he said nothing else as they began driving through the night.