“It’s Portuguese,” Edric said. “The national language of Brazil. The translation is, ‘We demand immediate, unrestricted publication of all SPIRE operational files. You have twenty-four hours.’”
Nobody said anything. Wolfgang was transfixed by the photo, but this time he didn’t see a carefree teenager posing for her yearbook snapshot. Instead, he imagined the haunted soul of a terrified child, lost and alone, staring into the masked faces of people who were ready and willing to kill her.
“Shit,” Kevin muttered.
Edric set the iPad down, then got to his feet and walked to the minibar, wincing as he moved.
Wolfgang figured Edric was still sore from his interrogation by the Russians, and probably exhausted, too. They all were. None of them had slept in over twenty hours.
Edric poured himself a bourbon, then settled into a chair. “Okay, so here’s the deal. We’ve got twenty hours of flight time between us and Rio. You can do the math. That picture is an hour old, so after we land, we’ll only have three hours before the deadline.”
“Is SPIRE in communication with the kidnappers?” Megan asked.
Edric held both palms up. “I have no idea. Our mission brief contains only the details I’ve shared with you. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re trying. Any time they can buy us will be priceless, but these guys are clearly professionals and absolutely out for blood. We need to assume that we have only three hours after landing to make a play.”
“In Rio?” Kevin said.
“Hopefully. By the time we land, the kidnappers could be anywhere in the western hemisphere. We do have one thing going for us, however. Rose wore a necklace equipped with a GPS tracking device. The necklace isn’t visible in the ransom demand, but we’re still getting a strong signal from it pinpointing a location on the outskirts of Rio. Our current rationale is that the kidnappers took the necklace when they stripped her clothes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the device has been lost or that they know about it. At this time, it’s our best lead.”
“Did headquarters send the tracker’s data identifier with the mission brief?” Lyle said. “I’d like to establish a link and begin monitoring it.”
“Check your email. Already there.”
Lyle ducked his head and tapped on his laptop.
“Our directive is clear,” Edric said. “We’ve got to recover the director’s daughter by any means necessary. SPIRE does not negotiate with terrorists. The caliber of missions this organization has engaged in over the past decade are both highly classified, and in some cases, illegal. They involve the national security of multiple nations, and details of those operations cannot and will not be divulged.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Wolfgang said.
Edric finished the bourbon, then cleared his throat. “First, we rest. I need all of you at your absolute best. This won’t be like our other missions. We won’t walk away from this one without some fireworks. I’m setting combat protocol to Code Red.”
Kevin grimaced, but no one said a thing.
In Wolfgang’s three missions with Charlie Team, he’d experienced Code Yellow—no weapons, no combat—and Code Orange—armed, but only fire if fired upon. He’d never encountered Code Red before, a protocol that could be summarized in a simple phrase: use any force necessary.
“Once we land, we’ll meet a local supplier and get equipped. Rio is a civilized city, but it’s surrounded by massive, unpoliced neighborhoods that can be as unpredictable and violent as the Middle East. My guess is that Rose K. is held in one of those neighborhoods, babysat by an army of mercenaries.”
Edric walked to the aft cabin of the plane and put a hand on the door. “Get some sleep. Might be your last chance for days.”
2
Wolfgang tried to sleep, but even after the exhausting tumult of the Moscow mission only hours behind him, his mind refused to shut down. He leaned back in one of the comfortable captain’s chairs and put on a sleep mask, drawing deep breaths and counting sheep, but after thirty minutes, he was as awake and alert as an hour prior. Wolfgang’s final straw was Kevin slurping down three fingers of bourbon before collapsing in the tail of the plane and commencing to snore like the buzz of a chainsaw, at which point Wolfgang sat up and ripped his mask off.
The cabin lights of the plane were turned dim, and Lyle still sat in the corner with his laptop propped on his knees, puffy headphones clamped over his ears. His eyes reflected the blue light of the screen, and Wolfgang wondered if the tech wiz ever slept.
Megan sat at the plane’s solitary table—a narrow surface between two captain’s chairs—and studied an array of maps, a pencil in one hand and a notebook resting next to her elbow. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and she chewed on the eraser of the pencil between scribbling on the notepad.
Wolfgang made his way to the minibar, selected a Sprite, and sat down on the opposite side of the table. Megan looked up, and Wolfgang held out the Sprite.
“No thanks,” she said, turning back to the maps.
Wolfgang cracked the can open and took a long sip. The rush of sugar and carbonation jarred his system, further isolating any hopes of slumber. “What do you think?” he asked.
Megan said nothing, tracing the tip of the pencil around the outskirts of the city displayed on the map. Wolfgang could tell it was Rio by the outlines of city streets that clustered next to the coast before creeping into mountains west of downtown. He wasn’t surprised to see Megan studying the map, and a quick glance at her notes confirmed what he already knew to be true—she was hard at work assimilating every possible fact about the city: demographics, street structure, the locations of key buildings and landmarks, and the quickest route of escape if things went sideways.
Megan performed this research ritual prior to every mission, studying their target city
