Unless . . . of course . . . this is a trap.

And then it happens. A light flicks on over a sofa in the rear of the cabin, and I know, without a doubt, what I’m about to see. I turn to the light.

A man sits there, leg crossed over a knee, a cowboy boot on full display, and a cold bottle of Corona in his hand. He’s silhouetted by the light behind him, but that doesn’t matter.

I know who this is before he says a word.

“Howdy, Six. You looking for a lift?”

Shit. I can’t see his face well, but I recognize the voice of Zack Hightower, my old team leader from my own Ground Branch days, and currently a denied Agency asset run by Matt Hanley.

Just like me.

In the Goon Squad his call sign was Sierra One, and mine was Sierra Six. He’s rarely called me by anything other than Six in the past decade.

I play it as cool as possible as I respond. “I knew Matt would send a plane for me, and I halfway figured you’d be on it.”

Zack sips his beer. “You know how it is, bro. He calls me into this shit to serve as your voice of reason. And usually you ignore reason, so I have to do the strong-arm thing.” He adds, “Don’t make me do the strong-arm thing.”

Zack is good at what he does, and I’m pretty sure he’s also crazy.

I look around the aircraft a moment to confirm the two of us are, in fact, alone. “How, exactly, are you planning on strong-arming me?”

“Travers and his boys are on the way back to the jet right now. They made a little noise tonight, apparently, so they’ve been recalled.”

“But they aren’t here yet.”

Zack laughs. He loves it when he’s got me where he wants me. “Neither are the pilots, dumbass. You going to fly this yourself all the way back to the States?”

I just look at the cockpit, then look back at him.

He laughs, but I can tell he’s suddenly uneasy. “Hell no. You can’t do that.”

“Then call the pilots. Right now.”

He cocks his head. “You’re hijacking an Agency aircraft?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that. I’m just borrowing it.”

“And you’re planning on flying this jet all the way to the U.S.? By yourself, if I refuse to call the pilots? Seriously? That’s your play?”

“I was hoping to avoid that play. But if you don’t give me another option, then I’ll have to give it a shot. You feeling lucky?”

Zack rolled his eyes. “This isn’t some four-seater twin-prop bush plane. This is an elite corporate jet.”

I look around a little more. “It’s okay. I’ve seen better.”

“You suck as a pilot, dude. You always did.”

“Then let the pros come on board and we’ll jet off into the sunset together safely.”

He drinks down half the beer now, then burps. He’s in his early fifties, but apparently no one told him this. Then he looks back to me. “I’m gonna go ahead and call that bluff, Six. Fly this plane back to America. I’ll take that ride with you.”

Shit.

I can fly a corporate jet this size, but I’ve never done it transcontinentally, and I imagine that’s not something one normally just does on one’s own, with no guidance and little sleep.

But what choice do I have? I start for the jet stairs so that I can go out and close the aft hatch. I don’t even know if the aircraft is fueled, but I’ll figure that out when I get in the cockpit.

But when I step up to the top of the stairs, I see a gun pointed right at me at a range of three feet.

A woman is holding the weapon, a large-framed Sig, and she motions for me to step back into the cabin.

I do so, then sit, and she comes in and turns on all the lights.

Zack says from the back, “The cavalry has arrived. Just as well; I’m guessing you’d have slammed us into a mountain in Iceland.”

I look at Zack, thinking about my plan B. While turned away from the woman at the front bulkhead with the gun on me, I hear her speak.

“It’s you.”

I turn back. Huh? There is nothing more disquieting in my life than to be recognized, and at first this fires my defenses up. But quickly I recognize her, too.

The last time I was on an Agency transport, she was the flight attendant.

She and I were also virtually the only survivors of a gunfight on a tarmac in the UK.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s me.”

She lowers the pistol.

“This is a step down from that Gulfstream you used to ride on.”

“I believe that aircraft has been retired from service. Too many holes in it.” She smiles. “I’m just glad to be working. I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life.”

“Not how I remember it. You took an unlucky hit, I bandaged you up, and then I left. You’d have made it, anyway.”

She shakes her head. “But you taxied the jet out of danger and then you—”

In the back of the aircraft Zack says, “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You’ve charmed the stewardess?”

Now the woman glares at the big man in the cowboy boots. “I’m not a fucking stewardess, asshole!”

This makes me laugh, and I haven’t had much reason to laugh tonight.

“Check your loyalties, lady. I’m on an op for the DDO. This dude is freestyling.”

She looks at me as she replies to him. “I’m on the same op for the DDO that you’re on, Romantic. Doesn’t mean I can’t say hi to an old friend.” She taps her pistol against the side of her leg. “Also doesn’t mean I’m going to let him steal my jet.”

Right. I turn to Zack. “Call the pilots,” I say. “Let’s go to Langley.”

He looks at his watch. “Travers is thirty minutes away. The pilots will be here in five. We’re fueled and ready; they just have to light the fires and kick the tires. When the Ground Branch boys get here, we’ll go home. Just as we planned.”

I sit back in the cabin chair. Plan B is my only plan now, and I’m wondering if I would have had a better chance trying to fly the Falcon home myself.

I guess I’ll never know.

FORTY

   Chris Travers is the last of the six CIA operators to board the Falcon, and I’m glad to see they all made it out of the gun battle. They cram into the tight confines of the jet, with Chris sitting in front of me.