“Hightower is on injured reserve another week, at least. He has an MRI scheduled, and that will either clear him for service or extend his vacation.”
Zack Hightower had been with Court the night in Russia when he was shot, and Hightower himself took an AK round in the back of the thigh, a much more serious wound than Court’s. He, like Court and Hanley, had been ordered to start this sub rosa operation by the deputy director for ops at the CIA.
“What’s Zack doing now?” Court asked.
“Ignoring my calls, mostly. Sending me texts to keep me happy. He says he’s doing PT, but he’s also out in Colorado, hunting.”
“Hunting what?”
“Dunno. Not humans. Not yet.” After a moment, Hanley waved his hand in the air. “Look, before we get to the reason I called you here, I wanted to fill you in about your dad.”
Court sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Like we discussed, we have to assume that Russian intelligence obtained your name a few months ago. That could, theoretically at least, put your only living relative at some risk. A few weeks back I found an ex-Unit guy who lives down in Florida and works as a PI to keep an eye on your pop, just to make sure there wasn’t anyone snooping around him who shouldn’t be.”
Court knew this; he’d discussed it with Hanley in their first phone conversation after he returned from Russia. “And?” he prompted.
“And…your dad might be a crusty old goat, but he’s not an idiot. My guy down there says your dad made him in a hardware store two weeks ago, came up and started talking to him. Asking him why he just showed up in the area, why he’d seen him in a rental with Miami tags on his street, that kind of thing.”
“Shit,” Court muttered. “Were guns pulled?”
Hanley laughed. “No, nothing like that. But Skip, that’s the PI, had to double down to keep his story straight. He told your dad he was buying property there in the neighborhood.”
Court raised an eyebrow. “Meaning one of your non-CIA fronts now has a shitty house on a gravel road in northern Florida?”
“Yep, with a sixty-six-year-old former Delta guy in it. A guy who now has a standing invite to meet your dad for coffee every morning.”
Court groaned at this. “Some covert surveillance operation.”
Hanley shrugged. “It’s all good. Echols is doing his job. He hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Your pop is fine, and now he has a new friend to bitch to about all his conspiracy theories.”
“Sounds like him,” Court said. “I appreciate you watching over him.”
Hanley waved this away. “CIA has seen no evidence that the Russians are even bouncing your name around in their internal communications. Best-case scenario, the one guy in FSB who knew who you were is now the one guy we have on ice in a black site in Morocco.”
An FSB colonel named Baronov had run an operation where he learned Court’s name. Court had then, with help, kidnapped the man and brought him out of Russia.
“Fingers crossed,” Court said, but he wasn’t overly concerned about the Russians having his identity. He switched gears. “So, when you called this morning, you told me to get my ass here on the double.”
“Yeah. I wanted to rush you down here today to get you settled in, because I’m about to send you out into the field for the first time with this new venture.”
Court leaned forward, his beer still untouched in his hand. “What’s up?”
Hanley took a sip of his beer. “You’re going to Nicaragua.”
Court took a gulp himself, finally, and looked down at the bottle. It was an IPA. He hated IPAs. So much, in fact, that he was more bothered by his beverage than the fact that he’d just been told he’d soon be on a plane to a semi-hostile nation in Central America.
Hanley said, “An asset in their national police is claiming to be burned. Doesn’t trust the local station. Wants extraction from the country. Normally,the Agency would tell the agent to pound sand, but this particular agent is claiming to have something big enough to earn the extraction.”
Court didn’t get it. “The agent doesn’t trust the local station, fine. Send a Ground Branch team from up here. Why send me? I thought we were going to be used for big shit that the Agency can’t manage.”
“Thisisbig shit, apparently, because Trey Watkins came to me directly.”
Watkins was the deputy director for operations at CIA. The man who’d ordered the creation of this entire enterprise.
“Thatasshole,” Court mumbled.
“That asshole who saved your life by helping to get you out of Russia?”
