He tapped the intercom. “Take him straight into conference room one. We’ll meet you.”
“Yes, sir.”
To Court, Hanley said, “Follow me. We’ve got a conference room.Coffee and donuts and shit. It’ll be fun.” The older man’s sarcasm was obvious, but Court just followed him back out the door.
—
A minute later Court and Hanley arrived at a conference room with a long table as voices came up another hallway to their right.
Court smiled as Zack Hightower’s booming voice filled the space; he was already deep in conversation with Erin Childers, and she was laughing at whatever he was saying.
Zack and Erin came around the corner; she was still chuckling, and then the two men saw each other.
“Six!” he said. “Good to see you.”
The men embraced. Court asked, “How’s the leg?”
“Okay, considering it caught a 122-grain boat tail just six weeks ago.”
“I was there, remember?”
“Barely.”
“I was worried it had clipped your femoral.”
“The doc in Kharkiv said five millimeters to the left and I’d have probably bled out before I got the tourniquet on. And thanks to you for sealing me up in the transport. Can’t say I remember that part, but I’ve heard accounts.”
Court knew Zack would have died in Russia if he’d not gotten immediate medical care. But the man seemed good as new now. He was a big powerful presence, exactly as always.
Hightower now asked, “How’s Anthem doing?”
“She’s recovering. Taking a break.”
“Cool…I want a break,” Hightower replied.
Hanley said, “You got a break when you got this job.”
The intercom on the table came alive again, and Childers said, “Matt, Jason is here.”
“Bring him straight in.”
“Who the hell is Jason?” Hightower asked.
Court said, “Well, you’re Lyle, and I’m Brian, so who knows?”
Hanley did not answer; he just ushered the men into the conference room. Hightower grabbed a donut out of a box on the table, and Courtdropped his helmet in a chair, then walked over and poured himself a mug of black coffee from an urn.
He moved back over and began to sit down next to his helmet, but before doing so, he looked up; another figure stood in the doorway.
Hightower was across the table holding the donut in his mouth as he stared at the man; Court was frozen in place a moment himself.
A bald-headed man with a thick beard stood there, a green Patagonia jacket under his arm, a black button-down shirt over his fit frame.
Hightower pulled out the donut. “Travers? Are you kidding?”
Court followed with, “What the hell are you doinghere?” Court had known Chris Travers for years, as had Hightower. He’d been CIA, wasstillCIA as far as either of the men knew.
The bald man came around the table, shook Court’s hand, then Hightower’s.
