Dark Redemption (David Rivers Book 3) Page 4

  “Who’s your informant?”

  “The Indian gave me direct contact with his inside man. That’s how I knew your flight information—”

  “The Indian’s dead.”

  Ian took another sip. “Then handing off his source seems a prudent measure.”

  I rubbed my forehead in disbelief at his nonchalance. “The Indian’s dead because the inside source burned him. Your source is a double agent.”

  “He’s not. You’re alive and being employed at a higher level than before.”

  “Ian, I’m burned. I’ve already been interrogated once. You weren’t mentioned, but it’s only a matter of time before he discovers your involvement.”

  “It’s a game of risk, David. We’re going to finish this thing. By the way, you trying to make me feel better about going bald? What’s up with the haircut?”

  He was gazing at my head in a nonjudgmental way, analyzing my fresh, unwanted buzz cut.

  He didn’t realize what we were up against, hadn’t listened to Caspian describe how the Handler knew exactly where we’d been hiding all along.

  But there was no explaining that to him. We didn’t have the time, this certainly wasn’t the place, and, beneath it all, I no longer knew if I could trust him. There were too many coincidences to rule out Ian’s complicity with the Handler. A few minutes earlier, my confidence that Ian wasn’t a deep cover agent was 60/40 at best. His sudden appearance dropped my calculus to 50/50, and I couldn’t explain that to him either.

  Instead, I muttered, “I think the Handler knows everything.”

  “Don’t give me that. I’ve got the situation under control.”

  “Really—like you had the survivor from Boss’s team under control?”

  I immediately regretted the words.

  Ian lit up with the prospect of additional information. “Have you gotten any closer to him?”

  I shouldn’t tell him the truth; I knew the havoc it would wreak upon his psyche. He was an intelligence specialist to the core, responsible for informing the actions of the trigger-pullers he guided along the precipice of their service to the Handler. One miscalculation on his part meant their freefall to certain death, and all but he and I had already paid that price. They had all failed to spot the worst threat possible: the one that resided in the chair next to them, undetected.

  But the truth about that failure could be the knockout blow that kept Ian from dying in a fight he couldn’t win.

  I tossed the bait. “I’ve gotten close enough to kill him.”

  “Matz?”

  “Caspian.”

  For the first time, Ian’s pallor indicated the same fear that I felt. His mouth hung open for a second, and then he began muttering quietly, almost to himself, “We had good intel that Caspian was killed. Good intel. There will be consequences to how the team reacted, and now we need to move against the Handler quicker than I thought.”

  “Look, the Handler’s people knew I was coming. Don’t trust this inside source.”

  “And instead rely on—what, exactly? You think I’ve got a grab bag of other options besides my source and you? If you don’t get this done, then I’m the last man standing. It’ll be up to me.”

  “No, it won’t. You can still walk away.”

  His eyes narrowed and he forced his gaze forward, out the window. When he spoke again, his voice was more resolute than I’d ever heard him. “You’re forgetting that I was in that vehicle with Karma when she was shot. I’d known her, and Boss’s whole team, for years before you ever showed up. And since I failed to detect that Caspian faked his death, then I’m responsible for letting the team die. So I will get revenge against the Handler, David. With or without you.”

  In trying to deter him, I’d thrown water on a grease fire.

  “Ian, just—”

  “Tell me how to find him.”

  I sighed mightily, knowing full well that he’d self-destruct in his quest if I didn’t beat him to killing the Handler. But I also knew I was going to die upon my return from the mission, and if I didn’t tell Ian what little information I’d gathered, revenge for Karma would likely never happen. And any deep cover agent would be seeking corroboration for my details about the Silver Widow, the one facet of the Somalia mission that the Handler had been concerned with.

  Ian only wanted to know how to find his enemy.

  “You’re looking for a jet,” I said. “It landed at the Complex somewhere outside San Antonio yesterday. 10:30 local time. No tail number. Return takeoff within ten minutes. Flight time estimated at four hours, temperature at the destination was around freezing. We launched again last night. Best guess, it was a two-hour flight to SEATAC. They moved me blind so I’m not sure if they put a tail number on.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s got an electric chair. That’s how he killed the Indian. That’s why my head is shaved. Now I’m about to go on a mission I don’t understand for a reason I don’t know, and between Caspian’s betrayal and what the Handler must know already, this goes deeper than we realize. That’s why the more I see, the less I want you involved in this.”

  “I can’t sleep anymore.” His voice sounded frail, vulnerable. “And if you can’t see this through to the end, then I will.”

  My vision blurred amid the white void of sky outside the window. “Be careful, Ian.”

  I pushed myself to my feet.

  “It was nice meeting you,” I said, loudly enough for any immediate bystanders to hear.

  Then I walked away before he could object, leaving my glass where it rested.

  3

  January 3, 2009

  Galeão International Airport

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  I exited the baggage claim to a wave of morning air saturated with humidity and vehicle exhaust—already too hot for the suit I wore. The sidewalks were lined with people, mostly locals waiting for families. A few tourists were among them, departing in yellow compact cars whose spot on the curb was quickly filled by overzealous taxi drivers searching for their next fare.

  Walking down the sidewalk, I spotted the silver sedan parked amid a row of taxis. Its trunk popped open as I approached, and I leaned down to see the driver through the open passenger window. He had “Complex operator” written all over him: loose shirt selected for concealing the pistol on his waist and the full-sleeve tattoos on his arms, broad face and shoulders indicating a few years of steroid use that had more than repaid the investment.

  But when he spoke it was in a boyish voice, a near-lisp at the end of my name. “Your chariot awaits, Mr. Rivers.”

  I tossed my luggage in the trunk and let myself in. “They sent a supermodel to pick me up from the Complex. You’re something of a letdown.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That blonde who runs the budget?”

  “Redhead.”

  “Meh. Not my style.” He pulled away from the curb and gunned the car forward, adding a wary, “Sir.”

  “David.”

  “Right on. I’m Reilly. Your kit’s in the glove compartment.”

  I opened it to find a Glock 19 inside a concealable holster with belt clips, two spare magazines, cell phone, sports watch, and a money clip stuffed with a thick roll of Brazilian currency. A quick check revealed the pistol to be loaded and chambered with hollow points.

  I looked at him, failing to mask my annoyance. “This it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  I slid the full holster inside my waistband, arranging my suit jacket over it before pocketing the spare magazines.

  “What does the watch do, shoot a laser?”

  “Tracking device with ninety-six hours of beacon transmit. Same as the money clip.”

  I put it on my wrist, then pocketed the phone and waved the money clip at Reilly.

  “I guess I can use this to buy some fucking body armor and a radio earpiece. Where the hell is the rest of my kit? How am I supposed to communicate with the securit
y detail?”

  “I’m just a medic, bro. Everyone else is on duty, and that’s all they gave me for the handoff. You were a last-minute addition to the team.”

  “Then I hope you know about the mission, because no one prior to this point has filled me in.”

  “Standard business negotiation. Our delegation has one primary, two staffers, a translator, and eight bodyguards. Meeting location is unknown, host organization is providing transportation.”

  “How are the beacons monitored?”

  “Fixed-wing ISR bird up top.” A stab of fear shot through me—instantly, irrationally, I was back on the hilltop seeing Caspian’s bloodied face as he looked up to scan the sky.

  He’s probably watching right now…

  I shook the thought clear, blinking myself back to reality as Reilly continued casually, “…week’s worth of airspace clearance for aerial tourism charters, and weather looks good. Shouldn’t be any gaps in coverage.”

  If the sky at present was any indication, he was right. Drenched in shifting cobalt hues, the rising sun’s light was arrested only by a few smears of cloud that wouldn’t inhibit aerial observation for long.

  But on someone else’s turf, even small gaps could make all the difference.

  “What about ground team?”

  He swerved our car around a maintenance van with its emergency flashers on. “Usual crew from tech branch tracking on foot and cars running parallels to triangulate the beacons. Eight Outfit shooters trailing the delegation in vehicles just in case shit hits the fan. And it’s hard to see, but can you spot the boat with the chopper out there?”

  He was peering out the driver’s side window, stabbing a finger at the glass. I looked past a blur of traffic flowing the opposite direction as the road arced onto a bridge over the water. Among smaller ships in the calm waters of the bay, I saw a distant freighter lurking. A helicopter was visible on the open deck between clusters of stacked shipping containers.

  “I see it. How big is the quick reaction force?”

  “Twelve Outfit shooters stationed on the boat with the flight crew. And me, until I had to come get you. Best thing to happen to me all trip. We’ve been sucking dick for gas money out there, living in shipping containers, and playing soccer on the deck in between no-notice rehearsal launches for three days now. But when the call comes, we’re off like a prom dress. Ten-minute flight time to South Zone, where the delegation is staying.” He glanced over at me, weighing his next words with a measured casualness. “You just came back from that Somalia mission?”

  I looked at him, trying to gauge his intent and seeing only a nervous curiosity. If this was a deliberate test to see if I’d bend the rules of confidentiality, it wasn’t a good one.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  “And I’m not supposed to ask. But here we are.” He was still watching me, only glancing at the lane ahead as an afterthought, waiting for a response.

  “How do I know you’re not going to rat me out?”

  “Cut the shit, bro. Before the Outfit, what were you? MARSOC? You’re not tan enough to be a SEAL.”

  “Ranger.”

  “Well Sua Sponte, motherfucker. I spent five years as a Ranger medic. That’s what I’m talking about, see? We all go to war together before the Outfit, and now some criminals who’ve never gone to combat tell us not to talk to each other while we go die for their operation. I heard you came back from Somalia alone.”

  “I did.”

  He winced. “Your partner was a good fucker, man. Helped me out a lot when I got to the Outfit.”

  “How do you know who my partner was?”

  “Saw you guys heading to the airfield for some practice freefalls at the Complex before I had to ship down here with the advance team. Did his body make it back home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “I carried him off the plane.”

  “Good. He deserves to be buried at the Complex. How was the memorial?”

  “They sent me here before it happened. Now shoot it to me straight. What’s the rumor mill saying about this mission?”

  “Usual shit. The organization down here has already set the cheapest terms they’ll agree to, and the Handler’s spies figured them out already. It’s going to be a one-day handshake deal.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  He gave an exaggerated laugh, looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. “If I were you? Be glad you got promoted out of the Complex. You’ll be getting paid a lot more, and your odds of getting shot in the face just went down by a factor of ten.”

  “What about the fact no one knows where the meeting will take place?”

  “This is my sixth delegation security op in six countries. Only one of those involved knowing the meeting location ahead of time. All of them were the easiest paycheck I’ve ever made.”

  We came alongside a blue-and-silver commuter bus, and I watched the row of faces within as we cruised past. Glancing back to Reilly, I asked, “Then why is the Handler staging so many shooters in Rio?”

  “Break glass in case of emergency, my friend. The Outfit’s not going to see any action here, much less you. Even if things went sideways, you think the delegation’s bodyguards are going to let you take over? The only reason you’re here is because the boss said so.”

  “Brazil’s got one of the highest murder rates in the world.”

  “Sure, in the favelas. You think a multi-million-dollar deal is being made in some shantytown in the hills run by drug traffickers? The delegation is waiting for you at a beach with the most expensive real estate on the continent.”

  “Then why did the Handler personally order me here?”

  He fell silent abruptly, his eyes steeling to the road. I looked ahead, expecting a crash, but our lane was clear. An industrial district swept by to my right, the silos dotting a horizon that revealed glimpses of mountains in the distance. It was far from the tourist image of Rio I’d been expecting.

  “‘Personally’ ordered you?” Reilly asked, tentative. “You mean, you met him?”

  “To say the least.”

  “Like, they flew you to the Mist Palace?”

  “I guess. Where is it?”

  “You’re the one who went.”

  “I couldn’t see out the plane’s windows, and you’re the one who’s been in the Outfit longer than a month. Where is it?”

  “I’m supposed to report you for asking.”

  “And I’m supposed to report myself for telling you I went. Your head isn’t on the chopping block when you get back from this, but mine is. Sua Sponte, motherfucker.”

  Reilly hesitated before answering.

  “I mean, I’ve heard it’s somewhere in Washington.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe across the border in Canada.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. The only people who know the exact location are the pilots who need to find the airstrip.”

  He looked at me uncomfortably. I realized I had shifted in my seat, completely focused on him as I awaited more information.

  “All right.” I swiftly changed the subject. “Tell me about the primary for the Handler’s delegation. Who is he?”

  Reilly shot me a quizzical glance. “They really didn’t tell you shit, did they? The primary on this one isn’t a he. It’s a she.”

  The tunnel through which we traveled was a mirror of my thoughts—channelized, dimly lit, and flying toward a single destination that glowed luminous in the distance. Had my warning to Ian reduced his drive to hunt the Handler? Probably not. Given his words and the sheer audacity required to approach me in the airport in the first place, only the Handler’s death would stop him. Ian and I sought the same thing, and while my death was certain, Ian still had a chance of living beyond our dark obsession and emerging with some semblance of a normal life.

  Our car exited the tunnel. Blazing sunlight revealed the crystalline expanse of a vast lake and, beyond it, my first up-close
glimpse of the arcing, jungled hills of Rio’s tourist ideal. It was a vision of unspeakable beauty that contrasted with the darkness of the tunnel, but Reilly began humming a tune before I could enjoy the view.

  I looked at him. He raised his eyebrows suggestively, then began humming louder. It sounded like elevator music.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “We’re driving into Ipanema.”

  “So?”

  “As in ‘The Girl from Ipanema?’ Sinatra?”

  I shrugged.

  He shook his head sadly at my ignorance. “World-class neighborhood, and we’re just passing through on our way to Leblon. Even more upscale there. You think this view is good, you’ve got no idea what’s coming up.”

  The road turned south and away from the lake and we cruised into urban sprawl. The geography was suddenly muted by the imprint of man, an ecosystem that could have been any number of cities in America’s humid, subtropical regions.

  “Check it out—this is where you’ll be working, you lucky bastard.”

  A right turn swung us broadside to the gleaming surface of the South Atlantic, the sapphire water separated from us by a few lanes of opposing traffic and a beach dotted with sunbathers.

  “You’ve never seen bikinis like this in the States,” Reilly continued. “Something you may not know about me, David—I’m nothing if not an ass man.”

  “I was just about to ask.”

  “Riding out this trip on the freighter while this kind of talent parades around the beaches from sunup to sundown makes me sick to my stomach.”

  I gave him a sideways look. “There a point to this line of conversation, Reilly?”

  “Not really.”

  I grinned at his childish voice applied to the women of Rio. The casual sunbathers were dispersed along the coast, far outnumbered by people walking and riding bicycles along a path beside the road. The lanes were split by a narrow median of perfectly spaced palm trees reminiscent of Beverly Hills.

  He pulled our car into a hotel inlet, stopping before the glass lobby doors.

  “Here we are,” he said wistfully. “Le Chateaux Mer. Have fun living my dream.”