Its rotors thrumming in the early morning air, an unmarked helicopter circled for a landing just in front of the hill covered with satellite reflectors (or agricultural umbrellas, if the p********a was to be believed). CIA chief O’Halloran stepped gingerly out of the craft, carrying an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. He clapped his left hand on top of his head to keep his sparse hair from flapping in the prop wash as the helicopter departed back to another secret base somewhere in the Andes.
As he started walking nonchalantly to the round hill, the CIA chief maintained the air of a traveling salesman. A trapdoor of sod-covered earth lifted from the side of the hill, and two machine-g*n muzzles rose into view. The weapons tracked O’Halloran’s movements with built-in motion sensors.
