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He then pulled his pistol out of its holster, unloaded it, and disassembled it. As he cleaned the parts of the weapon with a cleaning kit he retrieved out of his spare rucksack, he turned his phone back on, slipped in an earpiece, and placed a call.
He knew his controller would have been trying to contact him for the past several hours, but Lancer had needed to think about what went wrong.
His mind settled, he waited for someone to answer on the other end.
“Hello?”
It was the same French woman from earlier. She sounded exhausted. He didn’t know where the operations center for this mission was located, so he had no idea what time it was where he was calling. “Relay status.”
“I’ll tell you my fucking status. The three locals are either dead or arrested by the cops, I’m wounded, and the target escaped.”
There was no emotion in the French woman’s voice. “All three assets are dead.”
He sniffed angrily. “They weren’t assets, they were liabilities. And you lost Zakharova?”
“The only eyes we had were the UAV, which crashed before you acted.”
He sighed. “They escaped in a boat, long gone from Panajachel. Could be anywhere.”
“Understood. Where have you been the past six hours?”
“Thinking over my career plans.”
“What does that mean?”
“This job…when I agreed, was four targets, perhaps some security. Now I’m up against multiple tier-one operatives. I think it’s time we renegotiate.”
“I’m not in a position to—”
“Of course you’re not. Connect me with someone who is.”
There was a pause, then the woman said, “I will. But first, what went wrong?”
“One of those fools you hired revealed himself to the oppo before we had time to set up. We were on the back foot from the start, and it went downhill from there. Zakharova’s associate is a highly skilled operative.”
“We have been unable to identify him.”
“I’ll help you out, though it isn’t my fucking job to ID personalities for your organization. His name is Gentry. He’s American. Former CIA. Worked in the private sector for a handler named Fitzroy several years ago.”
“How do you know this?”
“Hey, that’s my intel, take it or leave it.” Lancer finished cleaning the barrel of his big pistol, and now he pulled out a bottle of lubricant/protectant and began oiling the gun’s internal mechanics. He then said, “Put me on with the boss or I’m hanging up.”
A man came on the line instantly; Kincaid detected a northern European accent.
“Lancer?”
“What do I call you?”
“Call me Director.”
“Okay. Two point five million U.S. a hit. Starting yesterday, continuing as long as this op lasts.”
“I’m not the one who pays you.”
Kincaid was surprised. “You’re not the one who contracted me through my handler?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t know you, and I don’t know your handler. If you want more money, you have to talk directly to Cyrus. We all work for him.”
