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“Sleeping,” he answered, without turning around.

“Rhys.”

Monk spun around and looked at Doc.

“Yáñez filed a flight plan earlier today,” he said. “We aren’t certain of the details, but it appears that he, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo are on their way to Colombia.”

Monk glared at Striker. “I thought I was the handler on this.”

“There he is,” said Razor, coming back into the room, breathless.

“Anybody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Monk asked.

Mercer stood, and Striker sat down in his place.

“Did you authorize their deployment?”

“Whose?”

“Jesus Christ, Monk! Tackle and Halo!” Striker was ready to pull his hair out.

“You said to put them on standby, and that’s what I did.”

Striker rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“Has anybody made contact with Yáñez?” Monk asked.

“Negative,” Mercer answered.

“How’d you find out about the flight plan in the first place?” asked Gunner.

All eyes turned to Razor.

“I got a call from Jimenéz, asking if Striker was on his way. I asked what he was talking about, and he responded that there was a K19 plane in the air.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Doc.

“That his intel was bad.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“There was no K19 plane I knew of on its way to Colombia.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me it was my intel that was bad.”

“Has anyone actually confirmed the plane is even in the air?” asked Gunner.

Monk looked around the room, but everyone was looking at him. “I hadn’t slept in forty-eight fucking hours,” he muttered.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?” Razor asked.

“Seriously?”

Razor stared him down.

“The last I checked, I was a partner in this fucking firm, and I don’t ask permission.” Monk stood to leave, but Doc put his hand on his arm.

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