On Target by Mark Greaney

the rendition of President Bakri Ali Abboud from the Sudan to the International Criminal Court in the Netherlands. Arrangements will be made for further operations, presuming all goes well in Africa, at the appropriate time, via the Special Activities Division Special Operations Group case officer assigned to you.”
    “Understood. Thank you.”
    A curt nod from the man on the screen, and the screen went blank.
    Immediately Zack said, “I thought that dude would never shut up.”
    Court stood, looked at his watch.
    “So, we good, Six?” asked Zack.
    A pause of resignation on the part of Court Gentry. He was going to do this, but it would not be easy. He said, “You’d better get me back to the hotel. Can’t let Sid’s goons catch me away.”
    Zack smiled. “Roger that. A couple of my boys will take you back and tuck you in. Don’t mind them if they aren’t too chummy at first. They’re a little grumpy about all this. They somehow got the impression that you were the dickhead who’d killed several men in your unit and then ran off to seek fame and fortune in the private sector.”
    “Where did they get an idea like that, Zack?”
    Sierra One put his hands up in surrender. “I might bear some responsibility for their distrust of you. Also, you put Todd out of action for this op.” Then he smiled, slapped his hand on Court’s back, a little too forcefully. “Hey, it’s good to be working with you again. Last thing. Let’s talk about gear.”
    “What about it?”
    “I’ll have all the specific equipment for Nocturne Sapphire in the Sudan. I’ll meet you there to hand it over the night before the operation. But as far as personal gear, let me know what you need, and I’ll see what I can do to have it ready by next week.”
    “A sat phone that I can reach you on. Something that works well in North Africa. A Hughes Thuraya should be good. And a good supply of batteries. That ought to do.”
    Hightower looked at Gentry. “You gonna bash a sat phone over the bad guys’ heads? I was talking about guns, Six.”
    “I’ll get all the guns I need from Sid. He’s got better shit than you guys.”
    “Oh, that hurts. But hey, you’ll save the taxpayers a few bucks, so I guess I’m cool with that.”

TWELVE
    Court made it back to his suite at the Nevsky Palace at four forty-five a.m. He and Hightower had discussed operational details for another hour, then he was led out of the belly of the yacht and over the side, onto a dinghy with two of Zack’s men. No words were spoken between the three as they negotiated the frigid black waters of the Bay of Finland, making landfall at nearly four in the morning. A car was waiting on the dock, and Court was ushered into it, driven back to the hotel, and delivered to a room. Hightower had thought of everything, even renting a suite directly above Gentry’s. From here the SAD men went to the balcony, dropped a rope over the side, and gave Court a small pad of contact information for the team.
    “Hey, man,” said the black operator. He’d been introduced as Spencer, and the other guy, a younger man with an accent Court recognized as Croatian, as Milo. “People talk. Rumors and shit. Normally I don’t listen . . . but . . . Were you the guy in Kiev? Just a yes or no.”
    Gentry took the pad, stuck it in his back pocket, and uttered his only phrase in the past hour of the transport. “Fuck you.” He ignored the rope and kicked his legs over the side of the railing. He swung down to his balcony below unaided and dropped silently.
    Spencer leaned over the railing and called down, “Fuck you, too, Six. We’ll see you in two weeks down in the stink.”

    Gentry showered, stared into the foggy bathroom mirror at his bruised face, and looked at the clock on the vanity. Five a.m. In two hours he’d have some explaining to do about how he managed to get a shiner and a fat lip while reading papers alone on a bed in a junior suite. Naked, Court turned to leave the room, but