Mission Critical
“Works for me.”
“You really are no trouble, are you?” She stood, turned, and headed up to the cockpit.
The man looked out the window at the darkness.
The plane lifted into the night sky moments later, and Courtland Gentry, CIA code name Violator, drifted off to sleep soon after.
* * *
• • •
He only awoke as they touched down at Luxembourg City. Court knew the Agency preferred using smaller or even private airfields when possible, but the big international airport here in the suburb of Findel was the only paved runway in the tiny nation.
Just as in Zurich, the aircraft taxied and then stopped on the ramp, wide of any activity on the property.
Court looked idly out the port-side window for a moment with a yawn.
He saw headlights approaching on the ramp, and soon a pair of commercial vans pulled to a stop at the bottom of the jet stairs. The doors opened and a group of men began climbing out. Court glanced idly to the front of the cabin and saw the flight attendant standing in the open passenger doorway, holding an M4 rifle slightly behind her back, muzzle down but ready to whip it up at the first sign of danger.
She looked like she knew how to handle the weapon, which came as no shock to the CIA asset watching her. The Agency trained their transportation staff for anything.
Court himself was packing a Glock 19 9-millimeter, a .38 revolver, and a .22 caliber suppressed pistol. One on his hip, one on his ankle, the other in his pack, and he was ready to go for them if he sensed any danger. But the flight attendant seemed to have it all under control. She spoke with someone just outside the cabin on the stairs, then hung the M4 back in the coat closet and beckoned the man in.
Court closed his eyes and pulled his cap down; he was ready to get back to sleep.
* * *
• • •
Forty-six-year-old CIA officer Doug Spano boarded the aircraft while his men waited on the ramp behind him for his all clear.
Once inside he spoke to the attractive woman at the door, and then he turned to look over the darkened cabin. Immediately he saw a man seated in the back, a ball cap pulled down over his face. Spano cleared his jacket out of the way of his sidearm and gripped it, and then without taking his eyes off the man, he addressed the flight attendant. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Agency personnel, sir. He’s cleared.”
“Not by me, he’s not. This is a priority movement.”
“So is he, sir. We were told to deliver your group to Ternhill and then to fly him on to Washington.”
Spano grimaced in anger. Somebody had fucked up, and it was getting in the way of his op. He moved quickly down the cabin and leaned over the passenger in the dark. At first he thought him to be asleep, but the man lifted his cap, opened his eyes, and said, “Evening.”
“Don’t take it personally, sport, but I can’t have you on this aircraft. Get Transpo to arrange another flight for you. I’ve got a priority mission you’re encroaching on here.”
The man seemed bored. He closed his eyes again. “Call Langley, extension fifty-eight twelve. She tells me to get off, I get off.”
“You don’t listen, do you?” When no response came he said, “Who are you with?”
“Coded.”
If this man was, in fact, on a code-word operation, then Spano wouldn’t be learning anything further from him about what he was doing on board.
But he didn’t give a shit. “My op is coded, too, tough guy.” He then changed tactics, opting for direct intimidation. “Not telling you again. Deplane. Now.”
“Fifty-eight twelve,” the man replied in a bored voice. He was positively unintimidated, and he rolled his head towards the window.
Doug Spano pulled his sat phone out of his jacket and stormed back up the cabin.
* * *
• • •
Five minutes later the CIA officer held the phone to his ear, and Court could tell from his body language that he was pissed. He came storming in his direction, and he handed the phone over.
Court took it and answered. “Hello?”
“Making friends as always, I see.” It was his handler, Suzanne Brewer. She sounded annoyed, but Court couldn’t remember ever hearing her sound different.
“Just being a good worker bee. You told me you wanted me on this plane.”
“Well, yes, I need you here in Washington, stat. You’re on that flight, but you need to relinquish any weapons.”
Court paused. Said, “I’m not really the ‘relinquishing weapons’ type.”
“Do it.”
“Why?”
In an even more irritated voice Brewer said, “Because I asked you to, Violator.”
Court sighed. “Okie doke.” He passed the phone back to the CIA officer, who disconnected the call.
The man stood over him, obviously displeased by this intrusion on his operation. “Aren’t you a Billy Badass? Gettin’ to ride shotgun on a code-word op. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that shit.”
“I’ll stay out of your hair, boss.”
A finger came up, not quite in Court’s face, but close enough to annoy. “Damn right, you will. You’ll park your ass right here; we’ll take the front. You need to go to the lav, you will hit your call light and I’ll send a man to escort you. Now . . . let’s have those weapons. You’ll get them back at Ternhill.”
Court pulled his Glock, backwards and with his fingertips, so as not to be threatening, and he handed it over. The man took it, dropped the magazine, and cleared the round from the chamber, letting the bullet fall to the floor. He reseated the magazine and stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans.
And then he looked back to the seated man.
Court gazed up at him. No expression, no movement.
“Secondary.”
Court slowly lifted his right leg, ripped off an ankle holster Velcroed around his calf, and passed it over along with the .38 revolver tucked inside it.
He then looked back to the man standing over him.
As he expected, the CIA officer said, “Let’s take a peek inside that backpack.”
Court sighed, remained still.
“Don’t make me send my four guys back here to pound it away from you.”
Asshole, Court thought but did not say. He reached into his pack and removed the integrally suppressed Ruger .22 pistol stowed there. Again holding the base of the grip by his fingertips, he handed it to the man standing over him.