Chapter 10 #6
“Then what do you suggest?”
This was it. The turn. Everything hinged on the next sixty seconds.
Alan took a breath. “Cunning instead of force. Strategy instead of tanks.”
“I’m listening.”
“You want to hurt President White? Don’t attack the fortress. Make him choose.” Alan raised the binoculars again. Britta was still at the window. “Make him kill his own daughter.”
A beat, then, “Keep talking,” Tomas said.
“President White is on his yacht off Fisher Island. Protected. Secret Service everywhere. Naval patrols. He’s untouchable because he expects you to come at him directly. Bombs. Snipers. Assault teams. He’s ready for that.”
“And?”
“And he’s not ready for psychological warfare.” Alan lowered the binoculars. “You put his daughter on a plane. Make her think it’s an evacuation—Secret Service detail tells her there’s been a threat, they’re moving her to a secure location.”
Vladimir was frowning.
“The plane is rigged,” Alan continued. “Device in the cargo hold. Timer-activated. When it reaches Fisher Island—when it’s directly over President White’s yacht—it detonates. The plane goes down.”
“You want to crash a plane into his yacht.”
“I want to make him choose. You tip off Secret Service. Anonymous call. Tell them there’s a device on the plane heading for the yacht. They have two options—shoot down the plane and kill the daughter to save the president. Or let it crash and kill both.”
Vladimir shifted. “That’s complicated.”
“That’s elegant,” Alan said. “Either way, someone dies. Either way, President White suffers. Either way, he knows we outmaneuvered him.”
“And it doesn’t cost me eight operators,” Tomas said slowly.
“It costs you two. Fake Secret Service to extract her. I’ll handle the device and the plane. Clean extraction for everyone except the target.”
More silence. Longer this time.
The patrol boat made another pass. The Secret Service agents on the beach walked their patterns. Britta disappeared from the window.
Alan’s heart hammered. His left arm burned where the tracker sat.
York, are you watching? My vitals have to be redlining on your screen right now. Read them. Something’s in motion—forty-eight hours—and all I can send you is a heartbeat.
“Details,” Tomas said finally. “Walk me through the extraction again.”
“Fake Secret Service. We have credentials from previous operations. Two agents. They tell Britta there’s been a credible threat—doesn’t matter what, just something that sounds real.”
“The plane?”
“Charter. Gulfstream. File a flight plan to Miami International but adjust course toward Fisher Island. Device placed in cargo hold before takeoff. Timer-activated when we reach cruising altitude. I’ll be on board to ensure it works.”
“Your extraction?”
Alan met Vladimir’s eyes. “Parachute. I bail five minutes before detonation. Water landing. Pickup boat retrieves me. The plane continues on autopilot until impact.”
Vladimir snorted. “You expect us to believe you’ll jump out of a plane?”
“I expect you to believe I want to live through this. See my family.”
“Or,” Vladimir said, “you’re setting us up. Feeding us a plan that York can intercept. You get on the plane, you save the girl, you play hero.”
Alan’s heart rate spiked.
“Then put your own man on board,” Alan said. “Someone you trust. Someone who’ll make sure I follow through. Put a gun to my head the entire flight if you want. I don’t care. I just want to see my family when this is over.”
Static in his ear. Then Tomas’s voice, quiet and considering, this time addressing Vladimir. “I think Alan’s right. The mansion is too hard. Too many variables. But a plane—” A pause. “A plane is contained. Controlled. And the psychological impact is better than a firefight.”
Vladimir’s expression darkened.
“Bring him back to the dock. I’m approving this operation.”
Vladimir throttled up. The boat swung around, heading back north up the Indian River.
“Alan,” Tomas said in his ear. “I’m sending you operational details. Aircraft information, device specifications, extraction coordinates. You have ninety-six hours to get this in place.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing.” Tomas’s voice went cold. “I’m trusting you with this. Giving you operational control. But if you’re lying—if any part of this is a setup—I won’t kill you quickly. I’ll make you watch what happens to your family first.”
Alan’s throat closed. “I’m not lying.”
“Good. Then we’re done. Check in with final details on Thursday night.”
The line went dead. Static, then nothing.
Alan pulled the earwig out. His hand was shaking.
Vladimir guided the boat back toward the dock in the harbor. The sun was higher now, turning the water from gold to blue. Seabirds wheeled overhead. The mangroves slid past.
“Get out,” Vladimir said. His voice was flat. “And Martin? I’m watching you. One wrong move, and Tomas isn’t the only one you’ll have to worry about.”
Alan climbed onto the dock. His left arm burned.
Three puppet masters now. Tomas, York, and Vladimir.
And Alan in the middle with four days to save everyone or watch them all die.