Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(15)

“Judd knows.”

The Deputy Director stepped back. “He knows what, exactly?”

“Not everything”—she shook her head—“but enough.”

“I see . . . That’s too bad . . . Maybe it’s for the best.”

“I promised I wouldn’t run him.”

The Deputy Director rubbed his head for a moment and then nodded. “Seems fair. You shouldn’t run operations on your own family members. I wouldn’t advise it. Too complicated. Too messy.”

She nodded. “I promised Judd I wouldn’t lie to him either.”

“Well, that was stupid. Lying is your job.”

“Well, I won’t do it to Judd. That’s the only way I can make this work.”

He looked her up and down and then stared into her eyes. “That’s even more of a reason for you to accept my offer.” He shook the keys again. “Come on, Jessica. You need this.”

She held his gaze until the Deputy Director of the CIA blinked. Then she held out her hand. He smiled ever so slightly as the keys dropped into her palm.





9.


NORTHERN VIRGINIA


TUESDAY, 7:10 P.M.

Where the heck are we going, Al?” Dennis Dobson asked from the backseat of Alejandro Cabrera’s Honda Odyssey minivan.

“The airport is that way,” Crawford Jackson said, pointing back toward the exit off Highway 66. “You just missed it.”

“We aren’t flying out of Dulles, gentlemen,” Brinkley Barrymore III replied from the front passenger seat.

“Shit, brothers, we’re not flying commercial,” Alejandro crowed, punching the accelerator. “You’ll see, aseres.”

“We’ve made special arrangements. We’ve got a lot of gear for the trip,” Brinkley explained, gesturing toward the back of the van, which was loaded high with heavy-duty cases. The Odyssey was an older model of faded burgundy, highlighted by a bright pink soccer ball sticker boasting KILLER LADYBUGS! on the rear bumper. The interior was worn and emitted a subtle aroma of peanut butter. Its engine growled under the weight of the four men and all the cargo.

“What’s all that shit?” Crawford asked.

“Fishing gear. Supplies. And some parts for the boat,” Alejandro said. “You’ll see.”

They rode listening to the Nationals baseball game on the radio for the next ten minutes. Alejandro then turned the minivan off the highway, and Brinkley reached over and shut off the radio.

“Where are we?” Dennis asked.

“Almost there,” Brinkley replied just as Alejandro turned again, down an unmarked road cut through a thick-wooded area. Dennis elbowed Crawford in the ribs and scrunched his face. Crawford shrugged back.

“Seriously, guys, where the heck are we? What kind of airport is on a dirt road?”

“You’ll see, boys,” Alejandro said. “You’re gonna love it.”

“This is the kind of place where they hide dead bodies,” Dennis said. “Are you taking us down this track to cut our throats and leave us for dead?”

“I’ll never leave you for dead, Deuce,” Crawford said.

“Don’t get your balls in a twist,” Alejandro said. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it years ago.”

“It’s nineteen-thirty,” Brinkley announced. “Right on time.”

“The only one who’s gonna kill you is Beth,” Al said. “You tell her you were going fishing or did you make something else up?”

“I told her,” Dennis said. “She always knows when I’m lying.”

“Good man,” Crawford said. “Vanessa can tell with me, too.”

“I still can’t believe I blew off my project to go fishing.” Dennis shook his head. “The office knew I wasn’t sick.”

“Here we are, gentlemen,” Brinkley announced just as the van arrived at a clearing in the woods with a long asphalt airstrip hidden in a remote valley of rural northern Virginia. Parked at the very end of the runway was a sleek white corporate jet, the setting sun giving it a sparkling aura.

“Holy cow!” shrieked Dennis. “Is that for us?” He hopped up and down in his seat.

“What the f*ck?” Crawford gasped. “A G5? You f*cking with us?”

“It’s a Gulfstream 650ER,” Dennis chirped. “It’s the latest in long-distance corporate jets. That plane could take us to Rio. Or Hong Kong.”

“What the f*ck’s going on here, Brink?” Crawford asked.

“Don’t worry, amigo,” Alejandro said. “Brink knows a guy.”

“I have a client,” Brinkley said.

“A client lent you his private plane? So you could take us fishing?”

“He owes me a favor.”

“Is your client Warren Buffett?” Dennis asked. “Or Bill Gates?”

“Shit, Brink,” Crawford said, “is your client the CIA?”

“Who gives a f*ck?” Alejandro said. “We’ll be at the Key West Airport in three hours and then on The Big Pig at first light tomorrow morning. Who gives two shits which white-collar criminal our boy Brink is defending. The motherf*cker is lending us his plane. So stop asking questions.”