“So why’d 21D choose the White House Chief of Staff’s son-in-law? What does he have to do with the pipeline?”
She reached between her seat and the center console, pulling out a file and handing it to Chris. “His name is Michael Winthrop. He’s an onshore civil engineer working for United Kingdom Petroleum. UKP is the central player in creating the pipeline, but it’s not clear whether the terrorists know he’s related to the White House Chief of Staff. It would’ve been easier for the terrorists to capture him at his home, so we think taking him near the embassy was an attempt to grab more headlines.”
“Well, they certainly grabbed our attention. What’s our mission?”
“Find Michael Winthrop and report his location so the US can launch a rescue,” she said.
“Before 21D kills him,” he added.
“Exactly.”
Chris and Hannah boarded a nondescript Gulfstream jet at a private airport near Dallas. In the aft section of the plane, there were three sets of gear, marked for Chris, Hannah, and Sonny, but Sonny was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Mr. Sunshine?” Chris asked.
“Going to pick him up at Pope Air Force Base. We can make sure our weapons are zeroed when we get there, too,” she replied.
The Agency already had Chris’s measurements, photos for ID, weapons, and other equipment, so the plane was stocked as Hannah had promised. He located his garment bag hanging in a closet. After unzipping it, he found a fine dark gray wool suit he’d never seen before. The wool would breathe well in the heat and insulate against the cold — highly durable. When he changed out of his clerical clothes and put on the suit, it fit perfectly.
“You really wear that suit,” Hannah said.
He smiled. “Not nearly as well as you wear that dress.”
He smoothed his hands along his jacket, feeling something stiff inside the left breast pocket. He checked and found a US diplomatic passport. He opened it to find his alias printed inside. They’d kept his preferred real first name — it was easiest to remember, especially under stress — but the last name, Johnson, was an alias. The agency had even signed the document in Chris’s handwriting. “I guess this means we’re diplomats?”
“Legal attachés investigating the kidnapping of Michael Winthrop. The US embassy in Athens has agreed to cooperate, but they don’t know we’re really working for the Agency. Our code name for the embassy is Olympus.”
Being the son of diplomats, Chris was accustomed to life in and around embassies, which would come in handy. “Will we be the only search team from the US?”
“I asked but didn’t get a straight answer,” Hannah said, “so my guess is there will be at least one more team working the kidnapping.”
Chris checked his bags for the small container that held his spare prosthetics. In 2009, during a covert mission to capture a Syrian terrorist, the bastard had bitten off a large chunk of Chris’s ear, and he’d ended up losing the whole thing. He wore a prosthetic, and the Agency kept a regular spare and a camouflage spare to pack with his mission gear whenever they called him to action.
He located his Glock 19 Gen 4 pistol, magazines filled with ammo, and his Raven concealed holster. Checking over the weapon, he was relieved to see that the Agency had customized it to his specifications, replacing the plastic sights with metal, plugging the gap in the magazine well, and swapping out the factory barrel with a KKM match grade barrel. He wore it on his hip, and his mind shifted from his weapon to finding Michael. He might be using his Glock sooner rather than later.
“You’ve got that look in your eyes,” Hannah said.
“What look is that?”
“That bleeding-edge stare. Like you’re about to kill someone.”
“I’m just thinking,” he said.
“About what?”
“I hope we find him while he’s still alive.”
2
They touched down at Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina, where they rendezvoused with Sonny. They greeted one another on the plane, and Chris immediately noticed how well Sonny was moving after their mission last year when he took a bullet, which lodged near his spine. “You finished with your physical therapy, then?”
“I don’t know,” Sonny said. “The nurses have been giving me extracurricular exercises, but I’m running out of excuses to keep visiting them. My back never felt better.”
“You look great,” Chris said.
“I wish I could say the same for you.” Sonny was wearing a camera on a strap around his neck. He adjusted its telescopic lens.
“Were you out on recce?” Chris asked, assuming it was part of some surveillance training.
Sonny glanced at Chris. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“I know this may seem funny to some people, but I’m a bird watcher.”
Chris and Hannah stared at him as if he were spouting science fiction.
“Yeah, I take photos of birds. What of it?” Sonny said. “Been doing it since elementary school. I was smaller than the other boys and the only birdwatcher, so they beat the shit out of me for it. Now… say hello to the Rat.” With a twinkle in his eye, Sonny pulled out a knife that Chris recognized right away, named after a Team guy named Tom Ratzlaff. “Well, I guess the Rat would be overkill, but you know what I mean.”
Sonny handed it to Chris, who examined it with admiration. With a blade length of three and a half inches, it was small enough to conceal but long enough to stab internal organs and arteries. It had a narrow blade width for fitting into tight spaces between bones, and its narrow spear point could penetrate military clothing. It wasn’t designed to open envelopes or survive in the woods. It was designed for one thing and one thing only: killing.
He returned the knife to Sonny, who put it back in its sheath. “Anyway, bird-watching is about the hunt, challenging yourself to find what’s out there. Improving your skills. I once tracked a golden eagle for five days to get a clear pic of it. If I have a couple hours to get outdoors, I throw my pack in the truck and I’m in the woods. I’m addicted to it. Maybe I need a psychiatrist, but what do I care? Life is short and pleasure is shorter, so you have to seize the moment.” With that, he walked aft and checked the bags waiting for him.
After flying over the Atlantic Ocean, southern Europe, and most of the Mediterranean Sea, they touched down in Athens, where they unloaded. The air outside was hot and dry, and Chris was tempted to loosen his tie, but he waited, expecting that their car would have air-conditioning. He was right. The engine and air-conditioning were already running in the BMW supplied by the Agency. The trio stuffed their gear in the trunk, and Sonny crawled into the backseat and lay down.
Chris took the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirrors. “After we find Michael, who’ll be tasked with the rescue mission?” he asked Hannah, who sat in the passenger seat beside him.
“Your former Teammates,” she said. She mounted a pre-programmed GPS on the dash and turned it on. “Six will be stationed at Minotaur, but we won’t have direct communication with them, and they’ll need permission from Washington before they can launch the rescue.” Minotaur was their code name for the US Naval Support Activity, Souda Bay in Crete.
Sonny groaned. “The Hollywood Whores,” he said in his pained, nasally Queens accent.
“I don’t get it,” Chris said.
“Because you’re slow,” Sonny said, cutting him off.
Chris shook his head and eased out onto the highway, following it southwest.
“Sonny,” Hannah said, “last year, you seemed so excited about the three of us working together again. What gives?”