Retribution by Anderson Harp

the windshields of cars that had been there for some time. As he walked, Scott mentally picked out the few cars that had clear windshields. He knew that those, only three cars out of fifty or more, had just recently been parked there. It was an absentminded habit of observing and deducing that kept him alive in the spy business all these years.
    Stidham headed toward a black Jeep Cherokee with a clear windshield. He clicked his remote, and the lights of the Jeep flashed with that obnoxious beep.
    â€œHop in.”
    Scott threw his bag into the backseat. The Jeep was meticulously clean. It had a unique smell he couldn’t quite place in his mind. The leather seat had a slippery feel to it.
    Armor All. That’s the scent.
    The Jeep had a customized interior with an in-dash panel that glowed in the dark when Stidham turned on the ignition. Scott could tell why Parker chose this man to pick him up. He was absolutely dependable. No one would care for a machine the way that this one did and not be.
    â€œWhat are you listening to?” Scott knew that all conversations eventually led to insight, intelligence, and information. He pointed to the iPod hooked into the dash panel. Scott knew that as long as you took more than you gave, you gained something.
    â€œDavis, Coleman, some Ellington, a little Basie, and Puente.”
    â€œPuente? El Rey .”
    â€œEl what?”
    â€œThe king. El Rey del Timbal . You need to get Night Beat .”
    â€œYeah, that’s on there. He had energy.”
    Now Scott had a point of commonality. From a discussion of Ornette Coleman, they would move to family, or friends, or food, or, eventually, Parker. Scott had played the game a long time.
    They headed out of the parking lot. The Jeep headed north, as if going downtown, flying through the turns and curves. But instead of taking the exit, Stidham turned onto the cargo road that circled the airport.
    â€œHard trip, sir?” Shane Stidham gave his guest a little more respect.
    â€œYour friend was hard to find.”
    â€œMaybe with good reason.”
    Scott thought this was a good opportunity. Despite working with Parker on the Korean mission, he still didn’t have a feel for the man.
    â€œHow long have you known him?”
    â€œWe go back to Desert Storm. The gunny and I were on his ANGLICO team.”
    Scott knew the history well. Parker’s air and naval gunfire team was trained to call in fighters dropping thousand-pound bombs or artillery-lobbing shells on Iraqi National Guard troops. In complete overcast, with the bombers high above the solid ceiling of clouds, the ANGLICO team would mark the unexpected target with a laser beam or call in its location. In the Battle of al-Kafji, Parker’s team destroyed over ninety Iraqi tanks, trucks, and APCs. They unleashed hot steel that tore through hundreds of the elite of Saddam Hussein. The Iraqi soldiers, panicked, would huddle together in a group. They knew the main Marine force remained miles away, yet somehow the bombs were dropping with complete accuracy. As those elite units concentrated together, the forward observers on the team called in the strike.
    â€œIs your man tough enough?” Scott asked.
    â€œFor what, sir?”
    â€œFor another Korea.”
    â€œYes, sir, he can handle it.” Shane paused a moment. “How well do you know Colonel Parker?”
    Scott chuckled. “Not as well as you.”
    â€œ ‘He is terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision, ’ ” intoned Stidham.
    â€œSun Tzu?”
    â€œYes, sir, sure is.”
    Scott turned his gaze out to the line of jumbo jets, parked in a row, waiting for their turn in the maintenance hangar. Up ahead, he saw an illuminated sign that said ATLANTIC AVIATION.
    Stidham turned into the gate at the FBO. Scott knew a fixed base operation, or FBO, was the private airplane’s parking lot and gas station. A twin-engine turboprop sat at the end of a line of