“I’m verifying Carmen’s testimony. It all fits.”
“Good. We’ll mention that in our debrief. Let’s go.”
“I have an idea.”
“Like the one you had when you walked into the whorehouse?”
“Even better. Why don’t we get into one of these canoes, paddle out to the middle of the river, and take a few pictures?”
“Why?”
“So we can say we did a river recon.” He added, “No one has to know we were fifty feet from the boat landing.”
“That’s deceptive.”
“Right. It’s our turn to be deceptive.”
“Don’t justify—”
“Come on. This will take ten minutes.” He added, “We need to make a convincing case for what we believe.”
She looked around. “All right…” She walked to the canoe where Brodie was standing and he handed her the nylon bow line.
“You pull, I’ll push. But first I’ll get some paddles.” He grabbed two oars and two life vests and threw them into the canoe, then rounded the back of the canoe to push. Taylor remained standing, holding the bow line.
He asked, “What is it?”
She kept looking at him, then asked, “How far are we actually going, Scott?”
“About an hour.” He looked at her. “Okay?”
“I don’t like being bullshitted.”
“No one does.” He added, “You knew where we were going since we left Caracas.”
“Right. I should have known to just apply the Brodie Rule.”
“What’s that?”
“In any given scenario, do the thing most likely to get you killed.”
“I’m offended.”
“No, you’re not.” She pulled on the line as Brodie began pushing the canoe through the mud.
They got the canoe into the shallow water and both scrambled aboard. Brodie grabbed an oar and pushed against the river bottom until they were clear of the shore. The canoe began floating downriver, and Brodie moved to the stern, tilted the propeller into the water, then started the engine and gave it some throttle until the canoe began moving upriver. He steered it into the middle of the river and twisted the throttle. The canoe gained speed, cutting through the tea-colored water, moving along the grassland toward the jungle.
The morning sun felt good, and Brodie felt good. They were close to their fugitive now, under the same sky and sun, breathing the same air, and heading up a river that Kyle Mercer had traveled. The detective work was behind them and this was now a reconnaissance mission into hostile territory, and the success of this mission depended on the skill and instincts that Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor had honed in war zones on the other side of the world.
He and Maggie Taylor had been sent here with fairly simple and straightforward orders: Find and apprehend Captain Kyle Mercer, and return him to face American military justice. Or, if they couldn’t bring Captain Mercer to justice, they—or a drone or a Delta team—would bring justice to Captain Mercer. Either way, Captain Mercer was going to pay for the blood on his hands.
CHAPTER 42
Taylor sat on a life jacket in the bow, facing Brodie, who was on the bench beside the outboard, his hand on the tiller and throttle. The small engine didn’t make much noise, which was good for a river recon. He said to Taylor, who was about to call Colonel Dombroski, “Call his message line,” which was the number that anyone within the command could call to leave sit-reps and other messages that didn’t need a response or conversation. Sort of like calling your girlfriend’s answering machine to tell her you accidentally ran over her cat. In the case of the CID, the recorded messages were accessed by the intended recipient using a unique four-digit code number. This was Brodie’s preferred method of communication with the boss.
Taylor looked up from the sat phone. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to file an oral report—not have a conversation.” He advised, “Keep it short and concise, and end it by saying that you are shutting off your sat phone to save battery.” He added, “Promise to call his cell later.”
