“So we’re going in blind,” Trent said grimly.
“Blind and fast,” Jake confirmed.
They turned to logistics. The plan was as basic at they came. They’d ’borrow’ one of the white work vans parked in the lot for the plumbing supply company across the road from the hangar. Squirrel said the workers usually left the doors unlocked and the keys tucked up under the visors. But if not, Trent could hot-wire one in his sleep.
Driving the kind of van that was invisible in any European city, they’d go in at dawn dressed as maintenance workers. Squirrel had already scrounged up some orange safety vests, hard hats, and toolboxes.
They’d park in the back alley. Enter through the rear service entrance that building management used for repairs and deliveries. Nobody looked twice at maintenance workers. It was a universal truth.
But if anyone did stop them, Omar would do most of the talking, speak Arabic. He’d play a North African laborer, explaining that they had to get the job done before the tenants woke up.
Once inside, they’d breach the flat, grab the team, and get them to the roof. Squirrel would be overhead in the helicopter. When he saw them on the roof, he’d land. Thirty seconds to load. Then gone.
Trent pointed out the obvious problem. “What happens when the stakeout teams notice a helicopter landing on the roof?”
Jake’s answer was blunt. “We have to move fast. We don’t give them time to react.”
It wasn’t a perfect plan. It relied on speed and audacity and the assumption that people didn’t look too closely at workers in orange vests.
But it was the best they had.
Omar studied the building schematics, memorizing entry points and stairwells. Squirrel calculated approach vectors and escape routes, factoring in wind speed and building height. They worked in focused silence, each man doing what he did best.
Once they were satisfied the plan was a tight as it was going to get, they cracked open fresh beers and kicked back on a pair of couches in Squirrel’s office that looked and smelled like they’d been liberated from the basement of a fraternity house.
Trent finally asked the question they’d been dancing around. “So who do we think is dirty?”
Theories flew.
Jake thought it was someone protecting Bradford Hampton, the Vice President’s son. “If Hanna talks about what she saw on that yacht, Hampton goes down. Maybe his father, too. That’s the kind of thing people kill to protect.”
Trent was more cynical. “Or it’s someone protecting Idris’s father. Ben Mahmoud’s the kind of guy who can reach into the US government whenever he wants.”
Squirrel, the outsider, offered a third option. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe they’re working together. Powerful people protect each other. That’s how it works.”
The one thing they couldn’t agree on was whether someone at Potomac was involved. Jake insisted it was impossible. Squirrel argued it was inevitable. Trent and Omar wisely kept their mouths shut.
As the temperature rose and the conversation grew heated, Omar spoke up. “We can work this out with Ryan when we’re back in the States. First things first. Get our guys out.”
Everyone agreed.
Mission first. Politics later.
The operation was set for dawn, which meant they had a few hours to sleep. Instead they had one last round of beers.
And the conversation drifted, as conversations tended to do, to women. Specifically, Omar and Marielle.
“You still pretending to just be friends?” Trent poked him.
Omar took a long pull of beer and said nothing.
“Don’t wait ten years to figure out she matters, Kahn.” Jake’s advice was tinged with personal regret.
He’d been set to propose to Chelsea more than a decade early, but picked the job over her. They only reconnected by chance because turned out to be Olivia’s cousin. He’d often remarked that he wished he could go back to his nineteen-year-old self and kick his own ass.
Omar put down his beer and blurted, “I want to take my shot. But I see now what you mean about the tension, Jake. I don’t think I could pick a mission over Marielle’s safety. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to her.”
“Yes, you would.” Trent’s voice was low and somber. “After Carla, it took years of therapy to work through the fear. That’s why I almost didn’t let myself fall for Olivia.” He stared into his beer. “But I finally accepted it: the fear doesn’t go away. You have to learn to live with it.”