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“No, dude. I am asking you specifically. Are you on the right side of all this shit that’s going on?”
“I’m just here to help Pace, maybe help Zack, too.”
“All right,” Travers said after a moment. “We won’t shoot you today. I’ll check in with Langley about tomorrow, see what the policy is then.”
Court chuckled a little. “Hear you guys get to have some fun tonight.”
“It was supposed to be tonight. Cover of darkness, nice and simple.”
“But?”
“But there’s a storm west of Haiti, heading southwest. The ship we’re tasked with hitting changed course to avoid it, and it won’t arrive till nearly seven a.m. now.”
“Shit. Daylight boarding. That’ll be a barrel of laughs.”
“Good chance the storm will be here same time as the ship. That will buy us a little cover, but still…not ideal.”
“What do you need from us?”
“Jim wants you to serve as countersurveillance on his poz while he runs overwatch for us. Me and my guys will hit the freighter at first opportunity.”
A bus turned onto the road a half mile to their left, and it approached with a cloud of smog trailing it as it passed the park.
Travers eyed the bus but spoke softly to Court. “Just hope we can get to these fuckin’ robots before somebody flips the switch that turns them on. I saw The Terminator, don’t want to live it.”
“Well, I did live it, and I don’t want a sequel.”
“Judgment Day,” Travers said.
“Yeah,” Court said, and then he looked to Travers. “What do you mean?”
“T2: Judgment Day.”
“What is—”
“That’s the sequel.”
Turning forward once again, Court said, “They made another Terminator? I need to check that out.”
Travers sighed. “You must have been a weird kid, Violator.”
Court said nothing.
The bus pulled to a stop right in front of them and the door opened.
Travers rose, stepped aboard the bus without a word or a glance, and the door shut behind him.
Court remained on the bench as the bus rumbled off. Chris Travers’s canvas bag lay against his left leg.
•••
Minutes later Court climbed into the front passenger seat of a white Hyundai Sonata that all but screamed the fact that it was a rental. Zoya sat behind the wheel, her blond hair up in a bun and wearing a dark red linen top tied off at the waist. She put the car in gear and they rolled forward, heading to the east towards Old Havana.
Neither spoke as Court fished through the canvas bag propped in his lap. After a few seconds he nodded and looked up at her. “A pair of G26s.”
“Yawn,” she said, unimpressed by the small and fat Glock 9-millimeter subcompacts the Ground Branch officer had delivered to them.
“What did you expect? A flamethrower?”
