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“Thanks, Matt,” Court said. “We’ll think about it.”
“Thank you. Now…I’m out of it. I guess I’ll go get drunk.”
FORTY-TWO
Scott Kincaid didn’t mind that his Nassau, Bahamas, hotel suite didn’t have a primo view of the ocean. The beach was just on the other side of his high-rise, but his tiny balcony here at the Baha Mar hotel and casino looked over a five-story-high water fountain and a lush green golf course, and anyway, Kincaid wasn’t here to look out the window.
He was here to sit and to wait, under orders from his control officer at Operations Center Gama.
The first day here at the casino he’d gambled, winning nearly five thousand dollars, and then the first night here he lost eight. He didn’t care, he’d made somewhere in the neighborhood of ten million U.S. in the past week and a half, and from the cryptic message delivered by his sexy-sounding French controller at Gama, there would be more work and more money to come.
The second day here in the Bahamas he’d stayed mostly in his room. A hangover pounded his brain until midafternoon, when he ventured to the gym and spent nearly two hours punishing his body for the excesses of the day and night before. And when he returned to hunker down in his suite, he went out to his balcony and flipped open his laptop, then logged on to a dark web address he’d long ago memorized to fuel his mind with a poison that he misinterpreted as nutrition.
He was on day three here at the Baha Mar now, it was just after noon, and he’d returned from the gym, showered, then brought his laptop out onto the balcony again.
He thought he’d head back down to the craps table in a few hours, blow a few grand more that didn’t mean anything to him, but in the meantime, he logged back on to the dark web address, and then he began to scroll.
The website was called NewPatriotsFront, and it was a bulletin board and file-sharing platform run by an American neo-Nazi group called the New Aryan Order. Kincaid had come in contact with NAO members at California State Prison, Centinela, when he did a year and a half for beating a man into a coma during a bar fight in Chula Vista, and he’d been drawn into their world quickly. A narcissistic personality disorder plus an axe to grind after being charged with two crimes, both of which he found to be ludicrous, made him a particularly easy target when men whispered into his ear that everything bad that had ever happened to him in his life was the fault of the Blacks, the Jews, the Hispanics, the Catholics, or the Asians.
As he did whenever he found himself with free time, Kincaid surfed the web this warm afternoon, absorbing the writings of American Nazis, interpreting his rising blood pressure as patriotic fervor, stimulating himself by mainlining hate.
Kincaid wanted to kill everyone to preserve the purity of his race, though he’d never actually taken a DNA test himself to double-check his ancestry.
And then, just as if his god had been watching him and feeling his seething anger, his phone buzzed on the glass table, and he knew it would be Gama.
“Lancer.”
Like every time before, the French woman was on the other end of the line. “This is Gama Control.”
Kincaid flexed every muscle he could clench, utter excitement superseding his teeming rage. “What’s up?”
“I have a tasking for you. You need to get to the airport in Nassau.”
“Another audible?”
“I’m sorry?” The French woman was confused by the American football terminology.
Kincaid rolled his eyes. Anyone who didn’t know American football was a fucking idiot. “This is a tasking of a new target? Not one of the originals?”
“Ah, yes. Yes, it is. All of your original targets have been prosecuted.”
“Not Zakharova and Gentry.”
“Yes, correct, but they were not on the initial list.” She continued, “We will send an aircraft for you now. It will arrive in ninety minutes.”
“Where am I going?”
“You will fly to Cuba. Don’t worry about immigration, you will go in black, we have it all arranged. There is a target in Havana. We do not have the precise location yet. Once we have the target fixed, I will send you the dossier.”
“What’s my timeline?”
“Very short. Hours.”
“The target, does he or she have protection?”
“Yes, but you will have support, as well.”
Kincaid looked out over the massive fountain, fighting another eye roll. “I don’t need another crew of fools like you gave me in Guatemala. I need your best team.”
