Mark Greaney: On target

"Fucking geniuses, these Ivans," said Zack sarcastically. "They said you'd be coming to see the boss today. NSA sent word to Langley; Langley passed it on to me."

Court nodded. "It's shoot on sight, Zack. You drugged me just to bring me here to slap me around first?"

"Nah, the SOS is officially on hold, at least while you and I have a little discussion. The ass-kicking? That's personal."

"You call that an ass-kicking?"

"Who says I'm done?"

Court's brown eyebrows drew together. "Back in Virginia. I shot you, point-blank. Forty-four caliber. I saw you go backwards out a window. Two stories down."

Zack grinned. Like a hyena, he smiled but did not look happy. "Don't remind me. My vest caught the round, but I landed pretty fucking hard on an air-conditioning unit. Broke my pelvis in two places. Collarbone and a couple of ribs for good measure." Zack winced as if he were remembering the event, until something popped into his memory. He added, "Never knew you to carry a Derringer."

"Never had cause to mention it. Good thing I didn't."

Zack shrugged. "Depends on your point of view. To tell you the truth, I'd have loved to have known about it."

"So why were you guys there? What did I do?"

Zack shrugged, like the answer was obvious. "Termination order from on high. You know how it is."

"No. Actually, I don't. What the hell did I do wrong, Zack?" Court's voice was plaintive.

Hightower shrugged again. "Dunno. I'm just a worker bee. I got the term order on you, and I went to work that day, just like any other."

"Bullshit. They gave you a reason."

"Kid, when have I ever needed a reason to follow an order? I'm not like you, all navel-gazing and introspective. I do my shitty day job with a smile on my face."

Court was certain his former team leader was lying; no one at CIA would order an SAD field team leader to delete his own man without so much as an explanation, but he decided to let it go. "The men, the guys with you who jumped me tonight, they're your new Goon Squad?"

"More or less. Not Golf Sierra but Whiskey Sierra, so I'm still Sierra One. Bureaucratically we're set up different than the old gang. Mission and rules of engagement are more restrictive these days. But basically it's the same idea. My new crew consists of a couple of ex-SEALS, an ex-Delta, two SF guys who crossed over to CIA black ops way back when. Pretty good bunch, but certainly not Court Gentry caliber. You'll always be my best door kicker." He smiled. "You fucked Todd up pretty good: busted nose and a dislocated jaw."

"Sorry," replied Court, but he didn't mean it.

"Shit happens." Zack shrugged. Clearly he didn't mean it either.

"So why am I here?"

Zack Hightower reached out for the ice bag, took it from Gentry's face, and wrapped it over his swollen fist. "Abboud. President Bakri Ali Abboud."

"What about him?"

"You're goin' in to whack him on an op for Sid."

Court saw no point in playing dumb. If the CIA knew this much, they probably knew more details about Sid's op at this point than Gentry did himself. "I haven't agreed to anything."

"Yeah, well, you will. We want you to."

"What makes you think I give a shit what you want?"

"Just listen to my spiel, kid. It's that or the term order, so why not?"

Court pulled the ice pack back, repositioned it lower, leaving his black eye uncovered but soothing the growing pain in his lip. From behind it he said, "I'm listening."

Hightower leaned forward. "Here's the sit rep, kid." Gentry was thirty-six years old, but Hightower had called him kid since the first day they met, eight years earlier. "We want you to take Sidorenko's job, use the Ruskies to get into the Sudan. They have a solid op to get you in, better than anything we can orchestrate without using agency transportation and logistical assets, which we're not allowed to do."

"And then?"

"Then you make like you're going to pop Abboud, but at the last second, we want you to snatch him."

"Kidnap him?"

"Affirmative."

"And then?"

"Then you pass him off to me and my boys. We'll be on site, outta sight but close by. You hand him over to us and exfiltrate over water with my team."

"Why does the USA want Abboud? Washington wants to clean up the Darfur thing as much as anybody, and Abboud is almost single-handedly responsible."

"Yeah, he is, but POTUS and his people want Abboud sent to the International Criminal Court; he wants to hand over Abboud on a silver platter to them. There's been an ICC arrest warrant on him for three years."

"I know. But whacking him will do it quicker and cleaner, with no CIA comebacks. You guys could have just let me do the hit for the Russians."

Zack chuckled. "I know, Court. Your prescription for any disease is a double dose of lead to the head. But it's a new day in D.C., bro. The president and his crew at the White House are all into making nice with Europe, bolstering international institutions and all that shit. They want to take credit."

Court couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You've got to be kidding me. The White House actually wants to save Abboud's life so that he can be turned over to the Euros?"

Zack shrugged. "There's more to it than that. Tit for tat, quid pro quo, and a bunch of other phrases I don't get paid enough to understand but… basically… yeah."

Court shook his head, "Not like the old days, huh?"

"Yeah, right? Five years ago we would just whack whomever we needed to whack. To hell with the ICC. Listen, I'm with you; this seems like a lot of work just to hand the guy off to the fucking UN or whoever the fuck, but someone at Langley has convinced someone at the White House, who has convinced POTUS, that we have a surefire way to get hold of Abboud and deliver him to the ICC with no comebacks on us if it doesn't go to plan."

"And that way is me," Court said.

"Exactly. Every intelligence agency worth its salt knows the CIA wants the Gray Man dead. So that makes you the epitome of plausible deniability. If this deal breaks bad, it won't smell like a CIA op."

"This was the CIA's idea?"

"One hundred percent. SAD has been lying too low for our taste. CIA and military drones are buzzing around at thirty thousand feet, taking out bad guys left and right with their Hellfires, but Paramilitary Operations teams like Whiskey Sierra are just sitting around. The White House has restricted everything we do. Even our training regimen has suffered. We aren't killing terrorists, we aren't running in friendly countries, we aren't wiping our asses unless we use extra soft TP. SAD needs this op to go ahead, to show POTUS that SAD's Special Operations Group can still be viable in a kinder, gentler CIA. You are our proxy boy; you'll take the risks, you'll hand Abboud over to us, we'll hand him over to the Justice Department, and they'll hand him over to an appreciative International Criminal Court. POTUS and his risk-averse flunkies will give SAD more to do if they see how we can make his Euro fag buddies all warm and fuzzy by giving them Abboud tied in a bow. There isn't a UAV out there that can kidnap someone. At least, not yet."

"What about Sidorenko?"

"We pull it off, and Sid will just think you got whacked by us and we snatched Abboud in the same op. You don't want to work for that caviar-sucking psychopath any longer, trust me. Even in comparison with the rest of the Russian mob, Greg Sidorenko and his Nazi henchmen are fucking loony tunes."

Court cocked his head to the side. "If you guys are going to be in theater for the handover, how are you going to ensure there are no comebacks to the CIA?"

Zack waved his hand. "Details. We'll lie low, spend most of our time in international waters, shoot in for the op. You'll do the heavy lifting, and we'll support you. CIA Sudan Station has an informant in Suakin who knows Abboud's schedule for his trip there. This guy is involved in contingency planning for any emergencies; he knows the op orders for the president's bodyguards and their tactics."