Mark Greaney - On target

"Oh boy. Um… I don't know. How is everything out there on the boat?"

"Fine, but I'm going to need you to recon another site for the pickup. I think the north side of the mangrove is going to be better at low tide. Get over there and see if it's clear of civvies. There are some Bedouins that have built structures up and down-"

"You mean… right now?"

"No, dude. At your fucking leisure. Of course I mean now."

"Oh, okay. I mean, no. Don't be mad… but I need to hang out here a little bit longer."

"To do what?"

Court looked up at the ceiling. He noticed the intricate weave of the thatch; even in the dark it was as if each strand of the thick straw had its own personality, its own purpose, its own path through the others as it tucked into and out of the-

"To do what, Six?"

"C'mon, Zack. Don't be pissed off. I just need to…" Court's voice trailed off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I wish you could see the ceiling in this hooch though, it's fucking beautiful. They dry the reeds and then tie them into little bundles, and then they tie those together to make bigger bundles that-

"Jesus, Court! Are you high?"

Court laughed into the phone.

"Where's Oryx?"

"He's sitting right here. You wanna talk to him?"

"Fuck no, I don't want to talk-

"Here he is."

Court got up, carried the phone over to Abboud, who reached out slowly and took it with his untethered hand.

"You are speaking to President Bakri Ali Abboud. Who is this?"

Hightower did not answer at first. When he spoke it was slow, tentative. "What's happened to my man?"

"Your man has injected himself with some sort of tranquilizer."

"Accidentally, you mean?"

Oryx looked at Gentry. He'd gone back to the wall and leaned against it. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling of the shack, his head back against the burlap and driftwood wall.

"Deliberately. Very deliberately, in fact."

It was clear Zack Hightower did not know how to respond to this. "Okay. Well… you listen. I've got many more assets in the area. You try to take advantage of this situation and-"

"Don't worry, Mr. CIA. Before your man decided to enjoy himself, he made sure I was restrained. Your operation is delayed, but I am unable to escape."

"Give the phone back to him."

Oryx looked down at the Thuraya and smiled. He pushed a red button to end the call. Six's eyes were still on the ceiling. They were unfixed, the eyelids sagging low. Desperately the Sudanese president tried to think of the phone number to his office, to his security detail… to anyone. Yes, a secretary at his Khartoum presidential palace; the number just popped into his head. He did not know where he was, exactly, but he could move an entire army into the area north of Suakin, south of Port Sudan, west of the coastline and east of the Red Sea Hills with a single order. He still thought it likely that Six, if he could, would kill him if he felt his kidnapping operation was no longer feasible. But if Six stayed incapacitated for a while, there might just be enough time for a rescue!

He began thumbing the numbers on the phone.

He looked back up to his kidnapper as he brought the phone to his ear.

The small black pistol with the long silencer was centered between his eyes. "I'm going to need that back."

"Yes."

"Nice try, though," said the American.

Gentry slept for two hours and awoke at dusk. He was still heavily under the influence of the morphine, still felt relatively free of the pain in his back, though the euphoria had dissipated enough for him to dread his next conversation with Hightower. Oryx himself had nodded off in the heat, and Court took the quiet moment to sip bottled water and eat a Soldier Fuel bar. As he chewed, he idly picked up the phone and saw that Sierra One had called six times in the past two hours.

Court set the phone back down in the dirt and finished his dinner. Then he built a tiny fire, using grass and twigs and bits of larger pieces of driftwood lying around. He hardly needed the warmth, but the light was helpful now that darkness had fallen on the eastern coast of the Sudan.

"How are you feeling?" Oryx asked from the center of the room. Gentry looked up to see him standing, facing away and relieving himself with the aid of his free hand.

"The back feels better. The rest of me feels great." Court smiled at his own humor.

"Your phone keeps ringing."

"Yeah," said Court. "I'll need to call them back in a bit. In a couple of hours I'll be hauling your ass to the coast. In a day or two, you'll be locked up." Court smiled at him, "I guess you figured killing four hundred thousand of your countrymen wouldn't have a downside, huh?"

"You have killed more people today than I have, friend."

"We're not friends."

Oryx sat back down and wiped his face, smearing the sheen of sweat across his forehead. The soft firelight danced over his ebony features in the reflection of the dampness. "I think we are more than friends. We are almost brothers."

"You need to take a look in a mirror."

"I mean, our sensibilities are similar. As is our chosen course of action. We both kill, and we both have decided that it does not bother us to do so."

"You've all but eradicated a people. You and I are not-"

"So then it's not the act of killing that bothers you. It's merely the scale of the killing. But I could counter-argue that what I do, I do through political policy, not with my own hands. I think it takes more cruelty to kill a man, face-to-face, than a people via laws and declarations of war. You are the more dangerous man here. Just think how many people you would kill if you ran a nation, an intelligence service. You would slaughter everyone you were against."

Bakri Ali Abboud, president of Sudan, leaned very close now, his head just above the burning wood, the sheen of sweat glowing across his face. "Just like me… brother." He smiled. "You and I, Mr. Six, are the same thing. Eradicators of the debris of humanity." Oryx let the phrase hang in darkness a moment. "Only I am better at it than you, so I am deemed more evil than you. Interesting how one's perspective commands one's concept of right and wrong."

Gentry stoked the fire with a long stick. He recognized that it was the opiate in him causing him to continue the conversation. "You were better than me, but the party is over. You'll be locked up for the rest of your life."

Oryx smiled again.

Court eyed him in the firelight. "You don't seem so worried about spending the rest of your days behind bars."

"Oh, if that were truly going to be my fate, I would be extremely disturbed, I can assure you. But I will not spend the rest of my days behind bars."

"Not if I change my mind and shoot your ass right here."

President Abboud laughed, low and rhythmic. "I don't know if you can operate your weapon in your present condition.

"Try me."

"No, no," Oryx waved his hand. "I am happy to have you for an escort to Europe."

"To prison," Court said.

"Oh, for a few months, I'm sure you're right. But offers have been extended to me, offers that I have refused until now, that will allow me to seek exile in any one of many third-party nations. The Ivory Coast is close to home, but at the moment I am leaning towards a certain Caribbean island that has been suggested. I enjoy the occasional cigar, though I pray you do not tell my wives."

Court sat up straight, still Indian-style, against the wall of the shack. "Bullshit."

"Diplomacy," answered Bakri Ali Abboud with a smile.

"The Europeans are going to let you walk?"

The president shook his head slowly. He exposed his teeth in a smile. "Not just the Europeans. The Americans, too."

Gentry was gobsmacked. He knew he was way too fucked-up to evaluate the micro-expressions set off by the president's limbic system, to check for clues of deception. But the bastard unquestionably seemed sure of himself.