Robert and Alex in the post-CIA early years. In 2003, a call from a new friend has the intrepid duo jetting off to West Virginia to take on a clan of backwoods bigots determined to destroy a woman for betraying everything they hold dear: murder, mayhem, and meth. And, of course, racial purity! A simple plan for a simple folk. Soon, however, these inbred bozos will discover that there is nothing simple when it comes to the highly skilled interracial operators known as ChanWell.
Alex and Robert were on a plane just under two hours after receiving the urgent call from West Virginia, a private charter because a commercial flight was not quick enough, and could not be made directly. And there was another reason, no baggage screening in Civil Aviation, which was essential for the two private security operatives right now, considering that most of their luggage contained firearms and ammunition, plus a few other odds and ends of their profession.
The flight was bumpy for most of the way, a fact that didn’t bother Alex at all as she had always loved flying since she was a little girl, and was a licensed pilot herself. Robert, on the other hand, never at-ease off the ground, despite flying as much as his wife did, felt a lurch in his stomach every time the plane hit a pocket of unstable air.
They were sitting side by side in the third set of seats in the passenger compartment of the Cessna Citation Business Jet and Alex reached over and squeezed his hand, not saying anything, just offering comfort and support. Robert took a deep breath, held it for a few moments, released it slowly, then went back to checking the action on the Heckler and Koch submachine gun he had extracted from the duffel at his feet.
Just over two hours ago he and Alex had been on the sofa in the living room of their small apartment in Alexandria, Virginia contemplating the rest of their Saturday afternoon. Robert was lying on his back, Alex on top of him, his right hand under her blouse, her right hand unzipping his jeans, and then the business phone had buzzed. Not answering it was not an option, even on the weekend. Their business, while established, was still in the early stages of growth, so they did not turn down work when it was something they could do. Therefore, with great reluctance, Alex withdrew her tongue from her husband’s mouth and her hand from his groin, leaned over to the coffee table where the phone set. Robert did not withdraw his hand from under her blouse, one finger inside her bra. At least not until he knew how serious the call was, and who was calling.
Now Alex closed the slide on a Glock pistol and set it on the lowered tray table in front of her, then took three loaded .40 caliber magazines out of her duffel and put them next to the weapon. The flight was only an hour long, and they spent most of the time checking weapons and saying very little. They didn’t have a whole lot of information, just knew there was a problem and that they would most likely be riding into a storm of trouble when they arrived. Whatever the situation, they were confident they could handle it. They were trained, experienced, and very damn good at what they did. Uncle Sam had seen to that, and now that they were in the private sector, they made sure they stayed that way.
It was dark when they landed at Charleston’s Yeager Airport, and raining as they taxied over to Civil Aviation. They were both wearing dark business suits and Robert had on a blue striped tie. When the plane came to its final stopping point and the copilot came aft to open the cabin door, they were standing in the aisle, their jackets on, and their duffels and backpacks hoisted and ready for immediate deplaning.
A dark green Suburban had been reserved for them and they picked the keys up at the Avis counter, then found the behemoth in the parking garage ten minutes later. Very hard to miss.
Alex grinned as she went around to the driver’s side, and Robert’s stomach lurched once more.