“Fine,” Alex huffed. “I’m just ready to get in the air and finish planning this op.”
Hawk turned his attention back toward the vehicle racing toward them. The sun still hung below the horizon, but dawn was clearly breaking. They were supposed to already be in the air, but the co-pilot for the long trip had started running through the checklist to ensure as prompt of a takeoff as possible.
Kip Covington had always been a great friend to the Phoenix Foundation team, maintaining discretion about their meetings and never asking any questions. Hawk figured if Kip ever wanted to write a behind-the-scenes book about the adventures of flying around secret agents, most people would dismiss the stories as pure fiction. Kip had experienced plenty while flying Hawk and Alex around, and just having him at the helm made Hawk feel more confident about the mission.
Kip parked his car near the gate and then trudged toward the plane, his face pale.
“Everything all right?” Hawk asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“Morning, Hawk,” Kip said in a raspy voice before breaking into a cough. “I’ve had this nasty cold I can't seem to shake.”
“Should you be flying today?” Alex asked.
“I’ll be fine. I just need to get some coffee in me and I’ll be fine.”
“Roger that,” Hawk said.
“I brought some water bottles for the trip,” Kip said. “Do you two want some?”
“Sure,” Alex said as she grabbed a couple and then handed one to Hawk.
Hawk and Alex boarded the plane while Kip completed their pre-flight checklist. Fifteen minutes later, they were airborne. For the next two hours, Hawk and Alex went over all the details from their plan to capture Evana Bahar. Blunt leveraged more comfortable cell conditions for Orlovsky to get him to comply with a request to arrange a meeting to discuss discounted weapons with the Al Fatihin leader.
“Do you think Evana is going to show up?” Alex asked.
“Orlovsky requested her specifically in the email he sent to her secret account,” Hawk said. “Based on the intel we have about her trying to scrounge up enough funds to buy some more weapons, I’d be shocked if she didn’t show.”
“Getting her there is ninety percent of this op.”
“That’s why I’m confident this mission is going to be a success,” Hawk said. “At least we’ll be able to get the pressure off Blunt and get back to focusing on Obsidian.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I’m going to catch some more shuteye. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”
“I’m with you on that,” Hawk said as he reclined his seat and fell asleep.
* * *
THE PILOT POSING as Kip Covington checked his flight path to make sure that they were squarely over Russian territory. Crashing the plane there would keep the incident off the international radar. Earlier that evening, Len Bukov had murdered the real Kip Covington and covered his body in weights, sinking him to the bottom of the Potomac. By the time anyone discovered Kip’s remains—if ever—the U.S. government would’ve likely forgotten all about the pilot for the clandestine operation.
The co-pilot remained slumped over, out cold from the syringe laced with a drug Bukov had injected into the man’s neck an hour into the flight. Easing open the cockpit door, Bukov peeked out to see if drugs had taken effect on the other passengers. He smiled as he noticed both Hawk and Alex reclining in their seats, eyes closed.
“Dead asleep,” Bukov whispered to himself. “An appropriate description.”
He would’ve preferred to shoot them both or, at the very least, remove all the parachutes. But his instructions were to crash the plane in Russia. When the bodies were returned to the U.S., Russia wanted to make sure that there was no appearance of foul play.
Bukov returned to his seat and issued a May Day call over the radio. After hearing a response from a nearby tower, he left the cockpit and locked the door. Then he strapped on a parachute. Next he ripped off the mask that enabled him to pass as Kip Covington and disengaged the voice simulator fastened to his chest.
“Sweet dreams,” Bukov said before opening the plane door and plunging into darkness.
CHAPTER 12
Miami, Florida
TITUS BLACK CROUCHED LOW as he moved along the side of the aluminum storage facility near the docks. Black craned his neck around the corner to see if anyone was near the entrance. A pelican lit on one of the pylons nearby and squawked. Seconds later, a guard poked his head out of the door and scanned the area before returning inside.
“I hate those damn birds,” J.D. Blunt said over the coms. He and Christina Shields, who provided Black with support for most of their missions, were situated in the Phoenix Foundation offices watching the scene from Black’s body cam.
“That makes two of us,” Black said.
“Three,” chimed in Shields.
Blunt’s contact at the CIA had traced the last proof-of-life call back to this warehouse in Miami, which was owned by a shell corporation operating out of the Bahamas. A few dollars to entice the right people resulted in the name of the person who actually registered the business, a known associate of Falcon Sinclair.
“How many hostiles am I dealing with?” Black asked.
“I see three heat signatures,” Shields said.
“So, two and the package?”
“Roger that,” she said.
“Her name’s Morgan,” Blunt said with a growl. “She’s not just some random person you’re extracting.”
“No need to get in a huff,” Black said. “I treat every one of these people as if they were my own kin. It’s just a quicker way of communicating.”
Blunt grunted loud enough for Black to hear it in his earpiece. That sound was familiar, a signal that Blunt was either bemused or moving on. Either way, the topic was closed.
“You shouldn’t meet any resistance until you turn the corner of the long corridor just behind the receptionist desk,” Shields said.
“Copy,” Black said as he approached the front door. He placed his hand on it
