the mountainside.
The underlying nausea he felt wasn’t Court’s only malady. He was weak and tired; he knew he was in no way fit to be operational right now. He understood that the infection was much better than it had been, but he also knew it wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t going to go away unless he got daily infusions of antibiotics.
But he was here on Hanley’s orders, and as tough as tonight was going to be for him, he knew things would only get tougher if he defied the CIA on this.
Again.
Court had spent years working for the Agency, first as a singleton operative, sent in deep cover, alone, to fulfill CIA objectives around the world. And then he was assigned to a team of paramilitary operations officers, working in the coveted Special Activities Division on Task Force Golf Sierra, and there he and his mates conducted renditions, assassinations, recovery missions, and anything else that called for a team of Agency trigger pullers.
And then, some five years ago now, Court Gentry’s life changed in an instant. Task Force Golf Sierra suddenly turned on him, tried to murder him. He fought his way out of the United States, realizing the CIA had a kill order out on his head, though he had no idea why. It took four years to reconcile with the Agency, and in that time he worked off grid as an assassin for hire, accepting only operations he felt to be righteous and worthy.
Now he was back with the Agency, more or less, as a contract agent, working in a program called Poison Apple. He and the other two agents in the program were deniable assets for Matthew Hanley, sent out on missions where any CIA fingerprints were forbidden.
Court had also taken a few freelance gigs recently—again, only objectives that satisfied his personal moral compass—and while Hanley had not approved of any of them, Hanley always knew that Court would come back and be a “good soldier” when he was done with his private crusades.
And now, even though he felt like shit, it didn’t matter; Hanley had come calling, and Court knew he needed to make him happy.
Especially after screwing him over the last time.
His team leader back when he was on TF Golf Sierra had been Zack Hightower, the man now languishing in a cell here in Venezuela. Court knew he’d be within a few miles of Helicoide prison on his operation here, and he also knew that his proximity to Hightower wouldn’t help Hightower’s predicament one damn bit.
Court wasn’t here for him, so Zack was shit out of luck.
This was a tough business. Friendships and loyalty got you nowhere; Court knew this better than anyone.
On paper, Court’s mission here in Venezuela was not particularly complex. Go to some asshole’s house, get around his security, and scare him into coughing up the information Hanley needed.
Don’t have to be in top physical condition to pull that off, he told himself.
He also told himself he’d get back to Maryland in a couple of days, and then he’d resume his treatment. For now, he just had to focus on his objectives.
They banked left and right for several minutes more, sometimes gently, and sometimes the pilot yanked so hard on his controls it felt to Court as if the man were trying to turn his aircraft on the head of a pin.
And then he noticed the plane seemed to be in a steady climb, and for this reason only, he decided to end the silent treatment.
“I thought we were staying below radar.”
The pilot did not answer.
Court waited a moment more, and then when the Cessna increased its rate of climb, he turned to the man and spoke more authoritatively.
“What are you doing?”
The pilot was Hispanic, under forty, short, bald-headed, and built like a fire hydrant with a human head on top. He kept his night vision goggles focused out the windscreen as he answered. “You want me to talk, or you want me to fly?”
Court felt his mission was in jeopardy now, and his tone conveyed his concern. “I want you to do both.”
“This shit isn’t easy, you know.”
“Really? So that’s why you’re charging me fifty grand?”
“That’s exactly why I’m charging you fifty grand.”
“Tell me why we are climbing.”
“So we don’t hit the peak of that mountain right in front of us. That okay with you, amigo?”
Court peered ahead; he saw nothing but blackness. “How far?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got this.”
“But won’t we show up on radar?”
The Hispanic sighed, annoyed