The C-17 Air Force transport was loud, uncomfortable, and shook like an old man with palsy. Its interior looked like a warehouse. Men were crowded in on either side with boxes and crates lashed down with thick netting in the center area.

Flix fell asleep almost as soon as they took off. To Whitman, his wound seemed to have taken more out of him than he would have expected, going by the chart he had purloined on his first visit to Walter Reed. The rest will do him good, he thought as he turned his attention back to Charlie.

“I find it interesting that Cutler hired me,” she said, automatically adjusting the timber of her voice to compensate for the ambient noise.

“Why do you say that? You earned your way onto the team.”

“Nevertheless he clearly hated my guts.”

She and Whitman were sitting close together on utilitarian pull-down seats, and the upside of the clamor was that no one was going to overhear their conversation.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Whitman said.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” She cocked a thumb in Flix’s direction across the fuselage from them. “Not to mention your friend Orteño there. I thought his eyes were going to bug out of his head when he saw me.” She cocked her head. “Did you for some reason give him the impression I was male?”

“I may have. I don’t recall.”

Her laugh was mocking. “Please. You recall everything—the good, the bad, and the ugly.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t think Orteño approves of your choice in armorer.”

“Wait until he sees what you’ve brought along. And call him Flix; it’ll help smooth things over.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Again that mocking tone, which he chose to ignore. “I’ve got some news for you regarding our brief. I’m ripping it up.”

“What? Why are you telling me this now?”

“Our last brief was compromised. The target knew we were coming and was prepared.”

“A leak.”

Whitman nodded. “Most likely in NSA, but I can’t rule out Universal Security. Which is why I waited until we were in the air. The security on a C-17 is tighter than a duck’s ass.”

“Then Mansour is out.”

Whitman nodded again. “You’re right, Ibrahim Mansour does have a chicken neck. He’s also a minor player—very minor.”

“Then why have we been sent to kill him?”

“My opinion? It could have been almost anyone. Since there’s a crisis brewing in Lebanon and he’s in Beirut he was a logical choice. As a target, he was supposed to make sense to us.”

“But it doesn’t to you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I think the Mansour brief is misdirection.”

“From what?”