“We got a target?” asked Bison, practically jumping off the plastic bench.
“No. We’re working on it. We have to refuel and the powers that be are gathering some intelligence.”
“Translation: Some jerkoff in D.C. wants to go to bed,” said Powder.
The others started to laugh again.
“You know, Sergeant, I hear the latrines here are a very interesting place to spend an evening. All sorts of yummy bugs to check out.”
Danny had so much venom in his voice that not one of the others dared to as much as titter as he climbed back up to the flight deck.
Pej, Brazil
March 8, 0100 local (March 7, 2100 Dreamland)
BREANNA HAD SAT ON THE WOODEN CHAIR FOR WHAT seemed like several hours, exchanging glares with the male guards. They made no move to attack her, and had even been delicate searching her for a weapon; if she’d had anything besides her bulky Beretta, she would have been able to conceal it easily. Still, her vulnerability felt like a physical thing, pricking at her skin.
She worried about Jeff. He was due for another round of the diluted ANTARES drugs in two hours. Geraldo had told her that he had to take them within five minutes of her carefully worked out schedule, or else he’d begin to feel effects of withdrawal.
A burly airman appeared at the door carrying her flight and survival gear. He placed it on the floor next to the guard, but the soldiers waved her back into her seat when she rose to examine it. A few minutes later the same airman came in with a large bowl of food. This, at least, she was allowed to have. Despite the toughness of the beans, she ate it quickly, and slurped the thin broth at the bottom. She was done by the time Chris was led into the room a few minutes later. One of his guards carried his gear, placing it next to hers by the door.
“You’re eating that shit?” he said.
“Better than starving.”
“You don’t think it’s drugged?”
“If they were going to drug it, they would have made it taste better,” she said.
“Think they’ll release us soon?”
Breanna shrugged. She could hear Zen’s wheelchair in the hallway.
Jeff rolled into the room, an ironic smile on his face. Before she could ask what was possibly so funny, a tall man entered behind him and began giving orders in Portuguese. The guards quickly grabbed the flight gear and thrust it at Breanna and Chris, though mixing up who belonged to what.
“We’re being released,” said Chris.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Zen, still wearing his bemused expression. It was a mask he sometimes used; maybe it meant he was planning something.
“Where’s your gear?” Breanna asked.
“They made me leave it in the plane.”
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“I got a TV and you didn’t,” he said, then added, “They think I’m going to help fly the Flighthawks.”
“What?”
“He speaks English,” said Zen in a stage whisper. “He says we’re going back north. They think we’re going to help.”
“That wasn’t quite what he said.”
Breanna looked up and saw Kevin Madrone standing in the doorway.
“He said you will assist me or be killed,” said Madrone. “Hello, Breanna. Captain Ferris.”
“I’m not helping you, Kevin. Your head’s screwed up.” Zen wheeled around to face him. “You’re going through withdrawal from the drugs. ANTARES blew up your mind. Take it from me. You’re screwy. Nuts.”
Kevin glared at him, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. And then he launched himself at Zen, flying across the room and swinging wildly. Jeff swung in his chair and managed to slip back so that Madrone fell to the floor. But this only enraged Kevin more. Breanna jumped to help her husband as Madrone’s punches started to land, but found herself in the arms of one of the security guards. Another guard had a pistol in Chris’s chest.
“Stop it! Stop!” she cried.
The soldiers tried to break up the fight. A rapid burst through the ceiling from an automatic rifle finally caught Madrone’s attention, or perhaps his fury ran out; he allowed himself to be dragged off Zen.
“Kevin, what’s happened to you?” Breanna demanded. Madrone shrugged off the guards, then shook his head, catching his breath. “I didn’t think you’d be in on this, Bree.”
“Be in on what, Kevin? What’s going on?”
“I’m not listening to you. I know you’re going to get me, but I’ll take you down too. I’ll take enough of you down to hurt you.”
“Are you involved in the revolt against the Brazilian government?” said Jeff. His voice was so calm he sounded as if he were a graduate student asking a question at a seminar.
Jeff had provoked the attack, perhaps thinking the surge of emotions would break through, Breanna realized. But it hadn’t worked, at least not the way he’d hoped.
“There’s no revolt,” said Madrone.
“Sure there is. There’s a new government already. You helped take over the country with Hawkmother and the U/ MFs.”
“People attacked us, and we neutralized them,” said Ma-drone. “We’re going to do that now.”
“Christina died from a cancer that had nothing to do with you or your work, Kevin,” said Zen. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It was just—horrible luck. Look at me.”
“Get them aboard the plane,” Madrone told the guards. “Handcuff the ones who can walk.”
“Who are you working for?” Chris asked.
“I’m not working for anyone.”
“I wouldn’t trust them,” said Chris.
“I don’t,” said Madrone, leaving the room.
OUTSIDE, KEVIN STOPPED AND FELL AGAINST THE SIDE of the building, gasping for air. Had they been his enemies from the beginning? Or had they turned against him?
Betrayal was the worst crime. To go against your friend or your family or your lover—what could be worse?
To kill your own daughter.
He hadn’t killed her. They had. The bastards.
When they closed in, he would kill himself. He would borrow a pistol from one of the men. He would get as much revenge as possible. Then cheat them.
They would come after Minerva to avenge their losses. She was still naive—she thought they would escape together when he returned, but he, wouldn’t return.
They would destroy her too. Worse, they would make her suffer as Christina had. He wouldn’t let that happen again.
Kevin felt his body relax, the last vestiges of the headache sifting away. It was finished. He hurried to check on the men working on Minerva’s weapon.
Dreamland
7 March, 2200 local
THEY LANDED PRECISELY AT TEN P.M., having pushed Raven to the max. Dog slipped out of the cockpit dead tired, and went straight to the waiting Hummer without bothering to stop to change out of his gear.
The inimitable Ax was waiting at the door to his office suite with a cup of very black coffee.
“Hey, Chief. Big shots want to bark at you,” said the sergeant.
“What the hell are you doing up?”
“Never miss a hangin’,” said Gibbs, who despite his bonhomie, wore traces of worry and fatigue in the cracks around his eyes. “You’re supposed to plug into a conference call on the scrambled line. Mudroom’s all set up downstairs.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be down with the coffee soon as it finishes perkin’. Captain Freah landed in Panama,” added Ax. “Standing by for your orders.”
“Okay.” Dog took a long swig from the coffee, then handed the cup back to Ax for a refill. “What, no paperwork?”
“At this hour SOP is to forge your initials.”
Downstairs, Dog nodded at the pair of MPs covering the door and went inside the empty control room. Cleared into the secure video conference circuit, he found the others were already talking together.