And if he was internally bewildered standing face-to-face with another gringo, a man with an aircraft obviously already gassed up and ready to get the hell out of here, Michael Scardino could not detect it.
Kincaid just seemed completely at ease.
When the prisoner’s chains had been pulled away and the guards turned around to leave, Scardino stepped forward and extended a hand. “I’m Big Mike,” Scardino said. “Let’s go.”
Slowly, Kincaid shook the man’s hand. “Yeah,” replied Kincaid. “Let’s.”
The two men climbed into the small single-engine turboprop; Blanchard followed behind the two others into the aircraft, and then he lifted the stairs and sealed the hatch.
Inside the tight confines of the cabin, Scardino chose one of the two forward-facing seats, and Kincaid sat directly in front of him, facing the rear. Blanchard spoke with the flight crew for a moment, then sat next to Kincaid.
Big Mike noted the heavy tattoos on Lancer’s hands, neck, and even behind his ears. Kincaid was a decorated Navy SEAL but had been banished from the Teams for conduct unbecoming: executing a prisoner, shooting unarmed civilians, Scardino couldn’t remember the entire list.
He’d returned to the United States and then almost immediately become a white-power neo-Nazi, and Scardino wondered how that had worked out for him in a Cuban prison.
But the man looked healthy, tan, exceedingly fit. He might have been a little underweight, but not that much, and there was a glint in his eyes that gave Scardino the impression Kincaid thought he was in charge right now.
Scardino, on the other hand, was of the opinion that this son of a bitch wasn’t in charge of shit. His air of superiority was a put-on, just like his faux nonchalance.
The aircraft began to taxi to the runway almost immediately. As it did so, Scardino said, “You’ve got a good poker face, man, but you must really be wondering what the fuck is going on.”
“Actually, I was wondering something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there a bar on this bird?”
Scardino was surprised by the comment. After looking around a second, he said, “There’s a tiny fridge. You want a water?”
“Got a beer?”
Mike Scardino laughed a little. “You don’t want to know what the fuck is going on?”
“I’m actually pretty curious. I’m just hoping you’ll tell me over a beer.”
Scardino shrugged, then nodded to Blanchard, and the young man reached behind him, opened a small fridge, pulled out a Corona, popped the top, and handed it over to Kincaid. He took it with a little smile, then looked back to Scardino. “You’re not drinking with me?”
Without speaking, Scardino stuck a hand out to Blanchard, who soon enough passed over a second Corona.
“Got any limes?” Kincaid asked.
Scardino said, “No, but I’ll tell you what. Let’s get the pilot to taxi back to the hangar and you can run to the market in Sandino to pick one up. That work?”
Scott Kincaid did not answer at first. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the man in front of him as he took an incredibly long swig, draining nearly a third of the bottle.
Finished, he said, “It’s good, just like this.”
Now Big Mike said, “The Cubans have handed you over to my company.”
“You paid a bribe to get me out?”
“We paid with information that we had and that they wanted. That part doesn’t concern you.”
“What’s your company?”
“Gauntlet Group.”
To this, the former Navy SEAL said, “I’ve heard of you guys. You’retaking over up in D.C., aren’t you? The president is firing all the federal employees, replacing them with you guys. Saves the taxpayers money, or that’s the song and dance, anyway.”
