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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.
“Monk, you’re right. What we need to figure out now is whether there is a plane en route to Colombia. Once we’ve confirmed there is, we need to figure out who authorized its departure.”
“I’ll ask again, has anyone made contact with Yáñez?” Monk spat.
“Negative,” answered Razor like Mercer had in his absence. “I’ve attempted contact with all four we believe are on board—Onyx, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo. No response.”
“You believe to be on board? Have you seen the flight plan? What about the manifest?”
“Negative. There wasn’t time,” Razor answered.
“How long since you spoke to Jimenéz?” Striker asked Razor, who checked his phone.
“Thirteen ten,” he answered.
“It’s thirteen-thirty-five now,” said Striker. “My answer, Monk, is we’ve been trying to figure this out in real time. We need your help.”
Monk nodded, picking up his phone.
“Gentlemen,” said Razor, motioning for everyone to leave the room. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we have several women upstairs who have been cooking for the last few days in order to serve a large group of people Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Understood. We’ll eat in shifts,” answered Doc. “I’ll head up and speak with Merrigan. Striker, who do you want to stay down here with you and Monk?”
“I’ll stay.” Mercer volunteered.
While they were all worried about eating fucking turkey, Monk was trying to figure out why the hell Onyx would’ve gotten in the air without his okay. Something was seriously wrong, and it was making him sick to his stomach.
He pulled up the flight’s manifest. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Striker sat down next to him. “What?”
“It’s all here. Flight plan, manifest, departure log.”
“Out of Miami?”
“Atlanta.”
“Where are they now?” Striker asked.
“That’s the thing,” Monk murmured, shaking his head. “They’re nowhere.”
“Come again?”
Monk pointed first to one monitor and then the other. “That’s the last flight segment before they went silent. This is a hundred-mile radius.” He motioned with his head to the other two monitors. “These are five hundred and one thousand miles.?
?
“Have you made contact with Venezuelan air traffic?” Striker asked.
“I’m doing that now,” Mercer answered.
“I’m going to ping Razor.”
Monk nodded; that was a good idea.
“Get everyone back down here,” Striker said when Razor came rushing in.
