“Did you get him?”

There was a long pause. “Negative. We encountered other hostiles. I have one man dead.”

Hall put his head in his hands. The organization he worked for had just shot it out with CIA personnel. As bad as things were for him already, he knew they’d just gotten worse.

While still reacting to the worry that he was in even deeper shit if it ever came out that he worked for the Director of the Consortium, he felt a hand squeeze his knee. He looked up to see Cage leaning over from the other side of the boat. Over the sound of the engine and the pounding of the hull against the water, he said, “Thanks, Sean.”

The forty-year-old ex-SEAL thought he was going to be sick to his stomach. Distractedly, he said, “You bet.”

Cage added, “I want Claudia and the two girls coming to the U.S. brought to the jet, and we’ll all go back together.”

Hall couldn’t believe it. “They are on another flight, tomorrow. You never travel with the merchandise.”

Cage shook his head. “I want them out of here, now! Make it happen.”

Hall angrily brought his cuff mic back to his mouth. His last two men would pick up Dr. Claudia, Maja, and Sofia from the Mala del Brenta safe house and take them to Marco Polo Airport. Then Cage, Verdoorn, the two girls, and God knows who else would climb into the Gulfstream for the flight back to the States.

Hall couldn’t wait to be airborne, to get the danger behind him and his protectee, so he could pound vodka when the coast was clear.

* * *

• • •

An hour and a half after the gunfight by the Grand Canal, I climb out of a taxi in the city of Treviso, Italy, on the mainland twenty-two miles northwest of the island city. During the drive I called Talyssa, twice. The first time she did not answer, but the second time she picked up, and though there was obvious stress in her voice, she assured me that Maarten Meyer was right in front of her and working his magic to break into the banking records Talyssa had targeted. I ask her for regular updates, and then I tell her I’m going to America.

She is surprised by this, but she shouldn’t be. Roxana said she was being taken to the West Coast, and her captor was American. All roads lead west, and I want to be there when Talyssa gives me someone or something to target.

I have the cabdriver take me to a bridge overlooking the Sile River, and when he is out of sight I walk through manicured trees until I reach a dry concrete drainage ditch. On the other side of this I drop to my knees, pull out my binoculars, and train them through openings in the large chain-link fence in front of me.

A hundred meters ahead is a fixed operating base for private jets coming to and leaving from Aeroporto di Treviso. On the far side of the building, I know from experience, will be a hangar and a ramp and, undoubtedly, several high-end corporate aircraft.

I’m hoping that also among them will be a CIA transport jet.

The plane that’s been sent to haul me back to the United States.

The plane I plan on hijacking.

I can’t see any aircraft from my vantage point here, so I climb the fence, drop to the other side, and begin moving through the parking lot, avoiding any lights.

Three minutes later I’m prone under a commercial truck on the edge of the ramp. I scan the dozen different aircraft in front of me, all corporate-sized jets. There are Bombardiers, Citations, Learjets, Embraers, and Gulfstreams, but my eyes focus on a Dassault Falcon 50. It looks older than most of the other planes around, but in good condition, and what really draws me to it is that, in contrast to every single other aircraft here at this FBO, the Falcon 50 has its stairs down and its rear luggage hatch open, and the APU, the auxiliary power unit, is sitting next to the jet’s nose.

Someone either has recently deplaned or is planning on using this aircraft soon.

The cockpit and cabin lights are off, which means departure isn’t imminent, but I take this as a good sign.

It will give me time to do what I need to do.

The moment I told Matt Hanley I was headed to Venice, I knew without a doubt he’d send guys to come grab me and drag me back home. And although it’s been a long time since I’ve been here with the Agency, I do remember we landed here at this FBO. I wasn’t sure the Agency was still using the same facility, but I figured there was a very good chance they would be.

I needed a lucky break, and I think I just got it.

There was no way I could fly commercial back to the USA; the Agency would pick me up on facial recognition and I’d be grabbed before I left most any airport in Europe, then hauled off to an Agency safe house till I could be ferried home.

And I sure as hell don’t have time to get on a freighter and steam all the way to the United States.

So I use the one thing I have at my disposal. An angry CIA DDO who wants me home and working for him again.

I’m going to get on that plane, knowing that when Travers and the others are a half hour out or so, the pilots will climb aboard for preflight. Then we’ll take off, leaving the SAC dudes behind. Obviously Travers and the others will notify Langley, and there will be one hell of a welcoming committee wherever this plane is due to land, but I can divert it by having the pilot declare an emergency once we cross over the U.S. border, and I should be able to deplane before Hanley can get any more goons there to take me down.

Yeah, as plans go, this one is out there. I’ve certainly never hijacked an aircraft before, but I’m a desperate man with few options.

And this shit is what I do.

I have a plan B, in case I’m wrong about this not being a trap, but plan B relies on factors that, so far in my experience, I’ve not been able to rely on.

I sure as shit do not want to rely on plan B, and if I have to pull it out, it’s only because it’s my very last hope.

I start to crawl out from under the truck to head for the Falcon, but then I stop myself. When has anything I’ve done ever been this easy?

There is nothing in front of me that makes it seem like I might be stepping into a trap, except my sudden, rare turn of apparent good luck.

But I don’t have time to do this the slow and careful way; I have to act.

What the hell, I tell myself, and I begin walking through the night across the ramp.

A minute later I climb the jet stairs. I’m unarmed, for two reasons. One, I only had the Glock, which I kicked into the drain. And two . . . I’m not going to go lethal with anyone in the CIA, and I doubt they’d go lethal against me.

Hanley wants me alive, because I’m useful.

I then look into the darkened cabin. Every last one of the interior lights is off, which is weird, meaning this is a cold aircraft with the hatch open. I start to wonder if the pilots are even on airport grounds, but I know they wouldn’t leave the Falcon compromised like this unless they were nearby in the lounge.