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“I got a strong signal here, guys,” I announce. “Hold on.”
I start flipping through the various frequencies I’ve memorized when Jeremy appears next to me, limping and then slinging his H&K MP5 over his right shoulder.
“Amy, please,” he says. “Can I borrow your gear for a moment?”
“For real?” I ask, surprised.
“Please,” he says. “Just for a moment.”
I pause, but he looks so serious and determined that I undo my earpiece and pass it over to him. Jeremy stands close by, inserting the earpiece in his right ear.
I unclip my lapel microphone and hold it out to him. He works the frequencies on the radio, then nods and calls, “Crown, Crown, Crown, this is Scepter Four, Scepter Four.”
Santiago and Jordan see what’s going on, step in closer.
“Crown, Crown, Crown, this is Scepter Four, Scepter Four.”
I feel closed in with Jeremy standing so near me, smelling his sweat and grime, and I’m about to grab my radio gear back when I hear a voice come through the earpiece.
Jeremy grins. “Crown, Scepter Four.” He digs out a folded-over topo map from a coat pocket and says, “Requesting pickup. We’re at map coordinates—” He reads off a series of grid numbers, then repeats them and says, “Thanks awfully, Crown. Scepter Four, signing off.”
He hands me back the earpiece and microphone and says, “Always have a plan B, am I right? No offense to you and your wonderful Night Stalkers, but I think our airborne asset is just a bit closer.”
“How close?” Jordan asks.
“How does twenty minutes sound?”
Santiago grins. “Sounds excellent, Bro.”
I give Jordan and Santiago a stern look; getting the message loud and clear, they both walk back to their original positions.
I ask Jeremy, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Arranging a pickup.” He gestures to where Jordan is standing. “About twenty meters along this plateau, that’s where we need to be.”
“I should have known,” I say. “This is my operation.”
“You know how it is,” he says. “The way we do things.”
I step closer to him. “I don’t like secrets.”
His face—bloodied and beaten as it is—remains calm.
“That’s my business, Amy,” he replies. “Killing people and keeping secrets.” He tightens a rucksack strap, takes his weapon off his shoulder. “And that’s your business, too.”
We stare at each other, and then I start moving along the rocky trail and everyone else joins me.
Jeremy is 100 percent absolutely right. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell him that.
Chapter11
TOM CORNWALLis walking along Broadway in lower Manhattan with his eleven-year-old daughter, Denise, next to him, keeping pace among the morning crowds. A block away is their destination, Olson Manhattan Preparatory School, and he feels a touch of sorrow walking with her.
Two weeks ago, Denise had said with great solemnness and dignity that she no longer wanted to hold her father’s hand as they walked to and from her school. Tom knows this is all part of the growing-up process, but still, it’s yet another clear signal that his and Amy’s little girl is on her way to leaving little-girl status behind.
It’s a beautiful May morning, and Denise looks ahead as they walk, expertly keeping pace with Tom. He is still impressed at how well Denise has adjusted to big-city life: just over a year ago, the three of them had been living in a pleasant little cul-de-sac in Virginia, with lots of open areas to play around in and practice her soccer.
Here, green space is at a minimum. The city is large, loud, and always on the go, but to Amy’s surprise and his, Denise had taken right to it.
