for him. Though after looking at the man's face and getting a glimpse into his cold, dead eyes, Blackstone was pretty sure he knew exactly who the top dog was in this show.
"I understand you know the target personally," Blackstone said.
Garcia nodded. "I recruited him."
"We had him under surveillance for ten days."
"And you lost him."
"Our briefing packet was pretty thin," Blackstone said.
"You were told what you needed to be told."
"Knowing why he's here might help us find him."
Garcia looked from Blackstone to Donahue, who had wisely decided to keep his mouth shut, and back. "The man we're tracking, whose normal area of operations is...let's just say Western Europe, was recently asked to consult on an operation. Shortly after that, he got on a plane and came here. The people who asked him to consult are worried he might be having second thoughts."
"About consulting?"
"About the nature of the operation."
"Is he?" Blackstone said. "Having second thoughts, I mean."
"That's what I'm here to find out."
"Can I askâ"
"About the nature of the operation?" Garcia said.
Blackstone nodded.
"No."
Blackstone really wasn't liking this guy's tone. "I assume the op is going to be pretty messy if it's given one of your consultants the heebie-jeebies."
"Assume all you want," Garcia said. "But do it on your own time."
At least now it was clear, Blackstone thought, exactly who was working for whom. He looked at Donahue. The FBI man looked dumbfounded. Fucking pogue.
***
Favreau was refueling the Cessna from a self-service pump on the apron of a deserted airport in rural Kentucky. Like the airport in Virginia, this one was for general aviation only and had no lights or air traffic control. At 5:15 a.m., still an hour before dawn, it was closed.
"When you steal an airplane," Jake said, "it should at least come with a full tank of gas."
"I didn't steal it," Favreau said. "I borrowed it."
Jake eyed the credit card in Favreau's hand, the one he'd charged the aviation fuel on. "Did you water your card?"
The Frenchman looked confused. "Pardon?"
"Your credit card," Jake said, pointing. "Looks like it grew."
Favreau laughed. "Like a house plant." He raised the card. "But no, this is a different card. And too big, I think, to unlock handcuffs."
"Does being an international fugitive make it tough to get credit?"
Favreau shoved the card into his wallet. "It belongs to a friend."
"Same friend who lent you the plane?"
"I have lots of friends."
"Somehow, I doubt that."
The pump handle clicked and the latch snapped off, signaling the tank was full. As Favreau shoved the handle back into the slot in the pump, Jake looked in the cabin window and saw Stacy curled in a back seat, sleeping.
Favreau whispered, "She's in love with you."
"We've never even been on a date."
"You don't have to date to be in love."
"See, that right there just proves it," Jake said, turning to the Frenchman. "You really are crazy."
"If she doesn't love you, why is she risking her life to help you."
"Because she's a friend."
Favreau shook his head and smiled. "She's a lot more than that." He wagged his finger at Jake. "One day, you will see that I am right."
"Get in the plane," Jake said.
Chapter 21
Max Garcia leaned against a sideboard in the assistant special agent in charge's office, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the other two men in the room: Donahue, who sat in an overstuffed leather chair behind his desk; and Blackstone, seated on a matching leather sofa against the far wall.
The FBI agent was soft, a pencil pusher, totally out of his depth. He probably came up through financial crimes or public corruption, maybe the Civil Rights Division. Some type of assignment that carried little risk and required minimal physical action. Garcia doubted the man had set foot in the field in years.
Blackstone was a different sort. Physically tough and possessed of a certain air of command. Garcia knew the type, a hard charger, rigid,
"I understand you know the target personally," Blackstone said.
Garcia nodded. "I recruited him."
"We had him under surveillance for ten days."
"And you lost him."
"Our briefing packet was pretty thin," Blackstone said.
"You were told what you needed to be told."
"Knowing why he's here might help us find him."
Garcia looked from Blackstone to Donahue, who had wisely decided to keep his mouth shut, and back. "The man we're tracking, whose normal area of operations is...let's just say Western Europe, was recently asked to consult on an operation. Shortly after that, he got on a plane and came here. The people who asked him to consult are worried he might be having second thoughts."
"About consulting?"
"About the nature of the operation."
"Is he?" Blackstone said. "Having second thoughts, I mean."
"That's what I'm here to find out."
"Can I askâ"
"About the nature of the operation?" Garcia said.
Blackstone nodded.
"No."
Blackstone really wasn't liking this guy's tone. "I assume the op is going to be pretty messy if it's given one of your consultants the heebie-jeebies."
"Assume all you want," Garcia said. "But do it on your own time."
At least now it was clear, Blackstone thought, exactly who was working for whom. He looked at Donahue. The FBI man looked dumbfounded. Fucking pogue.
***
Favreau was refueling the Cessna from a self-service pump on the apron of a deserted airport in rural Kentucky. Like the airport in Virginia, this one was for general aviation only and had no lights or air traffic control. At 5:15 a.m., still an hour before dawn, it was closed.
"When you steal an airplane," Jake said, "it should at least come with a full tank of gas."
"I didn't steal it," Favreau said. "I borrowed it."
Jake eyed the credit card in Favreau's hand, the one he'd charged the aviation fuel on. "Did you water your card?"
The Frenchman looked confused. "Pardon?"
"Your credit card," Jake said, pointing. "Looks like it grew."
Favreau laughed. "Like a house plant." He raised the card. "But no, this is a different card. And too big, I think, to unlock handcuffs."
"Does being an international fugitive make it tough to get credit?"
Favreau shoved the card into his wallet. "It belongs to a friend."
"Same friend who lent you the plane?"
"I have lots of friends."
"Somehow, I doubt that."
The pump handle clicked and the latch snapped off, signaling the tank was full. As Favreau shoved the handle back into the slot in the pump, Jake looked in the cabin window and saw Stacy curled in a back seat, sleeping.
Favreau whispered, "She's in love with you."
"We've never even been on a date."
"You don't have to date to be in love."
"See, that right there just proves it," Jake said, turning to the Frenchman. "You really are crazy."
"If she doesn't love you, why is she risking her life to help you."
"Because she's a friend."
Favreau shook his head and smiled. "She's a lot more than that." He wagged his finger at Jake. "One day, you will see that I am right."
"Get in the plane," Jake said.
Chapter 21
Max Garcia leaned against a sideboard in the assistant special agent in charge's office, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the other two men in the room: Donahue, who sat in an overstuffed leather chair behind his desk; and Blackstone, seated on a matching leather sofa against the far wall.
The FBI agent was soft, a pencil pusher, totally out of his depth. He probably came up through financial crimes or public corruption, maybe the Civil Rights Division. Some type of assignment that carried little risk and required minimal physical action. Garcia doubted the man had set foot in the field in years.
Blackstone was a different sort. Physically tough and possessed of a certain air of command. Garcia knew the type, a hard charger, rigid,
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