“Let’s roll.”
“Roger that,” the pilot said, advancing the throttles.
The torque of the rotors squatted the helo on its wheels, the whine of the turbines barely audible thanks to the Bose noise-canceling stereo system built into the cabin. Then they were airborne, zipping low over the 14th Street bridge.
Carpenter turned his attention to the window and the darkened terrain below.
The Monongahela National Forest was as remote as it was inhospitable. Nine hundred and twenty-one thousand acres of lung-bursting heights and ankle-breaking valleys choked with blueberry thickets, highland bogs, and swift-running rivers.
It was the kind of place where you could walk for days and never see another soul, which made it the perfect place for the CIA’s newly funded Training and Application Lab.
The helo clattered north, the rock face narrowing until the exposed granite was less than a foot from the rotor’s edge. But the pilot was an old hand and expertly adjusted to the rush of thermals that battered the bird and continued climbing until they were over the towering firs that guarded the summit of the ridge.
On the far side of the tree line, their destination sat on a hill in the center of a clearing—an antebellum Classic Revival mansion—its two-story portico supported by fluted Corinthian pillars reminding him of something from Gone with the Wind.
The pilot flared over the front lawn and set the helo down before advising Carpenter that he was heading north, to Elkins, to refuel. Carpenter nodded, grabbed his bag, and climbed out, waiting for the Airbus to take off before starting toward the woman waiting near the front of the house.
At five-foot-four with dishwater blond hair and wide, curious green eyes, there was nothing threatening about Victoria Arno. But Carpenter had seen her file and knew that while Arno might look like a librarian, she, like all of Shaw’s creations, was a predator posing as a house pet. Which was precisely the reason Carpenter had put her in charge of Site Tango.
“Well, you got me here,” he said.
“And I promise you won’t regret it,” Arno purred, slipping past the two heavily armed guards posted on either side of the door and stepping inside.
The first time Carpenter visited Site Tango, an army of contractors were in the process of modernizing the interior, a daunting task considering the mansion was built before modern conveniences such as electricity and running water.
Anyone else would have gone broke trying to make it habitable: ripping out the rotten wood, tearing up the sagging floors, not to mention all the security upgrades that were needed before it could be certified as a Level IV secure site.
If it had been up to Carpenter, he’d have torn down the place and started from scratch—not giving a damn how it turned out as long as it was functional. Arno, on the other hand, was required to live on-site, which meant the mansion had to be both functional and livable.
Compared to the rugged, inhospitable wilds that surrounded the property, the eggshell-white walls, distressed hardwood floors, and exposed white oak rafters gave the interior a light, almost airy feel.
“Like what you did with the place,” he said.
“Amazing what you can do when money is no object,” she replied, leading him down the hall and into her large office.
“So, what is so damn important?”
“This,” she said, taking a folder with EYES ONLY printed in blood-red letters across the front.
“Feels awful thin,” Carpenter said, taking the folder from her hand.
“You might want to take a seat before you start reading.”
“I’ve been in this game a long time,” he smirked, “and I doubt there is anything in here that’s going to blow my skirt up.”
“Have it your way, sir.”
Carpenter opened the file and managed to make it halfway down the first page before the realization of what he was reading turned his knees to water. “Y-you’ve got to be . . .” he said, hand shooting out for the desk.
“Hayes and Shaw . . . has this . . . ?”
“Been verified? Yes, sir,” Arno said.
“Please tell me you got a location ping,” Carpenter said, his heart pounding like a bass drum in his chest.
“He’s in Grand-Bassam.”
“I want a team ready to roll in the next twelve hours,” he said.
“I’ve got just the man for the job,” she replied. “But, sir, if I may . . .”
“What is it?”
“Director Shaw, he is obviously helping Hayes, and if he finds out what’s going on . . .”
“You find me someone who can kill Adam Hayes,” he said. “I’ll take care of Shaw.”
20
KORHOGO, IVORY COAST
While the ground crew fueled up the gunships, General Dábo called the pilots and assault team leaders over and opened the envelope Cabot had sent.
“I have satellite imagery of the target area,” he said, pulling out the five high-definition stills and passing them around.
While the Ivorian army didn’t have their own surveillance satellites during the civil war, Dábo had been able to use his contact in France to gain access to tactical imagery. Usually the photos were weeks old, the quality of the shots so poor that they bordered on unusable.
Cabot’s, on the other hand, were crystal clear, and not only had they been taken within the last twelve hours, but someone had marked every rebel position at the airfield.
“These poor bastards don’t stand a chance,” the lead pilot grinned.
“Good, because the president wants the airfield in our hands in two hours.”
“Two hours?” Captain Koffi said. “B-but the helicopters aren’t even fueled.”
“You worry about coming up with an attack plan,” Dábo said, pulling his gold-plated .45 from its holster. “Let me worry about the helicopters.”
Fifty minutes later the gunships were ten miles south of the airfield, Dábo frowning at his watch. He’d cursed and threatened the ground team, promising to kill them all if they didn’t get the gunships fueled and in the air in twenty minutes. While his strongarm tactics had worked, the pair of gunships had been forced to reduce their speed to accommodate the slower Mi-17.
Dábo glanced out the side window and found the helo still lagging in the distance.
The hell with this, he thought, keying up on the radio and ordering the pilots into attack formation.
“Roger that, sir.”
Due to the relative flatness of the terrain and the active radar at the airfield, Dábo had instructed the pilot to fly nap-of-the-earth and reached up for the handhold hanging from the roof.