SELF-EXTRACTION

Mack Gerhardt's eyes scanned the horizon for the millionth time. He saw only the white cap of the small waves breaking the ocean's surface. Light had tinged the sky before dawn broke nearly half an hour ago. Fighting fatigue and hunger, still he waited, hoping—unable to help but wonder if his being here was due to a glitch on the mission or if it was intentional. Did Ryan know that Mack had learned about the affair? Would Ryan really risk it?

Hearing voices carried to him on the wind, Mack pushed off from his post against the front of the truck. On the hill behind him, a car was now parked and a middle-aged couple were making their way down the trail to the beach. Further up the beach he could make out the form of a long jogger. Time to cut bait and run. He'd accomplished his part of the mission—and had the bruises to prove it—but it would go in the failure column. Now, he was on his own.

He moved to the side of the truck and lifted a corner of the heavy canvas a few inches. Pulling the revolver with silencer from his waistband, he held it a few inches from the man's forehead. Now conscious, the man's eyes went wide in fear as Mack stared back blankly, before pulling the trigger, twice. The head jerked back at the force of the bullets' impact and the pupils blew in the split second before the eyes closed. Mack calmly laid the gun next to the body and let go of the canvas. With a glance at the approaching couple, Mack walked unhurriedly away from the truck and down the beach.

************

Mack had walked over a mile up the beach, making sure no one seemed to be following him. He jogged up a path to a high-end tourist hotel. He slid the camel colored jacket off and ditched it in a garbage can. It wouldn't be long before some nosey beachcomber checked out the truck and found the body. And eventually someone would remember a man walking away from the truck or down the beach alone. Hopefully, he had at least half an hour before they were looking for him. Cartagena was a big city with bus terminals, the port district, and airport. So many choices—too many to cover thoroughly in trying to find him; only he had limited funds and would need new identification to get out of the country and home through proper channels. Stealing a plane in Colombia was risky business—too many gunmen protecting the drug runners and flying without a flight plan was an invitation to be shot down. He could hop aboard a ship, but trying to find one headed in the right direction could raise suspicion and the cartel had plenty of moles in the shipping business, too. This time he needed a little help.

************

Passing the pool area he ducked in the bathroom and washed traces of dirt and blood from his face, trying to look like he belonged here. Ducking into the resort's small deli, Mack ordered a large coffee and breakfast burrito to take the edge off. To the casual observer he was just another tourist enjoying an early breakfast as he did a quick surveillance of the hotel's lobby. He looked at his watch and decided he needed to make his move. Bingo. He found the passageway to the hotel executives' offices and had jimmied a lock in less than half a minute and edged inside. There was a computer on the desk and he quickly booted it up. Mack chuckled to himself as he rummaged in the desk drawer and found mints and condoms among the assorted office supplies. What kind of business goes on with the high end guests, he mused. He took a mint but tried to leave everything else as he'd found it. No password written on a scrap of paper caught his attention but—what-do-you-know—it looked like he didn't need one he deduced as the screen came up. Mack launched the internet browser and navigated to a secure site and entered his password. All the operators had access to the site with a listing of current safe house locations and contacts. Each man had his own password that would be recorded, letting the TOC trace it back to his location. Most of the guys chose their secure password based on some significant event—like the day and girl's initials from when they first got laid. Mack had chosen a password composed of the date that Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon had been posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for their actions in Somalia along with their initials.

With an ear out for the sound of anyone coming down the hall, he waited as the website bounced his request around from secured servers in one country to another and finally pulled up the information he needed. Scanning the information, Mack's mouth curved into slight smile. It was further away, probably six hours by car, than two of the other locations, but better to go with the known commodity, a trusted friend, than an unknown. He memorized the address, writing it down would put a friend in danger if he got captured by authorities before he made it there. He pulled up a map site, thank goodness he knew Spanish well enough to navigate the site and get directions, then logged off the computer and shut it down before slipping out the door, careful to leave no trace of his unauthorized visit.

Next on the agenda, new threads. Buying something new in the resort store would stand out more and involve interaction with a clerk, besides he needed something with a more local look. So Mack headed east, away from the resort, continuing until he reached a street of small cinderblock homes. It didn't take long to spy clothes hanging on a line behind one, but as he neared he could see the pants looked too wide and short so he moved on until he saw something that looked like a better fit. He edged between two palm bushes and crouched to stay out of sight. No one was visible in the back yards, but that didn't mean someone wouldn't be looking out a window and blow this part of the op. Might as well get a move on, he decided before some old woman or dog stumbled across him. He took the few steps needed to reach the line and yanked the pants and a work shirt from the line. At the side of the house, he quickly stripped and changed into the stolen clothes, stashing his behind the palms in exchange, though hoping they wouldn't be found until at least nightfall when he'd be far away.

************

More people were on the move now, making their way to jobs and Mack did his best not to draw attention to himself or make eye contact with anyone as he headed toward the business center of the city. Purposefully, he wandered around until he found what he was looking for—an actual office building with a parking lot. He found a location that allowed him to discreetly observe the people coming and going. A young woman parked a short while later and carried what looked like a brown lunch sack into the building with her. Mack waited another precious half hour until the pedestrian traffic had died down to make his way to the woman's parked vehicle. Another stoke of luck in that the door was unlocked. She probably didn't expect anyone to pick her rattletrap for a joyride. Sorry, he said silently by way of apology to her as he hotwired the ignition. He figured it would be a good eight hours before she returned to find her car missing.

Thirty minutes later, the city had disappeared from sight as Mack drove the dusty excuse for a highway headed south. Following the road signs he drove carefully, fighting the temptation to close his eyes. He remembered how the Bulgarians had captured an ill Alex Deckard after he passed out, wrecking his car filled with illegal weapons. It had only been 36 hours since he'd slept. He drove another two hours before pulling off to fill the gas tank and get lunch and grab a short power nap parked at the side of the station.

He reached his destination, the city of Turbo, late afternoon and drove around a while getting the lay of the land, mentally preparing several escape routes. He ditched the car on a side street then walked fifteen minutes to the address he'd memorized. Activity had picked up as Mack navigated his way back to his objective. He purchased a straw hat from a street vendor to hide his shorn hair after seeing several people staring warily at his bruised face and hurrying to put distance between him and them. Those things and the scruffy growth of beard undoubtedly giving him a menacing appearance that he didn't want people to remember.

He entered the five-story apartment building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. No one answered and he hesitated, toying with the idea of picking the lock. Instead, he decided not to risk it and exited the building. He walked the length of the busy street carefully scanning both sides looking for a familiar face. Tired as he was, he began to regret not picking the lock, having no idea how long it could take to make contact—or even if he would. The "local asset" might have plans, maybe overnight plans, that didn't include him. Still, Mack figured he'd give it an hour before coming up with a Plan B.

He crossed the street and walked back. It'd been nearly five years since they'd seen one another, still, without knowing he was coming, she picked him out of the crowd a second before he saw her. She only missed half a step before recovering her countenance—a testament to her skill and experience at living undercover, but never letting her guard down. She stopped at a vegetable vendors cart and selected several peppers. Mack neared and saw her cut her eyes towards her apartment building. He gave a slight nod, telling her he knew where she lived. As she paid for the items and added them to her canvas shopping bag, she gave a slight jerk of her head telling him to go ahead. She was right; his following her could draw more attention than him going in first.