The short-term rental had been booked by the embassy State Department team through one of the standard online marketplaces. The advent of online property rentals was the greatest innovation in clandestine operations since the invention of sunglasses. Choose your location, stay as long as you want, pay virtually anonymously. Ding Chavez, in particular, appreciated the online photo spreads that offered the views from every window of a prospective rental—“window-shopping” had a very special meaning to snipers.
Yet while online rentals were great for anonymity and determining lines of sight, tactical soundness did sometimes suffer. Clark had been given a code for a lockbox that belonged on a toolshed. The code was 1-2-3-4. Of course, he wasn’t overly worried about physical security—not given the team he was travelingwith. The greater problem was the safe house’s location. The villa was outside town in a residential neighborhood, the kind of community where neighbors knew who belonged and who didn’t. Seven individuals showing up in two cars, all but one military-age males, was bound to draw attention.
Clark had done his best to mitigate the risk. All the curtains and blinds were drawn shut, and they’d parked both cars inside the villa’s seven-foot-high courtyard wall. The team settled into the place like the practiced gypsies they were.
“Nobody goes out without my approval,” Clark said, pouring a cup of coffee from a pot. He settled onto a couch, and with a gunslinger’s casualness crossed the heels of his boots on the scarred coffee table.
Four of the others sat at the dining room table, busy and chatting, a kind of paramilitary knitting circle. With no knowledge of what mission, if any, awaited them, they busied themselves in the way operators generally did. They tended to their gear, charging batteries for NODs and comm units and cleaning their weapons. The assault rifles had been in dry bags for the dive, but that kind of protection wasn’t absolute and extra care was required. The scents of brewed coffee and gun oil clashed in the air.
Wu and Toussaint, who had each taken a watch shift overnight, were sleeping it off. The others had already racked out, although sleep had been hard to come by in what felt like a Turkish sauna—the place’s heater had gone haywire for the first few hours, a wheezing malfunction that drove the temperature into the nineties. Calling the host to arrange repairs was a nonstarter, so Hyori had tracked down the breaker panel and cut the power.
“At least we have groceries,” Ding said as he finished off a flatbread sandwich.
“We can thank our State Department advance team for that. They were kind enough to fill the refrigerator.”
“Such as it is. Lentils, lamb, olives.”
“It’s the Mediterranean diet,” Charlie said. “Good for your black heart.”
“Not as good as the taquitos from Cielito Lindo. L.A. street food is the best in the world.”
“I wonder how long we’ll be here,” Hyori said.
Clark replied, “Whatever the DNI has in mind for us, it’s related to this air crash. I’d guess two days, maybe three. By then she’ll know if our special talents are required.”
Bauer went to the kitchen and began reloading the Mr. Coffee.
Clark watched Ding divert to one of the vacant bedrooms. He got up and trailed behind him.
Stopping at the door, Clark asked, “How’s that ear?”
“I’m good,” Ding said too quickly.
Clark looked out for his men, but it wasn’t purely out of compassion. He knew that operators weren’t wired to look out for themselves. When it came to injury and illness, they were closer to dogs, suppressing pain to not display weakness to the pack. It was the operator’s creed, instilled through years of training and countless operations. No one ever wanted to pull less than his share of the weight. Ding Chavez, however, was a special case. He was, after all, Clark’s son-in-law.
“Lemme have a look.”
Ding reluctantly held still as Clark grabbed a tactical flashlight from the dresser top. He flicked on a beam that belonged on a lighthouse and trained it on Ding’s left ear. “Looks terrible,” he said. “It’s all red and puffy.”
“I’m fine. If we have to respond to this crash thing, we won’t be going underwater. My aim is as sharp as ever.”
“Some antibiotics would probably fix it.”
“You said nobody goes out of the house. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna put the task force at risk for a few pissant pills.”
Clark sighed and turned off the light.
He tried to think of a way to argue his point, but came up blank—probably because he would have said the same thing had their situations been reversed. Operators could incur injuries on missions, but they also weren’t immune to more mundane maladies. Fevers, infections, rashes. Problems like that were easily dealt with at home, but getting primary medical care in far-flung corners of the world could be a challenge. Hostile territory, false identities, trying to stay under the radar. Nobody wanted to blow an op for a tube of topical ointment.
“We could TeleDoc,” Clark said. This was a new initiative by the ODNI. His team had access to CIA-attached doctors who could provide remote diagnoses.
“Can’t teleport antibiotics.”
“True. I’ll reach out to our State Department support team. They may not know much about safe houses, but they did okay with the groceries.”
“Fine. And while you’re at it, have ’em bring some firepower. The weapons we brought for the dive were pretty light. If we get some kinetic tasking, I’d prefer to not be outgunned.”
“I’ll ask that question. But don’t get your hopes up for a new Red Ryder, Ralphie. Christmas is a long time away.”
