Oath of Office

Domingo “Ding” Chavez stood on the edge of the limestone cliff above the eastern end of the Praia de Benagil, eyes fixed at the small screen on the controller in Bartosz “Midas” Jankowski’s callused hands.

“She saw it,” Chavez said, gritting his teeth.

“Relax, boss,” Jankowski said. “How about you exhibit a little faith?”

“I’m telling you, she saw it.”

“That’s a big nope,” Jankowski said, popping the p for emphasis. “I’m keeping the bird in the sun. She didn’t see anything but glare.” Working the bird — a pocket-size unmanned aerial vehicle called a Snipe Nano — the retired Delta colonel swung his legs easily, as if he were sitting on a boat dock and not perched on the edge of a sheer seventy-foot drop. He was tied in, but that little factoid didn’t do much for Chavez’s churning stomach.

“You better be right,” Chavez said. “The last thing we need is for some beach bunny to tip off the target that we have an eye in the sky.”

Chavez had let his hair grow out over his ears, as he often did on ops where he didn’t want to look like the former Army NCO that he was. Even absent the military haircut, it was obvious to anyone with experience downrange that Chavez had been around the combat block. That wasn’t exactly rare in this day and age. There were enough war-fighters coming home who’d seen the elephant that he could at least blend in at the mall.

Domingo Chavez was in that height range that tall people called short and short people called tall. Good genes and a lifetime of PT gave him an athletic build, even in his late forties — an age his son reminded him was “too old to die tragically young.” JP was a good kid, but had he known the dangers his father faced “for reals, yo” on a daily basis, he wouldn’t have been such a smartass.

Chavez and Midas had counted four bodyguards, three on the beach plus the guy guarding the vehicles — a gray Mercedes that served as Gaspard’s limo and a dark Peugeot they apparently used as a follow car.

The rest of Ding’s team was doing some bouldering this morning while they watched. Hiding in plain sight was the only way to operate in these small villages where there was a hundred percent chance that you’d run into your target a dozen times a day. Scrambling around the rocks allowed Chavez and his team to blend in, to be noticed for something other than what they actually were — operatives from The Campus. The off-the-books intelligence organization worked under the guise of the financial arbitrage firm Hendley Associates, across the Potomac from D.C.

Free climbing over the ocean was fairly safe — so long as you knew what you were doing. Chavez did not, so he spent his time at the top, looking down, happy to keep his feet planted on the level. Hands and fingers were made for pressing triggers and slapping the shit out of bad guys — not hanging on to minuscule rock nipples on the face of some cliff. Still, he’d dressed to look the part — nylon running shorts, a tank top, Scarpa approach shoes with sticky soles, and a harness for a small bag of climbing chalk. Midas was dressed much the same, while Jack Ryan, Jr., worked his way up the rock face, shirtless, wearing skintight Lycra climbing shorts and pointy La Sportiva climbing shoes that made him look like some kind of ballet dancer. Chavez was just old enough that he would have looked like the creepy old dude in bicycle shorts had he tried for the same getup. Lisanne Robertson climbed with Jack, also wearing Lycra shorts — which she wore much better than Ryan did — and a black sports bra.

Not officially a Campus operative, the former Marine and police officer was the transportation coordinator and in-flight attendant for the Campus/Hendley Associates Gulfstream. Because she often pulled security when the plane set down in hostile situations, John Clark, director of operations — and Ding’s father-in-law — folded her into tactical training sessions and range time. She had zero experience running surveillance detection or tailing a target, but she was as savvy as Chavez had ever seen. She was also an accomplished climber, often hitting the rock gym in Bethesda after an evening team PT workout that left Chavez looking for the nearest couch and a cold beer.

Lisanne’s voice came over the net, as if she knew Ding was pondering her climbing skill. “I don’t think either of them saw it,” she said.

“Told you so,” Midas said, without looking up from the palm-size controller. “I still have eyes on our arms-dealing asshole — and the girl is still clueless. You gotta learn to trust me, boss.”

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