This was Travers’s favorite pub and he was a regular here, but he drank alone now. A couple of mates had sat with him for the first round, but they had to push off because the next day was Monday and, after all, who really hung out sipping whiskey till closing time on a Sunday night?
Chris Travers did, because he didn’t work a nine-to-five job. For large swaths of the year he was on the clock 24/7, and for other sizable chunks of the year he was in training and away from home. But for a few precious weeks here and there he was free from training, off from deployment, and on his own to do whatever the hell he wanted to do with his time.
And this evening he was determined to take advantage of one of the all-too-rare respites.
He held the whiskey up to the little light hanging over the bar of the Irish pub to appreciate the amber color, and while he did this he looked out the window into the night. By force of habit, he always kept an eye open. Even here, in the States.
He was surprised to see trash blowing down 19th Street. There had been only the lightest breeze when Travers headed out to the pub hours earlier, so he’d not bothered to dress for warmth—he’d just thrown on a flannel shirt and khaki pants, and boat shoes with no socks. Suddenly he found himself regretting his rare moment of poor preparation.
He’d not thought twice about making the six-block walk down here from his apartment to the Irish Whiskey, because Chris Travers had braved elements a hell of a lot more severe than a D.C. spring. His mind took him back to a mountain in Pakistan where he’d once spent three days in temperatures below zero; he’d handled that without a second thought. Granted, at the time he’d been under fire from Taliban snipers, so he had bigger fish to fry than catching a chill, but still, he told himself, tonight’s ten-minute hump back to his apartment would be no big deal.
Travers had joined the army out of high school, served two years in straight-legged infantry and, with that, three tours of Iraq. He then earned his way into the Green Berets, spending three more years in 7th Special Forces Group. From there he left the military and went straight into the CIA, found his way to SAD Ground Branch, and, with his paramilitary unit, he had deployed all over the world for the past ten years.
This had been a life well spent, but he had a long-term plan for his life ahead, too. He’d earned his private and commercial pilot’s licenses along the way and, he told himself, once he got too old or too beat-up for the shooting and scooting life, he’d stay with the Agency, flying spooks and techs all over the world as a pilot for Air Branch.
But that was somewhere in the future. For now he was between deployments, spending his evening alone in a bar and thinking about all his mates who didn’t make it back home from Iraq, and from a dozen other shit holes of the world. He’d lost a lot of good friends, and he always dedicated his last drink of the night to them. Then he gave a silent wave to the bartender, a little wink to the waitress, whose attractiveness, like the wind outside, had increased dramatically in the time he’d been sitting on a bar stool drinking, and he headed out into the blustery night.
His apartment was on Florida, several blocks north, and it was directly into the wind, so he jammed his hands into his pockets, and leaned into it as he climbed the hill. There were next to no pedestrians out on a Sunday night, but he was careful to keep watch for movement on the sidewalk or on the street, ready to give a scrutinizing eye to anyone or anything that looked out of place.
He wasn’t aware of any specific threats, but men like Travers had personal security and counter-surveillance techniques trained into their muscle memory.
He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
—
Court Gentry was completely enshrouded in his hoodie and neck gaiter; only his eyes, forehead, and the bridge of his nose remained visible. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he kept his head low into the wind. He stood on the sidewalk, three doors down from Chris Travers’s apartment, and he waited for his target to appear, walking back from the pub.
Once he saw the man in the distance make the turn onto Florida, he tucked himself into a little alley that ran south off the street, found the deepest and darkest place, well out of the wind, and waited with his hand on the pistol in his jacket pocket.
He imagined Travers was probably a little drunk, but Court also knew the majority of the effects of the alcohol would disappear almost instantly when the adrenaline kicked in, so he knew he had to presume Travers would remain formidable.
Court was also aware Travers would be hardwired with every counter-surveillance protocol and tactic known to man, and he would treat everyone he saw as a potential adversary. That said, Travers could not evaluate what he could not see, so Court waited here, just out of the sight line of his quarry.
Court knew where Chris Travers lived because Court knew Chris Travers.