Page 133 of One Minute Out

I can’t see any aircraft from my vantage point here, so I climb the fence, drop to the other side, and begin moving through the parking lot, avoiding any lights.

Three minutes later I’m prone under a commercial truck on the edge of the ramp. I scan the dozen different aircraft in front of me, all corporate-sized jets. There are Bombardiers, Citations, Learjets, Embraers, and Gulfstreams, but my eyes focus on a Dassault Falcon 50. It looks older than most of the other planes around, but in good condition, and what really draws me to it is that, in contrast to every single other aircraft here at this FBO, the Falcon 50 has its stairs down and its rear luggage hatch open, and the APU, the auxiliary power unit, is sitting next to the jet’s nose.

Someone either has recently deplaned or is planning on using this aircraft soon.

The cockpit and cabin lights are off, which means departure isn’t imminent, but I take this as a good sign.

It will give me time to do what I need to do.

The moment I told Matt Hanley I was headed to Venice, I knew without a doubt he’d send guys to come grab me and drag me back home. And although it’s been a long time since I’ve been here with the Agency, I do remember we landed here at this FBO. I wasn’t sure the Agency was still using the same facility, but I figured there was a very good chance they would be.

I needed a lucky break, and I think I just got it.

There was no way I could fly commercial back to the USA; the Agency would pick me up on facial recognition and I’d be grabbed before I left most any airport in Europe, then hauled off to an Agency safe house till I could be ferried home.

And I sure as hell don’t have time to get on a freighter and steam all the way to the United States.

So I use the one thing I have at my disposal. An angry CIA DDO who wants me home and working for him again.

I’m going to get on that plane, knowing that when Travers and the others are a half hour out or so, the pilots will climb aboard for preflight. Then we’ll take off, leaving the SAC dudes behind. Obviously Travers and the others will notify Langley, and there will be one hell of a welcoming committee wherever this plane is due to land, but I can divert it by having the pilot declare an emergency once we cross over the U.S. border, and I should be able to deplane before Hanley can get any more goons there to take me down.

Yeah, as plans go, this one is out there. I’ve certainly never hijacked an aircraft before, but I’m a desperate man with few options.

And this shit is what I do.

I have a plan B, in case I’m wrong about this not being a trap, but plan B relies on factors that, so far in my experience, I’ve not been able to rely on.

I sure as shit do not want to rely on plan B, and if I have to pull it out, it’s only because it’s my very last hope.

I start to crawl out from under the truck to head for the Falcon, but then I stop myself. When has anything I’ve done ever been this easy?

There is nothing in front of me that makes it seem like I might be stepping into a trap, except my sudden, rare turn of apparent good luck.

But I don’t have time to do this the slow and careful way; I have to act.

What the hell, I tell myself, and I begin walking through the night across the ramp.

A minute later I climb the jet stairs. I’m unarmed, for two reasons. One, I only had the Glock, which I kicked into the drain. And two... I’m not going to go lethal with anyone in the CIA, and I doubt they’d go lethal against me.

Hanley wants me alive, because I’m useful.

I then look into the darkened cabin. Every last one of the interior lights is off, which is weird, meaning this is a cold aircraft with the hatch open. I start to wonder if the pilots are even on airport grounds, but I know they wouldn’t leave the Falcon compromised like this unless they were nearby in the lounge.

Unless... of course... this is a trap.

And then it happens. A light flicks on over a sofa in the rear of the cabin, and I know, without a doubt, what I’m about to see. I turn to the light.

A man sits there, leg crossed over a knee, a cowboy boot on full display, and a cold bottle of Corona in his hand. He’s silhouetted by the light behind him, but that doesn’t matter.

I know who this is before he says a word.

“Howdy, Six. You looking for a lift?”

Shit. I can’t see his face well, but I recognize the voice of Zack Hightower, my old team leader from my own Ground Branch days, and currently a denied Agency asset run by Matt Hanley.

Just like me.

In the Goon Squad his call sign was Sierra One, and mine was Sierra Six. He’s rarely called me by anything other than Six in the past decade.

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