They weren’t Agency now, neither of them.

Now they were sub rosa. Off books. Illegal.

Court Gentry had been doing illegal shit for years, but Matt had always had the safety net of the Agency under him, ready to catch him if he fell.

Court wondered what it felt like for a guy in his sixties to be out in the cold like this for the first time, but he didn’t ponder it long, because just then Matt finished up his call, turned the engine off and climb out from behind the wheel.

The older man wore scraggly beard of white-blonde, thinning hair of the same color, and it blew in a cold breeze. He sported a blue wool peacoat and khakis, brown leather boat shoes and sunglasses.

Though the two men hadn’t seen one another in some time, Court had known Hanley for over a decade, and he’d never known him to have a beard.

“Dammit Six,” the older man spoke first. “Good to finally lay eyes on you.” When Court had first worked under Hanley in the CIA’s Special Activities Division/Ground Branch, the younger man had carried the call sign Sierra Six, and half the call sign had somehow stuck throughout the years.

Court extended a hand and Hanley shook it.

“Been a long time, Matt. You operating without security?” Court asked, making a show of looking into the Suburban, although he’d already sussed out that Matt was alone.

“Security? For what? The best gunslinger on planet earth is standing right in front of me. You’re carrying, right?”

“If I’ve got pants on, I’ve got a gun on.”

Hanley looked down at Court’s jeans. “Well, then, it’s my lucky day, for a couple of reasons.” He turned, reached into the back seat into the SUV, and pulled out a baby blue Yeti insulated lunch box.

Court said, “You’re taking me on a picnic?”

But Hanley did not answer him. Instead, he said, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Lemme see.”

 Court understood the request. He unzipped his black coat, then pulled up his gray sweater, revealing a ragged red scar along the right side of his midsection.

When Hanley said nothing, just kept looking, Court said, “That’s it.”

“Stitches?”

“Stapled me up back in Kharkiv. Got them out a couple weeks ago up in Charlottesville. I’m good as new.” He shrugged. “I mean, good as I was before I got shot.”

Hanley kept looking at the scar. “AK round, right?”

“I assume so. The bullet was going kind of fast, and it was night . . . so . . .”

Hanley sniffed, shut the Suburban door behind him, and Court lowered his sweater and rezipped his Carhartt. Matt said, “Haven’t seen you in a year and a half and you have to be a smart ass?”

“I gotta be me.”

Hanley gave a little smile. “Glad you are still you. You weren’t for a while. Bulgaria, Romania, Latvia, Finland, then Russia. You’ve been more lucky than smart. Hope you’re back to normal.”

“Yeah.” Court had spent over half a year on a quest, a quest that he had successfully concluded, but only with the help of Hanley, and Hanley himself had been helped by others.

Both Hanley and Gentry had sold a piece of themselves to achieve that objective, and for that reason they were now back together.

“How’s Anthem?” Matt asked.

Anthem was the codename for a woman named Zoya, and Zoya had been the objective for which Hanley and Court had sold pieces of themselves to rescue from a Russian penal colony.

Court looked off into the distance. “She’s gonna be fine. Not there yet, but doing a lot better than I’d be doing, considering it all.” He looked to Hanley. “Thanks for letting me go see her again last weekend.”

“I’ve been running you pretty hard over the several weeks. I felt like you deserved a little down time.”

To this, Court laughed. “You’ve had me flying all over the country setting up front companies, buying equipment, establishing safe houses, doing background checks on former government personnel. Considering what I used to do in the past, I wouldn’t say that’s running me so hard. What’s the deal, Matt? Am I management now? I kinda prefer being labor.”

“You’re labor, still. I just didn’t have anyone else to do the kind of leg work I needed. I’ve rectified that, so, as of now, you’re back in operations.”

“Good,” Court said, but that went nowhere in explaining why he was standing in the parking lot of a quiet marina on a Monday afternoon.

Hanley looked past him to his rental car. “How much shit do you have with you?”

“Duffel bag and a backpack.”

“All your worldly possessions?”

“Pretty much, yeah. I’ve been living out of hotels.”

“Grab everything and follow me.”