Page 20 of Red Line

“That’s if they give us a car with the right off-roading capabilities,” Ty said.

“Anything better than motorcycles will make me happy,” Havoc said. “Though, if they give us a piece of shit with bald tires like they did in Niger—remember that crap?—we’ll have to get creative.”

Nomad leaned forward. “Why don’t we take a pile of cash in there and just bribe them? This is a conflict zone. People are hungry.”

“We need to take in some moola as a backup plan anyway, for sure,” Havoc said. “I’m adding it to the list. We can hide it in Rory’s vest, and if we don’t want them to look too close, Ty just signals Rory to tell the guy to back off.” Havoc grinned.

“Sorry, my dog’s pretty hungry,” Ty said, “and he gets cranky when he’s low-sugar. Got any bread? Piece of goat?”

T-Rex planted his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. “All right. Scenario A – we’re lost and pitiful. Scenario B – things are going sideways. Maybe they act like they want to call in backup, ‘How about we take care of you?’ Scenario C – still not going well, we let them go night-night, take their comms and vehicle to give us a bit of time to get clear of the area.”

“With you and me pushing the seats as far back as we can,” Nomad said, “and Rory in the mix, Poole better be small enough to shove in the hatch.”

“That, or we can tie him to the roof like a Christmas tree.” Ty laughed.

T-Rex swung his gaze around the table, taking in his team. “Since Nitro brought up dead bodies—bodies, that is, absolutelynotdead ones, or the mission is a fail—we need to package Poole and get him out. He’s not going to like that. And,” he rapped his knuckle on the folder in front of him, “zero footprint means we shouldn’t wake up the household or put anyone in motion.”

“Sedation.” Ty was slowly reducing the speed on Rory’s treadmill. Soon, it would be time to head to the airport to fly east.

Jeopardy drew his hand down his beard. “Sock in his mouth and a head wrapped in duct tape.”

“Sedation only. We can’t risk asphyxia.” T-Rex rapped the table again for emphasis. “Zero footprints. We need to explain the situation away.”

“If we’re stopped, and we say he’s having a medical emergency, they could very well separate him from us.” Nomad said, “He wakes up and talks to the authorities in a stupor. He’d get shipped off to their own little black hole for question-and-answer time.”

“How do we explain his situation so he stays in our custody?” Ty asked. “We’re lost hikers with a found car. Granted, driving the car at night in the country means we might not see anywhere to stop, so we just kept going. It’s a stretch. But so is every other word out of our mouths.”

“I did a mission once when we had enough time to develop pocket litter.” Nomad referenced the items chosen by operators working a clandestine mission to support a cover story. “We brought in two pharmacy bottles with his name printed on the label. The sleeping pills said, ‘Take one.’ The other was pain medication, ‘take two every four hours.’ No one stopped us. But had that happened, we were prepared to say that our guy got the bottles confused and tipped back two pills fora headache, which was double his dose of sleeping pills, and he zonked out on us. We’ve been checking his breathing. He seems to be okay. Just out like a light. It’ll wear off.”

T-Rex turned to Havoc. “Get that information to the soldier in charge of putting together our mission kits. Make sure it lists how many pills and that a good number are missing. Make sure the date on the bottles is at least a month old. We need a backpack with dirty clothes that fit Sgt. Poole that matches what we’re taking in, used hygiene items, and sand. Throw everything in the dirt and stomp on it. Front pocket of the ruck sack for the meds.”

“Wilco.” Havoc focused on his screen as he typed out the encrypted message.

“We’ll take Poole’s stuff out with him, but we’ll need to go through it and dump anything that isn’t intel or doesn’t support our cover. Speaking of meds, we need to get Poole from his host house to the boat. It could be hours,” T-Rex said. “He needs to be knocked completely out.”

“How big?” Nomad asked.

“He’s five-foot-six, a buck sixty,” T-Rex read.

“Haloperidol should do it.” Havoc didn’t look up from the keyboard. “Ketamine, maybe.”

“When Poole sees us, he’ll know he’s going to a black hole to answer some CIA interrogator’s questions,” Nomad said, “probably followed by a supermax. His adrenaline’s going to be through the roof.”

Nitro stretched his arms long and then rested his laced fingers on his head. “We need to B52 his ass.”

“B52 gives us options.” T-Rex nodded. “Okay the diphenhydramine goes in someone’s first aid kit for allergies to bee stings.”

“Desert bees?” Nomad lifted a single brow.

“I don’t care that there aren’t any bees.” T-Rex turned to Havoc. “I’m leery of labeling the allergy. Leave specifics off.”

“Remember when Foxtrot said their guy was allergic to shellfish,” Jeopardy asked, “and the investigators forced him to eat oysters?”

“Well, it made him swell up,” Nitro grinned. “But that was him enjoying the smiles of the woman serving him and less about anaphylaxis.”

“Wrong head was getting fat.” Havoc picked up the chip bag and tipped the last crumbs into his mouth.

“Allergies.” T-Rex pointed toward Nomad. “That’s you. Sometimes you have a reaction, sometimes you don’t. You carry the kit just in case things turn bad.”

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