Austin was well acquainted from his CIA days with the avian nickname for the SR-71, a high-speed, high-altitude aircraft that had flown secret reconnaissance missions for the CIA before it was succeeded by drone aircraft and satellites in the late 1990s. The legendary plane could make a transatlantic crossing in two hours.

“I thought they retired the whole flock of Blackbirds,” he said.

“That’s the cover story,” Flagg said. “We kept one to transport personnel in emergencies.”

“I’d say this qualifies as an emergency,” Austin said.

“Great minds think alike,” Flagg said. He flipped open his cell phone. He worked his way through the bureaucracy, and was still talking when the whup-whup of helicopter rotors could be heard.

Austin went to the balcony and saw two helicopters flying in low circles over the mansion.

“The cavalry has arrived,” Austin said.

Flagg tucked the phone in his pocket. “I always cheered for the Indians, but I’ll make an exception because I’m in a good mood. Just spoke to a mucky-muck. It wasn’t easy, but you’ve got a first-class ticket on the Blackbird.”

Flagg’s news was good, but Austin was a realist. He was facing long odds.

His eyes hardened. If Carina were harmed, Austin would devote every sinew and synapse in his body to a single goal.

And that was to send Baltazar to hell.

NUMA 7 - The Navigator

Chapter 51

FRED TURNER WAS DOWN on his knees behind the bar, stacking beer mugs. He heard the door open and close. A frown came to his ruddy face. Probably a regular customer looking to start his happy hour early.

“We’re closed,” Turner growled.

No one answered. Turner stood up and saw a large man in the doorway. The stranger’s round features were soft and childlike. Turner was a retired policeman, and his cop’s instincts sensed an unspoken menace behind the unthreatening façade. He stepped closer to the shotgun he kept near the cash register.

The stranger simply looked around and said:

“Where did the name of this place come from?”

Bender chuckled at the unexpected question. “People think I named it after an Old West saloon. But when I bought the place, I remembered reading that there were gold mines around here in the old days.”

“What happened to the mines?”

“Closed them years ago. Didn’t find enough gold to keep them open.”

After a moment in thought, the man said, “Thank you,” and left without further comment. Turner went back to stacking glasses, muttering to himself about the odd people who come into bars.