and get Doc. And have Chaz get busy switching out that wasted tire. I’m calling the base. Someone’s got to tell the boss we just fucked this thing up big-time.”
She didn’t seem to notice the tiny flex of Mira’s fingers. Didn’t real-ize that the twitch of muscle response bumped Mira’s hand against the hilt of the dagger lying on the floor next to the front seat where she sat slouched.
Mira focused on the cold metal hilt of her blade as the man ran off to carry out his instructions, and the woman turned away to contact the one who led them.
“They should be here by now.” Bowman’s voice was more snarl than words as he stalked through his stronghold nearly three hours after the call came in from the botched field op.
The petite young woman in charge of communications for the rebel base camp located south of Boston hurried to keep pace with him in the bunker’s gloomy corridors. She hooked a lock of her short indigo-dyed hair behind an ear bearing a dozen tiny metal loops. “I’ve been trying to reach them for a situation update, but so far no response.”
“When’s the last time you tried, Nina?”
“Five minutes ago.”
Bowman’s answering curse echoed off the dank, block-granite walls. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and the trim goatee that darkened his chin. “Try them again. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir.” She already had her comm device activated, speaking the command that would connect her to the team en route. It took only seconds before she gave him a grave shake of her head, big brown eyes serious with concern. “Still nothing.”
“Son of a bitch.” Something was wrong. Something worse than the obvious complication that took place at Ackmeyer’s house a few hours ago.
Bowman wasn’t about to sit around with his dick in hand, wondering and waiting. He’d hated the taste of that inactivity from the moment he gave the okay on this job. Now it burned like acid in the back of his throat.
Combat boots striking hollowly on the concrete floor of the abandoned military fort, he rounded a corner to head deeper into the bunker, toward a hand-hewn tunnel leading underground to the gun battery that served as the rebel base’s small fleet garage.
“I’m sure they’ll be here any minute,” Nina said, jogging to stay alongside him. “I’m sure they’ve got everything under control now.”
Bowman grunted, kept walking. If only it were that simple to just sit back and wait it out, knowing how badly things had gone off the rails out there.
“What are you going to do? You can’t mean to go after them . . .”
He didn’t answer, didn’t slow down.
Damn it, he never should have put this job into play. He’d had a bad feeling about it to start with, but after waiting months for the opportunity to make his move on Ackmeyer, he hadn’t been willing to risk losing that chance simply because it was a daytime grab to be conducted under less-than-perfect conditions.
Less than perfect seemed the understatement of the century as he stormed down the long corridor with Nina racing behind him, making another frantic attempt to reach Brady, Doc, and the others.
How long had they been developing their plan to get close to Ackmeyer? Nearly a quarter of a year of meticulous espionage, of putting out the right feelers to the right people, of waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It might have taken months more to get the necessary pieces in place. Too long, and hesitation could prove catastrophic, if Ackmeyer was permitted to continue his work. All the worse, should he decide to profit from the formidable fruits of his labor.
That was the argument that persuaded Bowman to green-light the mission this morning, despite its numerous risks. Last-minute intel had arrived from one of the rebels’ Boston contacts. Ackmeyer would be making a rare public appearance in a few days, as part of the peace summit gala. And as the celebrated guest of none other than Reginald Crowe.
There could be no
She didn’t seem to notice the tiny flex of Mira’s fingers. Didn’t real-ize that the twitch of muscle response bumped Mira’s hand against the hilt of the dagger lying on the floor next to the front seat where she sat slouched.
Mira focused on the cold metal hilt of her blade as the man ran off to carry out his instructions, and the woman turned away to contact the one who led them.
“They should be here by now.” Bowman’s voice was more snarl than words as he stalked through his stronghold nearly three hours after the call came in from the botched field op.
The petite young woman in charge of communications for the rebel base camp located south of Boston hurried to keep pace with him in the bunker’s gloomy corridors. She hooked a lock of her short indigo-dyed hair behind an ear bearing a dozen tiny metal loops. “I’ve been trying to reach them for a situation update, but so far no response.”
“When’s the last time you tried, Nina?”
“Five minutes ago.”
Bowman’s answering curse echoed off the dank, block-granite walls. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and the trim goatee that darkened his chin. “Try them again. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir.” She already had her comm device activated, speaking the command that would connect her to the team en route. It took only seconds before she gave him a grave shake of her head, big brown eyes serious with concern. “Still nothing.”
“Son of a bitch.” Something was wrong. Something worse than the obvious complication that took place at Ackmeyer’s house a few hours ago.
Bowman wasn’t about to sit around with his dick in hand, wondering and waiting. He’d hated the taste of that inactivity from the moment he gave the okay on this job. Now it burned like acid in the back of his throat.
Combat boots striking hollowly on the concrete floor of the abandoned military fort, he rounded a corner to head deeper into the bunker, toward a hand-hewn tunnel leading underground to the gun battery that served as the rebel base’s small fleet garage.
“I’m sure they’ll be here any minute,” Nina said, jogging to stay alongside him. “I’m sure they’ve got everything under control now.”
Bowman grunted, kept walking. If only it were that simple to just sit back and wait it out, knowing how badly things had gone off the rails out there.
“What are you going to do? You can’t mean to go after them . . .”
He didn’t answer, didn’t slow down.
Damn it, he never should have put this job into play. He’d had a bad feeling about it to start with, but after waiting months for the opportunity to make his move on Ackmeyer, he hadn’t been willing to risk losing that chance simply because it was a daytime grab to be conducted under less-than-perfect conditions.
Less than perfect seemed the understatement of the century as he stormed down the long corridor with Nina racing behind him, making another frantic attempt to reach Brady, Doc, and the others.
How long had they been developing their plan to get close to Ackmeyer? Nearly a quarter of a year of meticulous espionage, of putting out the right feelers to the right people, of waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It might have taken months more to get the necessary pieces in place. Too long, and hesitation could prove catastrophic, if Ackmeyer was permitted to continue his work. All the worse, should he decide to profit from the formidable fruits of his labor.
That was the argument that persuaded Bowman to green-light the mission this morning, despite its numerous risks. Last-minute intel had arrived from one of the rebels’ Boston contacts. Ackmeyer would be making a rare public appearance in a few days, as part of the peace summit gala. And as the celebrated guest of none other than Reginald Crowe.
There could be no
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