The irony of their mission was not lost on him.  The first battles in the 21st century’s War on Terror would be fought on the backs of Afghan ponies.  He recalled the frigid nights that they repelled from Chinooks that were hovering in altitudes higher than should have even been mechanically and mathematically possible, into the harsh lands below.  He thought of the cheering villagers in the mountaintop settlements where they stopped for rest and to seek support for the struggle against an oppressive and intolerant regime.

He smiled as he recollected the men driving forward through some of the most rugged and desolate, almost otherworldly, landscapes on mere horses, with the world’s most sophisticated night-vision, weaponry and communications equipment.

He remembered one battle in particular where they brazenly charged a group of Taliban soldiers, firing over the heads of their horses.  Suddenly, he was flung forward as his pony was shot out from underneath him. Reese landed hard on the unforgiving ground while the other soldiers galloped past.  Without warning, he felt a hard tug and was slung upwards through the air and onto the back of a massive Afghani’s battle horse.  The man turned and flashed a toothless smile before continuing his fearless assault.

He remembered lying on his back and staring at the stars, feeling a strong sense of connection with the kindred spirits of times long past.  He had often dreamt on those nights of riding alongside Mosby’s Men and the Rough Riders.  His brothers-in-arms often remarked that they felt as if they had been sent into the past to change the present.

The war had dragged on through the years because of spineless politicians seven-thousand miles away, but he and his men never forgot.  They fought and died changing a nation.  Regardless of where America stood now in the eyes of the Afghani people, they had left as heroes in the eyes of the villagers in the north.  They had prayed for a champion and had been sent an entire cavalry of them from half a world away.

***

The sudden descent awoke Reese from his sleep.  He groggily peered out the window beside him and watched as the golf course below grew in size, until it seemed as if they would land on the eighth hole.  The jet buzzed the treetops and managed a fairly gentle landing on the cracked, asphalt runway.  The unexpected scenery disoriented Reese.  He grabbed his pack, cautiously walked up the narrow aisle to the cockpit and knocked on the door.

“Yes sir?”

“Where are we?”

“West Houston Airport, sir.”

“Why didn’t we fly in to Bush?”

“Bush redirected us here.  Don’t worry, it’s about the same distance.  If I understand correctly, they’ve a driver waiting for you on the tarmac, so you’ll be off the plane and on your way.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Reese’s pulse quickened as the adrenaline began to course through his body.  From the moment he heard that they were landing in West Houston, he knew his true intentions had been discovered.  Either William had learned the truth, or he had been executed and the man Reese had spoken to on the phone in the hotel was running the show.  Reese hoped William was still in the picture.  He could handle a couple of punk revolutionaries much more easily than a rogue element within the CIA.

West Houston Airport was situated on the edge of the Addicks and Barker reservoirs.  Together, they encompassed nearly 26,000 acres of dense forests and deep swamps, and prevented the downstream flooding of Houston.  The dark swamps contained therein were more than adequate to hide a body or two, if needed.

As the jet came to a stop on the wet tarmac, Reese dug into his pack and retrieved a light rain jacket.  He stuffed his Smith and Wesson Airweight into the jacket pocket and slid the larger Glock into his shoulder holster.  He would be expected to be armed.  He hoped that with his hand firmly gripping the revolver in his pocket, ready to fire through the fabric if need be, would grant him a moment of surprise.  The visible, but undisturbed, Glock hanging from the shoulder holster would hopefully lull plant a glimmer of complacency within them.

He opened the door of the jet, walked down the steps and onto the runway.  He saw the two men standing beside the black GMC Suburban in the misting rain and immediately knew he was not dealing with revolutionaries.  They were tall, muscular and had the high-speed, low-drag look down to the Oakley sunglasses.  Great, Reese thought, they’ve got the look, but let’s see if they’ve got the follow through.  He let out a deep breath, puffed his chest out and conjured up the most condescending attitude he could muster.

His pack was slung over his left shoulder, and his right hand was firmly gripping the revolver in his pocket.  As he approached the men, he eyed them cautiously.  One sudden move and he would empty the revolver in their direction.  He hoped he did not have to fire on them immediately.  He preferred to make his move away from the airport and any witnesses.  Reese needed all the time he could get before his friends in Washington were aware he had escaped, if he did manage to escape.

The driver was leaning against his door.  The second man was near the back, passenger side of the SUV, closest to Reese.  Before he could speak, Reese chucked his pack hard at the man.  As he caught in, Reese barked, “Throw it in the back and let’s get moving; I don’t have any time to waste.”

The second man craned his head over his shoulder to look at the driver.  When he turned back around, Reese‘s face was inches from his own.  Reese growled at the man even more forcefully the second time.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?  Are you deaf or just too stupid to understand the words coming out of my mouth?  Move it, now!”

The man spun and opened the rear passenger door and tossed the pack in the back of the Suburban.  Reese was already making his way to the rear, driver-side door.  He wanted to make sure he was behind the driver if at all possible.  The driver had already transitioned inside the vehicle and had cranked the engine.

“Sir,” the second man said, “why don’t you have a seat over here?”

Probably just field agents; they have no idea what they’re getting into.  My jet ride must’ve caught D.C. by surprise, and these two were the best he could come up with on short notice.  I wonder what story they’ve been fed about me.  God, have mercy on me, but I don’t have a choice.  Give me a way out; please give me an option.

“Just shut up and get in, I don’t have time for you.”

The man stood in defiance at first, but the driver glared back, finally giving an angry nod.  The man finally relented and climbed into the SUV.  Reese continued to bark orders as they drove away.  He wanted the ride to be as loud and confusing as possible.  He wanted them angry so their reactions would be clumsy and delayed.  The driver punched the gas and the Suburban sped away.  Somewhere beneath his angry scowl, Reese was smiling.

Dusk was quickly fading to darkness as they pulled out of the airport and onto Groeschke Road.  Reese had settled into a momentary lull from his tirade as they approached the side road.  He had already anticipated the turn into Cullen Park.  The park led to the more secluded areas of the reservoir.  The driver continued to stare at Reese through the rear-view mirror, watching his every move.  He was scarcely paying attention the road ahead of him.  Having Reese sitting directly behind him was obviously not part of the plan.

Up ahead at the edge of the woods, Reese saw a large doe poke her head out of the foliage and peer about.  He watched as she nervously eased down the slope and made her way towards the road.  The headlights blinded her and caused her to freeze on the shoulder.  Reese seized the moment. He glared at the driver and said, “You got a problem up front?  Why don’t you turn around here so I can slap that cocky look off your face?”