quickly down the cabin and leaned over the passenger in the dark. At first he thought him to be asleep, but the man lifted his cap, opened his eyes, and said, “Evening.”
“Don’t take it personally, sport, but I can’t have you on this aircraft. Get Transpo to arrange another flight for you. I’ve got a priority mission you’re encroaching on here.”
The man seemed bored. He closed his eyes again. “Call Langley, extension fifty-eight twelve. She tells me to get off, I get off.”
“You don’t listen, do you?” When no response came he said, “Who are you with?”
“Coded.”
If this man was, in fact, on a code-word operation, then Spano wouldn’t be learning anything further from him about what he was doing on board.
But he didn’t give a shit. “My op is coded, too, tough guy.” He then changed tactics, opting for direct intimidation. “Not telling you again. Deplane. Now.”
“Fifty-eight twelve,” the man replied in a bored voice. He was positively unintimidated, and he rolled his head towards the window.
Doug Spano pulled his sat phone out of his jacket and stormed back up the cabin.
* * *
• • •
Five minutes later the CIA officer held the phone to his ear, and Court could tell from his body language that he was pissed. He came storming in his direction, and he handed the phone over.
Court took it and answered. “Hello?”
“Making friends as always, I see.” It was his handler, Suzanne Brewer. She sounded annoyed, but Court couldn’t remember ever hearing her sound different.
“Just being a good worker bee. You told me you wanted me on this plane.”
“Well, yes, I need you here in Washington, stat. You’re on that flight, but you need to relinquish any weapons.”
Court paused. Said, “I’m not really the ‘relinquishing weapons’ type.”
“Do it.”
“Why?”
In an even more irritated voice Brewer said, “Because I asked you to, Violator.”
Court sighed. “Okie doke.” He passed the phone back to the CIA officer, who disconnected the call.
The man stood over him, obviously displeased by this intrusion on his operation. “Aren’t you a Billy Badass? Gettin’ to ride shotgun on a code-word op. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that shit.”
“I’ll stay out of your hair, boss.”
A finger came up, not quite in Court’s face, but close enough to annoy. “Damn right, you will. You’ll park your ass right here; we’ll take the front. You need to go to the lav, you will hit your call light and I’ll send a man to escort you. Now . . . let’s have those weapons. You’ll get them back at Ternhill.”
Court pulled his Glock, backwards and with his fingertips, so as not to be threatening, and he handed it over. The man took it, dropped the magazine, and cleared the round from the chamber, letting the bullet fall to the floor. He reseated the magazine and stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans.
And then he looked back to the seated man.
Court gazed up at him. No expression, no movement.
“Secondary.”
Court slowly lifted his right leg, ripped off an ankle holster Velcroed around his calf, and passed it over along with the .38 revolver tucked inside it.
He then looked back to the man standing over him.
As he expected, the CIA officer said, “Let’s take a peek inside that backpack.”
Court sighed, remained still.
“Don’t make me send my four guys back here to pound it away from you.”
Asshole, Court thought but did not say. He reached into his pack and removed the integrally suppressed Ruger .22 pistol stowed there. Again holding the base of the grip by his fingertips, he handed it to the man standing over him.
The CIA officer took the gun with a confused expression, then held it up to examine it carefully.
Court knew what this jackass must have been thinking right now. The Ruger Amphibian wasn’t a pistol fielded by CIA case officers, security staff, or normally even paramilitaries. No . . . it was a weapon with only one obvious purpose.
It was an assassin’s tool.
The CIA officer’s eyes were wider now as he looked back to the man in the ball cap sitting in the dark. After clearing his throat nervously, he said, “Is . . . is that all?”
Court replied, “You’re not getting my nail file.”
The standing man recovered slowly, still holding the silenced pistol up for inspection. “I don’t like this shit one bit.”
Court yawned. “Dude, I don’t know what your problem is, but it sure as hell isn’t me.”
The CIA officer turned away and headed up to the front. Court watched him place the