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ambiguity, on devotion to mission and on ideals greater than themselves. Good intelligence officers had to figure out what decision to make when all decisions contradicted their values and obligations—and when no decision was right. Intelligence officers often failed. Thankfully failure was a better teacher than success. Killion was a damn good intelligence officer because he’d failed a lot. He didn’t intend to fail tonight.
    He eased out the door, having disabled the interior light—tradecraft 101. Plan B wasn’t going to be very popular with the CIA, but if he played his cards right the CIA would never know. He took his duffel bag with him, easing the car door silently shut because noise carried in this part of the world. The NVGs made it easy to make his way, but flattened the landscape so he had to be careful to not scuff his boots on the dirt. He kept to the edge of the field, hugging the darkness until he reached the hangar. A quick inventory revealed two small aircraft and a jeep inside. Light came from a small room at the back of the hangar—probably an office of some sort. It was eerily quiet. He raised his NVGs and tried the door of the plane—unlocked—keys in the ignition. He silently placed his bag in the passenger seat. The rear seats had been removed but the cargo space was empty, which meant they probably weren’t doing a drug run tonight. Good news. He took out his SIG P229 and crept noiselessly through the darkened building with its cavernous corrugated metal roof that would make even the slightest noise reverberate like a drum. A cockroach scuttled beneath his feet. He checked the second aircraft, reached inside, and quietly pocketed the keys.
    The sound of a chair scraping against the floor had him freezing in place. After a minute of silence he crept closer to the office until he could peer through a crack between the door and the jamb. A man was bent over a computer, pecking away at a keyboard, muttering under his breath in Spanish. Silently Killion moved in and tapped him on the temple with the butt of his pistol. The man slumped forward and Killion grabbed duct tape off a shelf and bound his wrists together behind his back then taped his ankles to the chair legs. He wrapped tape around the man’s eyes and mouth, making sure he could still breathe.
    He searched the rest of the building, but it was empty of people. A beat-up truck sat out back that probably belonged to the man in the office. Killion jogged to the SUV where Lockhart was still unconscious inside. He drove them closer, parking in the shadows beside the hangar.
    He popped the fuel cap and put papers from the glove compartment into the pipe. He opened the rear door and dragged Lockhart across the seat.
    “Ow.” She woke up protesting.
    “Quiet,” he ordered. Although he hadn’t seen anyone else guarding the area he didn’t want to announce his presence until he had to. She swayed on her feet and he caught her against him. Soft and female. He turned her away from him, hitched up her pants and closed the zipper and button. The pants helped keep pressure on the bandages but doing them up probably hurt. He propped her against the hood while he checked to make sure there wasn’t any damning evidence left behind.
    She raised a hand to her face and left a streak of blood on her cheek. “I’ve never had a nightmare this convincing before.”
    “Keep the noise down, Dorothy. We’re not in Kansas anymore.”
    “Am I dead? Because if I were going to be stuck in purgatory I’d rather be with someone hot and funny like Dean Winchester. No offense,” she whispered, proving she hadn’t totally lost her mind.
    “I’m saving your ass, in case you didn’t notice,” he muttered quietly, watching the airfield for any signs of activity. “Think I could get a little gratitude?”
    “It feels more like an abduction than a rescue,” she muttered.
    He’d rather she didn’t think too much about being abducted in case she implemented