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
“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, its own path through the others as it tucked into and out of the—
“To do
“C’mon, Zack. Don’t be pissed off. I just need to . . .” Court’s voice trailed off.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I wish you could see the ceiling in this hooch though, it’s fucking beautiful. They dry the reeds and then tie them into little bundles, and then they tie those together to make bigger bundles that—
“Jesus, Court! Are you high?”
Court laughed into the phone.
“Where’s Oryx?”
“He’s sitting right here. You wanna talk to him?”
“Fuck no, I don’t want to talk—
“Here he is.”
Court got up, carried the phone over to Abboud, who reached out slowly and took it with his untethered hand.
“You are speaking to President Bakri Ali Abboud. Who is this?”
Hightower did not answer at first. When he spoke it was slow, tentative. “What’s happened to my man?”
“Your man has injected himself with some sort of tranquilizer.”
“Accidentally, you mean?”
Oryx looked at Gentry. He’d gone back to the wall and leaned against it. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling of the shack, his head back against the burlap and driftwood wall.
“Deliberately. Very deliberately, in fact.”
It was clear Zack Hightower did not know how to respond to this. “Okay. Well . . . you listen. I’ve got many more assets in the area. You try to take advantage of this situation and—”
“Don’t worry, Mr. CIA. Before your man decided to enjoy himself, he made sure I was restrained. Your operation is delayed, but I am unable to escape.”
“Give the phone back to him.”
Oryx looked down at the Thuraya and smiled. He pushed a red button to end the call. Six’s eyes were still on the ceiling. They were unfixed, the eyelids sagging low. Desperately the Sudanese president tried to think of the phone number to his office, to his security detail . . . to anyone. Yes, a secretary at his Khartoum presidential palace; the number just popped into his head. He did not know where he was, exactly, but he could move an entire army into the area north of Suakin, south of Port Sudan, west of the coastline and east of the Red Sea Hills with a single order. He still thought it likely that Six, if he could, would kill him if he felt his kidnapping operation was no longer feasible. But if Six stayed incapacitated for a while, there might just be enough time for a rescue!
He began thumbing the numbers on the phone.
He looked back up to his kidnapper as he brought the phone to his ear.
The small black pistol with the long silencer was centered between his eyes. “I’m going to need that back.”
“Yes.”
“Nice try, though,” said the American.
Gentry slept for two hours and awoke at dusk. He was still heavily under the influence of the morphine, still felt relatively free of the pain in his back, though the euphoria had dissipated enough for him to dread his next conversation with Hightower. Oryx himself had nodded off in the heat, and Court took the quiet moment to sip bottled water and eat a Soldier Fuel bar. As he chewed, he idly picked up the phone and saw that Sierra One had called six times in the past two hours.
Court set the phone back down in the dirt and finished his dinner. Then he built a tiny fire, using grass and twigs and bits of larger pieces of driftwood lying around. He hardly needed the warmth, but the light was helpful now that darkness had fallen on the eastern coast of the Sudan.
“How are you feeling?” Oryx asked from the center of the room. Gentry looked up to see him standing, facing away and relieving himself with the aid of his free hand.
“The back feels better. The rest of me feels great.” Court smiled at his own humor.
“Your phone keeps ringing.”
“Yeah,” said Court. “I’ll need to call them back in a bit. In a couple of hours I’ll be hauling your ass to the coast. In a day or two, you’ll be locked up.” Court smiled at him, “I guess you figured killing four hundred thousand of your countrymen wouldn’t have a downside, huh?”
“You have killed more people today than I have, friend.”
