process the catches on freezer boats and deliver them directly to retailers and wholesalers.”
“I know.” To Paul, a city located between the Pacific Ocean on the west and San Francisco Bay on the east needed no promotion. It had once consisted of forty hills and was now made up of twenty. Coker insisted on driving up and down both Russian and Nob Hills, exulting about the sights, but still got them to the Wharf and Smyrna’s in time for their reservation.
They were seated in a secluded corner, and Paul loved the ambiance—an old-world, dark-wood, linen-and-silver air of class. He could hardly believe Coker had chosen such an elegant restaurant. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.
Over dinner they compared notes on their time in the military, with the usual jocular army/navy rivalry. “Now about tomorrow,” Coker said finally, spreading papers on the table so Paul could get the right perspective. “These are aerial and land photos of the Polly Carr residence. That’s her code name.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Does it, like, mean something?”
Paul filled him in briefly.
“Weird. Wonder why they picked that.”
“Not sure,” Paul said. “Maybe because these people are asking for trouble, like Polycarp.”
“I guess,” Coker said. “Anyway, I’m gonna drive you by there tonight, give you the lay of the land. The neighborhood’s mostly deserted, so we shouldn’t have trouble with nosy nellies.” He pointed to the aerial diagram. “We’ll park nondescript vans here and here. You’ll be with my squad and me in this one, about a block and a half south of her place on Twenty-fifth. You’ll have a clear view of the house and people coming and going, and we have a monitoring card for you that will serve both as a tracking device and a relay of the audio from the bug inside the house to your molar receivers.”
“Bug’s already planted?”
“Two days ago.”
“Great.”
Coker gathered up the papers and packed them away. “If you don’t mind, I want to go in with my people on the first wave, since we’re used to working as a team.”
“Makes sense,” Paul said, disappointed.
“There’ll be more than enough action,” Coker said. “We’re gonna have us some fun!”
“You expect resistance?”
Coker cocked his head. “Hey, the law’s crystal clear—meeting to practice religion is forbidden. If they were unsure about it, they wouldn’t be sneaking around in the dark.”
“Any evidence of arms?”
“My instructions are to roust a widow and her group of anti-government plotters. I don’t think we can just knock and expect them to come quietly. But if you’re thinking ‘excessive force,’ don’t worry. I got a team chomping at the bit, but everything will be by the book.”
“I’m not worried. And the word’s champing .”
“Huh?”
“The correct term is champing at the bit.”
Coker laughed. “Polycarp, champing . . . that’s another difference between the Army and the Navy. No vocabulary class in the SEALs, man.”
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a wordsmith.”
“I know, Professor. And tomorrow you’ll get to see what SEAL training can do. My team and I will have these perps subdued quicker than you can say ‘Delta Force.’ Then you can play Scrabble with them, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”
Coker arrived at four the next morning in a plain white van with tinted windows. The damp cold cut through Paul, despite his hat, heavy overcoat, and gloves.
Coker rolled down the passenger-side window to let Paul know it was him, and when Paul climbed in, he noticed Coker wore navy from head to toe, including calf-high boots. His thick belt bore several compartments for everything from ammunition to Mace to handcuffs to a fifty-caliber Glock Century Three.
“Greet half our team,” he said as he drove west on 101 toward Highway 1. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Paul Stepola, our adviser from the Chicago office.”
Four men and two women, all
“I know.” To Paul, a city located between the Pacific Ocean on the west and San Francisco Bay on the east needed no promotion. It had once consisted of forty hills and was now made up of twenty. Coker insisted on driving up and down both Russian and Nob Hills, exulting about the sights, but still got them to the Wharf and Smyrna’s in time for their reservation.
They were seated in a secluded corner, and Paul loved the ambiance—an old-world, dark-wood, linen-and-silver air of class. He could hardly believe Coker had chosen such an elegant restaurant. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.
Over dinner they compared notes on their time in the military, with the usual jocular army/navy rivalry. “Now about tomorrow,” Coker said finally, spreading papers on the table so Paul could get the right perspective. “These are aerial and land photos of the Polly Carr residence. That’s her code name.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Does it, like, mean something?”
Paul filled him in briefly.
“Weird. Wonder why they picked that.”
“Not sure,” Paul said. “Maybe because these people are asking for trouble, like Polycarp.”
“I guess,” Coker said. “Anyway, I’m gonna drive you by there tonight, give you the lay of the land. The neighborhood’s mostly deserted, so we shouldn’t have trouble with nosy nellies.” He pointed to the aerial diagram. “We’ll park nondescript vans here and here. You’ll be with my squad and me in this one, about a block and a half south of her place on Twenty-fifth. You’ll have a clear view of the house and people coming and going, and we have a monitoring card for you that will serve both as a tracking device and a relay of the audio from the bug inside the house to your molar receivers.”
“Bug’s already planted?”
“Two days ago.”
“Great.”
Coker gathered up the papers and packed them away. “If you don’t mind, I want to go in with my people on the first wave, since we’re used to working as a team.”
“Makes sense,” Paul said, disappointed.
“There’ll be more than enough action,” Coker said. “We’re gonna have us some fun!”
“You expect resistance?”
Coker cocked his head. “Hey, the law’s crystal clear—meeting to practice religion is forbidden. If they were unsure about it, they wouldn’t be sneaking around in the dark.”
“Any evidence of arms?”
“My instructions are to roust a widow and her group of anti-government plotters. I don’t think we can just knock and expect them to come quietly. But if you’re thinking ‘excessive force,’ don’t worry. I got a team chomping at the bit, but everything will be by the book.”
“I’m not worried. And the word’s champing .”
“Huh?”
“The correct term is champing at the bit.”
Coker laughed. “Polycarp, champing . . . that’s another difference between the Army and the Navy. No vocabulary class in the SEALs, man.”
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a wordsmith.”
“I know, Professor. And tomorrow you’ll get to see what SEAL training can do. My team and I will have these perps subdued quicker than you can say ‘Delta Force.’ Then you can play Scrabble with them, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”
Coker arrived at four the next morning in a plain white van with tinted windows. The damp cold cut through Paul, despite his hat, heavy overcoat, and gloves.
Coker rolled down the passenger-side window to let Paul know it was him, and when Paul climbed in, he noticed Coker wore navy from head to toe, including calf-high boots. His thick belt bore several compartments for everything from ammunition to Mace to handcuffs to a fifty-caliber Glock Century Three.
“Greet half our team,” he said as he drove west on 101 toward Highway 1. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Paul Stepola, our adviser from the Chicago office.”
Four men and two women, all
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