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Instantly he thought these might be the pair he’d seen with his drone coverage earlier, the ones eliminated by the ground assets as being targets.
As the two approached, not more than twenty meters distant and two stories below him, another gale roared in from behind Contreras, and the hood of one of the passersby blew back.
Contreras saw the blond hair, then recognized the face of the target tasked as Gama 18, and he was certain neither she nor the man with her had seen him, as he was in pitch-black darkness up on the rooftop.
Still, he froze, did not move a muscle till they had continued down the street for half a minute.
Then he tapped his earpiece.
“Gama Control, Zero One.”
The response was quick from the German at Gama. “Go for Control.”
“I have the two targets moving southwest.”
There was a pause, and then the woman replied, “We aren’t receiving any images. How do you—”
“I saw them. I physically saw them. I’m at 595 Calle Santander, and they passed my position thirty seconds ago. Looks like they’re heading towards the lake.”
“Roger. Control out.”
Contreras waited a little longer, then began climbing down to the balcony. He wasn’t putting another copter in the air, no matter what Gama or the assets wanted, but he did need to get himself, his van, and his suspicious-looking equipment out of here before it all went loud. Which, judging by the urgent, almost panicked voice of the German woman on the other end of the line, would probably not be very long at all.
•••
The assassin known as Lancer holstered his massive pistol in the middle of the dark and empty apartment. He’d checked every room, every closet. He opened the door to the hall, saw Bernadino standing there, and the young Guatemalan just shook his head.
He was just about to notify his controller that they’d hit a dry hole when the French woman broadcast into his earpiece.
“Lancer, Control.”
“Go.”
“Zakharova and her male associate are six blocks to your southwest, on foot, heading in the direction of the lake.”
The American was moving in an instant. To Bernadino he said, “Get Chico up here to pick us all up. Target acquired.”
•••
Court and Zoya approached the water’s edge and passed a red-roofed restaurant that—through the windows, anyway—seemed reasonably full despite the bad weather. The Porta Hotel del Lago lay on their left as they faced the water, and in front of them they saw a row of simple wooden piers jutting out into Lake Atitlán, and more than a dozen boats of various sizes bobbing close together.
Court knew Zoya was right; there probably wouldn’t be any captains out and about at the moment because the lake was whitewater rough.
“Let’s take one of those small launches,” he said as they walked past a low stone wall separating the dock area from the roads and buildings higher on the hill. “It’s not going to be a fun crossing, but it will be easier to fire an outboard motor than to boost one of those engines on the bigger watercraft.”
Zoya responded dubiously, her eyes on the choppy conditions. “Are you a good enough captain to get us across?”
They began walking down one of the piers towards a pair of wooden launches. “It’s still just a lake. I’ve made it over a lot stormier seas than that.”
Zoya said nothing.
They arrived at the end of the wooden pier, where Court eyed a pair of two twenty-five-foot boats, both with low covered wheelhouse areas and bench seating in the back.
“Which one?” Zoya asked, but before Court answered, he looked back up towards the town.
A young Guatemalan man on a bicycle turned off the road and came down the boat ramp, then bumped his bike’s wheels up onto the pier. He didn’t appear to be a threat, but both Court’s and Zoya’s hands hovered close to their weapons: his on his hip, and hers in the outer compartment of the pack on her chest.
The man rolled under the little light at the end of the pier and stopped his bike just twenty feet or so from the pair standing by the launches. He wore a raincoat and a ball cap, and he appeared to be no more than twenty years old.
