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Steps away from the U.S. Naval Academy, he knew it was risky to meet here. Then again, sometimes, being in plain sight was the best way to hide. Meeting in D.C. would have been far too risky.
“You have a problem,” said the man sitting down at the table abruptly. His belly nudged the table, spilling the drinks. Fucking Russians, thought Morrison. He hated them, but he also needed them.
“Si, Amigo,” smirked the other man. “You have a serious problem.”
“I’m handling it,” said Morrison. “And don’t call me your amigo. I’m not your friend, and you’re not mine. We’re business associates. That’s all. I handle my own business. I don’t need help.”
“Handling it? How you handle?” scoffed Boris. Boris Yergonov, former Russian spy and arms dealer. Marco Castelloni, head of the Mexican cartels.
“If your idiot help would have done their job and killed those men when they had the chance, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Be careful what you say, amigo,” frowned Marco. “My men are good, but those men are even better. We’re humble enough to know that. Perhaps that’s what you need. A little humility.”
“Fuck humility,” growled Morrison. “I need them dead.”
“You gave photos but no location,” said Boris. “We can’t kill invisible men. Where is the weapons factory? Where is the technology?” Morrison took a bite of his crab salad, dressing dripping down over his fat lips.
“I don’t have it. I can’t get it until I get those factories, and I can’t do that unless those men are dead.”
Marco stood, picking off a huge piece of crab from the salad and popping it into his mouth. He walked toward the door as Boris stood.
“Where are you going?” asked Morrison.
“You’ve taken on the devil, and you don’t even know where he lives. You call when you figure it out. Until then, hide. These men will come for you.”
Morrison watched as they left the restaurant, his fork still hanging mid-air. If they knew he was involved, they would come for him. He needed protection. Really good protection.
Nine and Trak stood at the end of the hallway in the NSA building, watching as Morrison entered the office. The man standing beside them nodded.
“He’s here at least twice a week. I have no idea why, but I know it’s not good. Tyler’s a good kid, but he’s got a lot of debt. We’ve been watching him. A good cryptographer, but we may have to let him go.”
“Don’t,” said Trak. “We may need him.”
“I owe you guys,” said the man. Nine smiled at him.
“How is she?”
“Sixteen and knows it all,” he smiled. “But she’s beautiful, healthy, and happy because of your team. I can’t thank you all enough.” He nodded back down the hallway as Morrison stormed away.
“We won’t be long,” said Trak.
“Take as long as you need.” Someone else would follow Morrison. Nine and Trak wanted to know what the fuck this kid, Tyler, was giving to Morrison. They opened the door and walked in, finding him on the floor, picking up folders and papers.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking up at them. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then watched as Nine locked the door. “Oh, shit.”
“Yes. Oh, shit.”
“I swear. I swear I gave him nothing.”
“You gave him nothing today,” said Trak. “Because you couldn’t give him anything. But you did in the past.”
“He knew too much. I’m in debt, and I’ve been gambling, trying to pay everyone off, and it’s only getting worse. I thought I could figure out the cards, the dice, all of it. But it wasn’t working.”
“Who do you owe?” asked Nine.
“School loan debt, credit cards, the bank, medical debt for my mom. I couldn’t let her live in that shithole nursing home. I mortgaged everything and put her in a better place that robbed me blind.”
“What does Morrison know?” asked Trak.
