“Or would a team be even more proficient than a single operator?”
“Depends on the situation.”
“Exactly. And, you know, you never work alone. You always have a runner, you have us, you have eyes in the sky, watching.”
“It’s a test, isn’t it? A test to see if the new guys have what it takes. I just told you that someone bailed me out of my mission, and now you’re giving me team lead.”
“Someone helped you evacuate. That’s all. You got the information. You earned the spot.”
“I’m not sure I want it.”
Her frown deepened. “Are you kidding me?”
“Who are these people? I don’t even know them. We’ve been training alone. And now I’m supposed to trust my life to them?”
“You’ll start training together.”
“I’ve been out there alone. I’m ready.”
“You are. But I still want you to play nice with others.”
“Do we at least get a cool code name?”
“It was randomly generated.”
Hansen rolled his eyes. “What is it? Lard Barrel? Cow Dung?”
She almost smiled. “Delta Sly.”
Hansen repeated the name. “Not too bad. And there’s no significance?”
She shook her head.
The door behind them suddenly opened and a rather short, clean-cut man with dark eyes and a deep tan that looked more manufactured than natural strode into the room.
“Hi, Grim. Sorry I’m late.”
Hansen rose from the table and turned to their visitor.
“Ben, let me introduce you to one of your new teammates,” Grim began. “This is Allen Ames.”
Ames beamed at Hansen. “Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you.”
13
After returning from the mission in Houston, Hansen was accosted at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport by a pear-shaped man in his fifties wearing shorts, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with purple parrots and palm trees. The guy had a camera case strung around his neck and a thick beard encrusted with pieces of his lunch (a thick sandwich, probably). He squinted through a pair of Harry Potter glasses and asked, “Are you Matthew Pine?”
Hansen froze. That was his alias for the work in Texas. “Who’s asking?”
“If you’ll come with me, Mr. Pine?”
“You have to talk sexier than that.”
The fat man sighed, then spoke in an agitated singsong. “I don’t have time for this. I was told to pick you up. If you won’t come, I’ll have to call my boss.”
“Let me call mine.” Hansen tried to hail Grim on his OPSAT. No response. He whirled back to the man, who was speaking rapidly on a cell phone. “Who are you?”
The big guy flashed an ID: NSA. Then he ended his call.
“Great,” Hansen said through a sigh. “Am I under arrest or something?”
“Not technically.”
“But technically I have to go with you.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Do you think you can outrun me?”
“Dude, come on. I’m a fat bastard. Don’t make my life miserable. Just come along and play nice.”
“Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?”
“Someplace out in the ’burbs. That’s all I know.”
“How long’s the drive?”
“Not long.”
“Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?”
He snorted. “You sound like my wife.”
“You got an iPod?”
“Yeah.”
“You got any AC/DC?”
The fat man grinned.
They arrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.
“This is it,” said Hansen’s well-dressed NSA taxi driver.
Hansen shook his head. “What am I doing here?”
The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. “Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I’m sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up.”
Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.
With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.
“Hey!” Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.
“Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard,” came a voice from the front door.
Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.
He was about to open his mouth when she added, “Come on. They’re waiting for you in the basement.”
“Okay… ” Hansen started for ward and asked, “Am I supposed to introduce myself?”
She made a face. “No one else did.” She led him through the modestly decorated living room and toward a door adjacent to the kitchen. Hansen descended the narrow wooden staircase, reached the bottom, and turned to face the rest of his team, who were sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.
Standing before the group was a bald black man with a gray goatee. His muscular chest tented up a black silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal the requisite bling around his neck. His expensive pants looked cut by a tailor, and his matching shoes were shined to a rich gloss. He also sported a large gold class ring on his left pinky. He could easily be mistaken for a retired NBA star, and when he looked at Hansen, it was with an eerie fire in his eyes, the way you’d look at someone you planned to kill.
He spoke loudly, aggressively, establishing within the first sentence who was in charge: “Well, it’s nice of you to join us, cowboy. There’s a cooler over there with sodas. Grab yourself one and take a seat.”
Hansen glanced incredulously at the others, who simply shrugged and returned his frown. They each had a soda and a seat, but Hansen wasn’t quite ready for either. “Uh, excuse me, but who are you?”
“My name is Louis Moreau. Most people around 3E call me Marty. You’ll call me Mr. Moreau. I’m your new technical operations manager, basically taking Grim’s old job and kicking it up a notch.”
“Where’s Grim?”
“Couldn’t make it.”
“You got ID?”
