the move again. The only means to that end, he told himself, would be to get some relief for the pain now.
He did not need much convincing.
Sixty seconds later, Oryx had his right wrist zip-tied to the center beam of the shack. His left arm was free to drink water or eat food or to take out his manhood and piss in the dirt if he were so inclined. Gentry made sure there was nothing within reach he could use as a weapon or a tool. Court told himself that Oryx was secure, and Oryx could take care of himself for a while.
Next the American opened his backpack, went right past the hydrocodone pills, and pulled out the most potent injection of morphine the CIA had given him. He tore the preloaded injector from its sterilized package and popped off the plastic tip to expose the needle.
Oryx backed away, afraid.
“Don’t worry,” said Gentry. “This one’s for me.”
He injected twenty milligrams of the heavy opiate into his left arm. Immediately he sat down and leaned back against the wall of the shack, out of reach of his captive.
Within a minute and a half his eyelids began to flutter, his pupils became smaller, and the pain began to subside.
Oryx could clearly see the effect the injection was having on his captor. “Madness. What kind of a soldier or spy takes drugs during a mission?”
“Shut up,” Gentry said. The room around him softened into a gentle blur. He then said, a tad too defensively, “The pain will slow me down later if I don’t take the edge off now.”
“And your heroin will not slow you down?”
“It’s not heroin, asshole,” Court snapped back, but he knew the drug was similar in effect to heroin, though it did not produce its high for as long a duration.
“You are a drug addict,” Abboud said flatly.
“And you are a genocidal despot. Get off my back.”
Any self-flagellation Gentry may have felt for taking the heavy narcotic while operational went away in seconds, as the rush of the drug’s initial effect gave way to an exaggerated sense of well-being. Within ten minutes of injecting himself, he was deep in conversation with Abboud, a 180-degree turnaround from his earlier behavior.
But Court was not entirely incapacitated. During the course of their polite conversation over the next half hour, Oryx asked him for his real name and his home address, asked to borrow his phone, and asked if he could get a closer look at his very fine pistol. The Gray Man was under the influence of a mood-altering opiate, but he was not insane. Each time he just smiled genuinely. When the gun was requested, he even laughed and replied that Abboud had made a nice try.
By a quarter till five, Court was at peace in the dark shack. It was a chemically induced peace, and a peace at a decidedly inopportune time for a warrior like Gentry. As he chatted with Oryx or talked to himself, he found himself incredibly proud to be on this mission, proud to be sent along with the brave men of Whiskey Sierra, God rest the souls of two of them, and proud to be trusted by the legendary Denny Carmichael.
With his eyes closed in blissful tranquillity, he began to fall asleep, the heavy sedation edging out the loss of inhibition that had him deep in conversation with his captive. Just as his head lolled to the side, his phone beeped.
Court stared at it, his eyes as wide as saucers. He looked up at Oryx and smiled. “Oh shit. I’m in trouble.”
He answered it. “Hello?”
Hightower said, “Okay, Six, we’re gonna have to push up the timetable.”
“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,