Hanley wouldn’t budge, so Court said, “Matt. Denny is going to figure out you helped me. The war between you two is going to get worse.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to green-light you on this. Denny is a criminal, and he’s an asshole, but I’m not going to kill him.”
“Why not? He killed Jordan Mayes.”
Hanley replied quickly. “We can’t prove it. The one real witness says it was you.”
Court said, “I’m not going after Denny. If I get to him, I’ll talk to him, but I swear to you I will not hurt him. No promises on this al-Kazaz fucker, though.”
“Sorry, Court. The answer is still no.”
“Matt. I need to do this.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Six. If you pull this off, it won’t change what happened in Trieste.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Are you sure about that? This sounds like simple revenge.”
Court did not reply to this. Instead he hung up the phone.
Zack said, “You should be happy he disallowed that shit. There was no way in hell you were going to survive.”
“Get out.”
“What? Here? In the middle of the woods? It’s another mile to your safe house.”
Court drew his pistol and pointed it at his former team leader. “I’m not joking. Out.”
“Court, I know what you are going to do. It won’t work, it won’t change a thing, and you won’t survive it.”
“I will if you save me.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You know how.”
“That is crazy, bro.”
“You’re my only chance. I trust you.”
“Then I’m talking to a dead man.”
“Get out,” Court repeated, and he put the muzzle of the pistol on the top of Zack’s knee.
Zack climbed out of the truck, and he started to lean back into the window to talk to Gentry, but Court fired up the engine and pulled back onto the dirt road. He raced off to the south, spraying mud all over his former team leader as he sped away.
72
Angus Lee flew the Bell 206 JetRanger news helicopter for D.C.’s Fox 5. Stafford Regional wasn’t his normal airport, but he had just flown down to Richmond for a story and was stopping off here to top off fuel before heading back to the District. There had been a mass murder this afternoon at the Ritz-Carlton Pentagon City, and his station wanted him circling the building for live shots during their full evening special report coverage of the D.C. spy murders.
He’d just finished fueling up on the helipad, and he waved Fox 5 videographer Robert Robles over from inside the hangar. Robles immediately ran over and climbed into the JetRanger, anxious to get to the skies over D.C. so he could get to work.
As the helicopter began spinning up, a black pickup truck appeared on the pad racing towards it. Robles pointed it out to Lee. “Hey, looks like you forgot to pay for your gas.”
Lee chuckled, but quickly he got the feeling something was wrong. “That’s not an airport vehicle. And he’s moving fast.”
The Fox photog knew a good shot when he saw one, so he shouldered his camera and began recording. The vehicle stopped just feet from the nose of the helicopter, and the driver’s door opened. To the astonishment of both men, a man climbed out with a pistol in his hand, pointed it at the pilot, and walked around to the right side door of the helicopter.
The gunman was head to toe in black and, at first, Robles thought the man was African American. But as the man came closer it was clear his face was covered in greasepaint.
He tapped on the Plexiglas door of the right seat.
“Get us out of here!” Robles shouted to his pilot, but Lee wasn’t going to take off with a gun to his head.
He opened the door and put his hands up. Robles did the same.
The man leaned in and spoke to Lee, because with the noise of the engine above them, Robles couldn’t hear. “Get out, go to the truck, and get the gear bag from the bed. Bring it back here.”
“What are you going to do?”
The man with the greasepaint turned to the side, used the barrel of his pistol to tap the parachute rig strapped on his back. “I just need a quick ride. Your partner there will win himself a Pulitzer for what he’s about to film.”
Lee kept his hands up, but he said, “What about me?”
“You just keep us out of restricted airspace so we don’t get shot down. That should be enough motivation for you.”
“Oh . . . Okay.”
—
Court watched the pilot move the forty-pound gear bag from the truck to the spinning helo, then Court climbed in the backseat with it. The pilot got back in and strapped himself into the right seat again.
The videographer was too scared to turn around and look at Court, but Court put on a headset and spoke to him. “Cameraman, throw your phone out the door. Pilot, you, too.” Both men did as instructed. Court read off a series of GPS coordinates to the pilot, then said, “Take me there exactly. Get us to an altitude of six thousand feet.”