said. “When you get back to the World, people aren’t going to want to hear those stories, but you’re going to need to tell them. Make sure you find yourself a good shrink.”
Tristan seemed anxious to push that topic aside. “So, how long will it be before I’m home?”
“A day or two,” Jonathan said. It was a flat-out guess, but he’d have a plan soon, and when that happened—
His earbud popped. “Scorpion, Mother Hen.”
“Ten bucks says this isn’t good,” Boxers grumbled.
Tristan cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”
Jonathan pointed to his chest so that Tristan could see him press his transmit button. “Go ahead,” he said.
“I just got an alert from ICIS,” she announced. Jonathan knew that she was referring to the Interstate Crime Information System, pronounced EYE-sis, a post-9/11 invention that tracked criminal investigations in real time, in hopes of encouraging better communications between law enforcement agencies. “You know I always put tracers on your aliases and your real names whenever you go out on an op. If you blow your cover, then I want to be the first to know about it.”
Boxers grumbled, “Just once in her life, that woman is going to get straight to the point.”
“Well, that tracer just paid off. Leon Harris and Richard Lerner have both been accused of murder,” she said. Those were Jonathan’s and Boxers’ aliases, respectively. “It says here that the charges were filed by Mexican authorities as a result of thirteen murders you committed today. They even list the names of the victims. Names I don’t recognize—I assume they’re the terrorists—and the dead hostages, too.”
Boxers said on the air, “That’s not possible. The bodies are still warm.”
“I’m just reporting what I see, Big Guy,” Venice said. “Interpol is involved. The borders are closed to you. The FBI has pledged to do everything in their power to bring you in. You’ll need to switch to alternative identities.”
Jonathan and Boxers looked at each other, and in unison they said, “Shit.”
Jonathan keyed the mike. “That’s a problem, Mother Hen,” Jonathan said.
“You left them in the captured vehicles, didn’t you?” Venice was very good at connecting those kinds of dots.
“That’s affirm. We’ll need more to make the crossing.”
A long silence followed. In his mind, Jonathan could see the concern in her face, the eye creases that always appeared in her flawless chocolate-brown skin when she was worried. Jonathan gave her a lot of cause to worry. “This is really, really bad,” she said.
How artfully understated. “Thanks, Mother Hen,” he said. “I’ll get back to you. Keep us informed as things change, and find me a good forger in Mexico.”
“Who’s Mother Hen?” Tristan asked. He leaned forward in the backseat so that his head was closer to theirs.
“I need you to be quiet for a few minutes,” Jonathan said. To Boxers, he said, “This is a problem.”
“Yes, it is,” Boxers agreed. “And I have every confidence that you’ll devise the perfect plan.” He waited a beat. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy our times together?”
Jonathan looked out his side window at the passing jungle, trying to force the pieces to fit. “Assuming all the names are correct, how did anybody know we were going to kill the guards?” he asked Boxers.
“Because they forced our hand,” Big Guy replied. Jonathan guessed that they’d been thinking the same thoughts—not an unusual occurrence after the number of years they’d worked side by side.
“That’s right,” Jonathan agreed. “By firing that first shot and killing the driver, they guaranteed that the guards would have to die. More to the point, they guaranteed that you and I would be the ones to kill them. You can’t pin the title of murderer on somebody without some bodies to point to.”
“You mean that wasn’t you who shot the driver?” Tristan asked.
“Yes, that’s
Tristan seemed anxious to push that topic aside. “So, how long will it be before I’m home?”
“A day or two,” Jonathan said. It was a flat-out guess, but he’d have a plan soon, and when that happened—
His earbud popped. “Scorpion, Mother Hen.”
“Ten bucks says this isn’t good,” Boxers grumbled.
Tristan cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”
Jonathan pointed to his chest so that Tristan could see him press his transmit button. “Go ahead,” he said.
“I just got an alert from ICIS,” she announced. Jonathan knew that she was referring to the Interstate Crime Information System, pronounced EYE-sis, a post-9/11 invention that tracked criminal investigations in real time, in hopes of encouraging better communications between law enforcement agencies. “You know I always put tracers on your aliases and your real names whenever you go out on an op. If you blow your cover, then I want to be the first to know about it.”
Boxers grumbled, “Just once in her life, that woman is going to get straight to the point.”
“Well, that tracer just paid off. Leon Harris and Richard Lerner have both been accused of murder,” she said. Those were Jonathan’s and Boxers’ aliases, respectively. “It says here that the charges were filed by Mexican authorities as a result of thirteen murders you committed today. They even list the names of the victims. Names I don’t recognize—I assume they’re the terrorists—and the dead hostages, too.”
Boxers said on the air, “That’s not possible. The bodies are still warm.”
“I’m just reporting what I see, Big Guy,” Venice said. “Interpol is involved. The borders are closed to you. The FBI has pledged to do everything in their power to bring you in. You’ll need to switch to alternative identities.”
Jonathan and Boxers looked at each other, and in unison they said, “Shit.”
Jonathan keyed the mike. “That’s a problem, Mother Hen,” Jonathan said.
“You left them in the captured vehicles, didn’t you?” Venice was very good at connecting those kinds of dots.
“That’s affirm. We’ll need more to make the crossing.”
A long silence followed. In his mind, Jonathan could see the concern in her face, the eye creases that always appeared in her flawless chocolate-brown skin when she was worried. Jonathan gave her a lot of cause to worry. “This is really, really bad,” she said.
How artfully understated. “Thanks, Mother Hen,” he said. “I’ll get back to you. Keep us informed as things change, and find me a good forger in Mexico.”
“Who’s Mother Hen?” Tristan asked. He leaned forward in the backseat so that his head was closer to theirs.
“I need you to be quiet for a few minutes,” Jonathan said. To Boxers, he said, “This is a problem.”
“Yes, it is,” Boxers agreed. “And I have every confidence that you’ll devise the perfect plan.” He waited a beat. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy our times together?”
Jonathan looked out his side window at the passing jungle, trying to force the pieces to fit. “Assuming all the names are correct, how did anybody know we were going to kill the guards?” he asked Boxers.
“Because they forced our hand,” Big Guy replied. Jonathan guessed that they’d been thinking the same thoughts—not an unusual occurrence after the number of years they’d worked side by side.
“That’s right,” Jonathan agreed. “By firing that first shot and killing the driver, they guaranteed that the guards would have to die. More to the point, they guaranteed that you and I would be the ones to kill them. You can’t pin the title of murderer on somebody without some bodies to point to.”
“You mean that wasn’t you who shot the driver?” Tristan asked.
“Yes, that’s
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