“That dickhole in the truck,” Dan growled, wishing he’d had the opportunity to put a bullet right between the bastard’s eyes. He didn’t know who the guy was or what the hell he was about, but by the sound of it, he’d murdered three innocent men. And, yeah, okay, so the ground crew weren’t completely innocent. After all, they had taken a bribe to let Dan and company into the airport after closing, bypassing security and immigration and customs. But that didn’t mean they deserved to be slaughtered for it. Damnit!
The night air around them was heavy with the smells of aviation fuel and wet concrete—the storm they’d flown through had hit Bogotá first. Penni squeezed his fingers and he glanced down to find her pretty face turned to him, judging his reaction to Chelsea’s news. There was sympathy in her eyes—those kind eyes that had done a number on him since day one. The ground crew had been his contacts, his assets. And now they were dead because of the affiliation.
One more regret…one more black mark to add to my life’s list.
Remorse hit him hard in the gut, and the impulse to drown his sorrows in a tall glass of Jack Daniel’s was so tangible he could almost feel the tumbler in his hand, almost smell the hints of spice and nuts and smoke that whispered through the harsher notes of the alcohol. His mouth watered.
Penni gave his fingers another squeeze, as if she somehow knew where his mind had gone. It was enough to drag him back from the edge. Ground him in the here and now. He was able—with another look at her sweet face and a reminder that you won’t slip if you stay away from slippery places—to push the craving away.
“You suspect he was the one who took out Kozlov too?” Zoelner ventured. “Maybe whoever he is, he was watching us, following us, and getting rid of anyone who seemed like they might know too much about what we were doing there. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling like we were being watched, Dan Man. Because we were.”
“But why?” Dan asked, his mind racing through possibilities and discarding them one after the other. Nothing about the Mystery Man made a lick of sense.
“No clue,” Chelsea said. “And we’re not likely to grab a clue anytime soon.”
“Meaning?” Dan asked.
“Meaning our mysterious airport shooter has ghosted. He’s nowhere to be found. But Morales is trying to track his movements.”
“Which brings us back to the change in plans,” Penni said. “Why does the killing of Kozlov and the ground crew mean we’re taking Winterfield to Chicago instead of DC?”
Dan caught Zoelner’s eye and knew the former spook was thinking the same thing he was. “Babineaux,” they said simultaneously.
“What?” Penni glanced between them. “You mean Rock Babineaux? What does he have to do with it?”
“He’s a highly trained interrogator,” Dan explained. “Some might say he’s the best in the biz. And I suspect, given the giant question mark that is our Mystery Man in Cusco, our commander in chief is insisting one of his own get first crack at Winterfield before he’s handed over to the CIA.”
“Oh-kay,” Penni said slowly. “Um…why? I feel like I’m missing something here.”
“Given the recent spate of traitors coming out of the CIA’s woodwork, el Jefe doesn’t trust that it’s not another government spook who’s gone AWOL, running around killing people,” he explained. “And he doesn’t want us to hand Winterfield over to the CIA before he has a chance to have someone he trusts interrogate the fucker.”
Chelsea frowned and shook her head sorrowfully. “We haven’t inspired much confidence lately, have we? Two rogue agents in the span of a few months.” She hoisted her satchel higher on her shoulder and looked off into the distance where the air traffic control tower was lit up like a lighthouse against the blackened windows of the closed airport.
“So, we’re headed back to the Windy City,” Zoelner said, his eyes lingering on Chelsea’s profile for just a little too long before swinging toward Dan.
“Roger that,” Dan said. And despite everything, he smiled at the thought of taking Penni up to his room on the third floor of BKI’s main warehouse. He’d shut the metal door, throw her on his bed, and do…everything to her. It was a good thing she was still holding his hand or else he might have unconsciously rubbed his palms together in lurid anticipation, like a cartoon villain.
And, oh great. His hard-on had softened at some point during their conversation, but now it was standing at full attention again. Wonderful. Perfect. He only had an eight-hour flight ahead of him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of the pilots called. The flyboy was standing in the open doorway of the jet wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a serious expression that looked sort of foreign on his youthful face. If the kid was more than twenty-five years old, Dan would eat his Ruger for dessert. “We are fully fueled. As soon as this emergency flight lands”—the pilot motioned toward the little red Pilatus PC-12 that was touching down on the runway—“we’re green-lighted to go. If you all would, please.” He motioned for them to board.
Chelsea was the first to climb the stairs, followed by Zoelner and Penni. Dan brought up the rear. And speaking of rears…he watched Penni’s swing in front of him. This is gonna be the longest eight hours of my life.