“Scott, I can’t just wait outside, worrying—”
“You can’t come in.”
She looked at him. “I remember one of the first things I learned in the Army—a soldier is a person who runstowardgunfire, not away from it.”
“Let’s not keep Luis waiting. Lobby, ten minutes.”
They went through the doors of their separate rooms.
Well, thought Brodie, what had started in General Hackett’s office could end tonight. He’d had a bad feeling about this case in Quantico, and a couple days in Caracas hadn’t made him feel any better. But now he’d come to the conclusion that Captain Mercer’s bizarre desertion was just the proverbial tip of a big iceberg that stretched across the chain of command. An interesting case had become more interesting.
As for Maggie Taylor, he was glad he’d cleared the air on that. And yet… there were still a few things that seemed off—including her deductive reasoning, based on nothing. Except maybe a guilty conscience. Could be she’dworked for the CIA in Afghanistan, as some Civil Affairs people did. But why the involved story about Trent? As Brodie had learned on this job, only people who lie go into unnecessary detail.
Colonel Dombroski didn’t spread rumors; he gave reliable information. Then it was up to his agents to analyze and come to conclusions. To come to the truth.
CHAPTER 28
Brodie and Taylor waited at the front entrance to their hotel. It was 7:10P.M. and there was no sign of Luis in the rental car.
Taylor said, “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.”
Brodie pointed out, “There is no traffic in Caracas after dark.”
“Maybe he got robbed by the police.”
“That’s more likely.” Or, Brodie thought, Luis had reconsidered tonight’s job. But he’d have called or texted.Sorry, Señor Brodie, you’re crazy and I’m not.
Brodie rolled back his shirt cuffs. He had been on dozens of undercover assignments and he could usually match his attire to the part he was playing. But he hadn’t known he was going to be a scumbag sex tourist when he packed, so he’d had to improvise from his limited travel wardrobe, and he wore black slacks, loafers, and an untucked baby blue dress shirt, half-buttoned to show his chest hair. His Glock, which he would give to Luis before they entered the Hen House, was stuck in his waistband. He had no holster and no wallet—only a wad of cash and his fake passport in case anyone at the Hen House demanded ID. He’d considered wearing his twelve-dollar Armani sports jacket, but someone might kill him for it.
Taylor was wearing cargo pants into which she’d stuffed the zip ties, Taser, extra mags, and Brodie’s photo of Kyle Mercer, which he didn’t want found if he was frisked at the door of the Hen House. Taylor also had the one sat phone Worley had given them. The sat phone was good commo, but it couldn’t send or receive unless it had clear sky—like his annoying car satellite radio, which cut out under a bridge or in a tunnel—so it was useless in the Hen House. And in any case, if it was discovered in a frisk at the door, it would arouse suspicion. So Taylor had it now, and later, if they were on the run, she could hang out the car window, sat phone in one hand, Glockin the other, shooting at their pursuers while trying to call Worley or the Otter pilot. She was good at multitasking. He asked her, “Did you stuff any Snickers in your pockets?”
She didn’t reply, and he thought she looked tense.
Brodie did have his smartphone, in which he’d saved some offline maps of Petare that he could access in the hills where there was no reception and no street signs. Also no street lighting, which was good, but also bad. Luis was a competent driver, and so was Taylor, but whoever was behind the wheel for a quick getaway would have some challenges in the dark, mountainous slums.
He’d been in shitholes like this before, and in similar situations—he recalled his extraordinary extraction of the Army embezzler in Tunisia—and he took comfort in the fact that pursuers were always at a disadvantage, since the pursued were running for their lives and were thus more motivated.
In any case, he had no idea how this was going to go down tonight. But if, by extraordinary luck, they had Kyle Mercer in the trunk, all they needed was a little more luck and some smarts to get to that airstrip to rendezvous with the Otter. Next stop, U.S. soil in Panama or Gitmo. If that successful scenario transpired, he and Taylor would not be coming back to the El Dorado tonight, or ever. So they’d left everything in their rooms as though they’d gone out on the town and never returned—not an unusual occurrence in Caracas. In fact, that was another scenario: dead in the Hen House.
“What are you thinking, Scott?”
“I’m wondering if the Army will reimburse us for the personal possessions we left behind.”
“I think that’s the least of our worries.”
“I think I should go up and get my Armani sports jacket.” He added, “I’ll grab your new bikini for you.”
“Is this an example of GI humor before battle?”
“Sort of.”
She nodded. “Whatever works for you. Meanwhile, I think we’ve been stood up.”
“He’ll be here.”
The doorman, whose tag said “Tito,” asked them for the third time if they needed a taxi, and Brodie replied again, “We’re waiting for our driver.”
“Sí.” The doorman gave Taylor a quick once-over, noticing her informal attire—black T-shirt, dark cargo pants with stuffed pockets, and hiking boots, with her hair tucked under a baseball cap—and Brodie thought Tito was probably wondering why the gentleman was better dressed for the evening. Brodie considered explaining to Tito that he was going to a whorehouse with their tardy driver, and the lady was going to wait outside while he got laid. That might have been TMI for the doorman, but it would explain why the Americanos never returned.
