mentor, Maurice, had always told him, “Any mission you can’t afford to walk away from is a mission you should run away from.”
“One hundred fifty yards,” came the call from Sierra Five.
Maurice had another saying that popped into Court’s mind right then. “A plan is just a big list of shit that’s not going to happen.” Court had found this to be the one constant in his missions, in his life. Plans were good. Plans were necessary, but ultimately, most plans were bullshit.
“Sierra Three to One.”
“Go for One.”
“Boss, I got a truck passing below my position.”
“SLA?” Court could hear the hopefulness in Hightower’s voice.
“Wait one, break.” A short pause. Then, “Negative. It’s GOS troops.”
“Five for One . . . I got troops over here, too. Two blocks west of me heading towards the square.”
“Goddammit,” said Zack as way of reply.
Shit, thought Court. The GOS was nearby, but the SLA was not. Who were the GOS looking for?
Court squinted across the square. To his right the sun began to rise over the water like a fresh red blister. Dawn’s light gave an eerie glow to the whitewashed buildings to his left. Abboud’s entourage, some twenty or more men, closed on his position.
“One, this is Three. What we doin’, boss?” Court’s earpiece was alive with Whiskey Sierra’s traffic, though he was under orders to not transmit himself.
Court whispered to himself in the cool, dark atrium, willing with every ounce of imagined magic projection he could muster. “Abort. Abort.” He stayed at the window, but he was ready to run down the stairs and out the back door of the building. He could get away, not to the car left for him, but to the water. There were little boats tied up all around the harbor; he could grab one and go.
Hightower’s voice came over the net. Court knew each inflection of the man, to where he could hear the stress concealed between the words. “Say number of tangos, over.”
“One, Three. Could be about thirty. Three-oh, break. One long flatbed. Small arms and RPGs sighted, break. Might be some PKMs in there too, boss, over.” PKMs were big Russian belt-fed machine guns.
“Roger that,” said Zack flatly.
“Five to One. I’ve got about the same number over here. They are patrolling in columns, doesn’t look like they’re too jacked up for trouble.”
When Zack said nothing else for a few seconds, the net crackled to life again. “One, this is Three. I can engage right now. Once they disperse it’s going to be hard—”
“Understood, Three. Wait one,” said Zack.
“Abort,” whispered Gentry again. And then, again under his breath, he said over and over and over a line that he’d used many times in the past when life and death was all up to Sierra One, and Court was on the tip of the spear awaiting the decision. “Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack.”
Court knew everything, literally his very life, likely depended on Sierra One’s next transmission; a safe, quiet exfiltration, and then an investigation into how Nocturne Sapphire fell apart so completely.
Or the alternative.
World War fucking Three.
“Be cool, Zack.”
Then it came. “Sierra One to all elements.”
Be cool Zack.
A long hesitation. “Let’s knock it off. Everybody stand down. Hold positions until Oryx’s entourage gets in the mosque; then I want a quiet egress back out of the area—”
Court let out one of the longest sighs of relief of his life.
Each member of Whiskey Sierra came on the net, in turn, and confirmed that they understood the order to stand down. These men were consummate professionals; they betrayed no emotion, neither relief nor disappointment, that the mission had been scrubbed at the very last second.
Gentry took one last look at President Abboud, walking briskly through the square with his entourage towards his position. Disappointing to be so close and yet so far, but Gentry was a pro as well. He’d been here before, a second or two before the point of no return but unable or unwilling to proceed. Court wasted no time turning away from the window and moving back towards the stairs from the atrium to the front door entrance to the bank. He walked down the dark colonnaded hall. He’d almost reached the back door when his headset came alive once again with Whiskey Sierra’s radio traffic.
Zack Hightower rested his rifle between his knees and leaned his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat in frustration as Brad/Sierra Two put the dirty beige cargo van in gear. Behind them, in