Preview the Sequel to Reflexive Fire

The tentative title is “Target Deck”

Deckard came awake with a start.

“We’re on final approach,” the co-pilot said.

“Already?”

“DC to Kabul in twelve hours, baby. You slept right through landing and take off at Nassau. We picked up a package from the Agency for you,” the middle aged CIA pilot pointed to the closet built into the fuselage of the aircraft. “Might want to change into something else. You will scare the squares out in this tourist shit hole in the Soldier of Fortune getup.”

“Thanks,” the mercenary replied as he stood and stretched his back. It felt like a dozen joints popped all at the same time. His knees and lower back creaked, the joints were sore, and his quadriceps threatened to seize up due to dehydration. The two mercenaries he had brought along with him remained sleeping in their chairs. The Gulfstream was outfitted to transport fifteen passengers so there was plenty of room for them on the aircraft. Their body armor and weapons lay in a pile on the floor.

The co-pilot disappeared back into the cockpit and Deckard got to work. When you are completely exhausted and going into the drone zone a few hours of sleep feels like you just woke up after hibernating for the winter. Although his body was still recovering from the abuse, his mind was moving a mile a minute.

In the Gulfstream’s small bathroom he threw water on his face thrn used the squirt bottle of liquid soap to wash his hands, arms, and face. Wetting down his hair he used the same soap to wash the dirt and debris out. Silently, he cursed the CIA agents in Oaxaca. They gave him an out but they sure as hell gave it to him on short notice.

The digital camouflage uniform he wore was stained with streaks of white. It was salt deposited in the fabric from sweating through the uniform several times a day. Stripping out of it he discarded the pants, blouse, and t-shirt the corner of the bathroom and continued wiping himself down as best he could. Somehow, he had to look like an investment banker when he met Bashir.

Ignoring his nudity, Deckard stepped out of the bathroom and went to the closet. Inside a garment bag was a gray Hicky-Freeman suit that had clearly been tailored to his measurements. He knew that the CIA kept an extensive file on him but this much information was ridicules. Bracing himself against the wall, he felt weightless for a moment as the jet began dumping altitude.

Quickly, he pulled on the pants, threw on the white button down shirt, and shrugged into the suit jacket. He left the fruity colored tie in the bag, leaving the shirt collar open. Sitting back down he began tying the shoes that came with the suit.

In the side pocket of the garment bag was the identity package he’d been promised. There was a smart phone with touch screen, a wallet packed full of credit cards and cash, and a US passport with his picture that bore the name Granger Black. The package was professionally done. The phone was pre-loaded with an address book full of phone numbers leading to various CIA front organizations. There were previous phone calls programmed into the call log and bullshit text messages stored in the memory all to make it look like it was used if anyone looked it over. The wallet included various business cards, including Granger Black’s. The passport was stamped up from London to Rome to Zurich.

He’d scanned the documents that Grant had given him in Oaxaca and then read them more carefully prior to take off. Bashir traveled with a Personal Security Detachment, or PSD wherever he went. They were former Lebanese Strike Force members from Beirut, trained by US Special Forces Soldiers. There was no time to plan the logistics of a large scale Direct Action strike with a platoon of Samruk mercenaries. In hours, if not days, the Mexican Marines would be raiding Samruk’s compound and hunting them down like dogs if he didn’t do something.

In order to get close to Bashir he would have to go in undercover. The two mercenaries he brought along were backup and would probably have to wait for him in the Gulfstream. If everything went pear shaped he would be on his own for the foreseeable future. His weapons and equipment would have to be left on the aircraft. Once again he was flying by the seat of his pants and cursed the the CIA for it. A bunch of Mormon accountants and Jesuit Lawyers from Harvard, Princeton, and Yale, it was no wonder that a Special Operations soldier like Deckard never got on with them very well.

When the wheels touched down on the tarmac the two mercs shook awake, looking around for a moment before collecting themselves and reaching for Kalashnikovs.

As the Gulfstream taxied onto the parking apron on the airfield, Deckard checked himself over in the mirror one last time. Running a hand through his hair he found it course and thick despite the impromptu washing. His face was drawn, he had lost some water weight over the last few days. His eyes were sharp even if his body wasn’t back to full capacity. Grabbing a bottle of water from the on board refrigerator, he downed half of it in one gulp.

When the plane halted the co-pilot came forward and dropped the folding stairs down to the ground.

“Good luck bud. We’ve done of a few of these that turned out to be one way trips for our passenger.”

“Just keep the engines running,” Deckard said dryly. “This shouldn’t take long.”