Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Unlike the rest of us, it’s as if Saint relaxes at the news he won’t be in the field. He’s progressing in leaps and bounds in some ways, and I would assume if this were any other job, he might even be ready to be given more responsibility, but not this. Not Farouk.
“It seems Farouk has an inside man when it comes to keeping an eye on his son,” Trav says. “I’m not sure if Ahmed is Danyal’s protector or warden, but either way, his computer led us back to Udoola. We believe Farouk is hiding out in the president’s palace.”
“So much for the Udoola government having no ties to any terrorist organization,” Atlas says.
I raise my hand. “You know I love suicide missions, but this … this is kamikaze levels of stupid.”
“So it’ll be right up your alley,” Trav says.
“You’re seriously talking about breaking into Udoola’s very own White House. I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”
Trav looks like he wants to dispute that, but he doesn’t. “The president and all his advisors are currently out of the country on a treaty mission with Iran, and their whole political system is nothing like ours. It’ll be more like …” He snaps his fingers as if the perfect analogy just came to him. “Trying to break into Camp David while a celebrity is staying there without the president. Piece of cake. Security will be at the lightest it’s ever going to be.”
“Official security. What about Farouk’s men?” Atlas asks.
“This is why we’re all here,” Trav says. “We need as many volunteers as we can get because this isn’t going to be easy, but it’s our chance to finish what the government started.”
Saint’s quiet beside me, biting his top lip nervously.
“What’s up?” I ask him softly.
Not soft enough. All eyes in the room zero in on him.
“Do you have something to add?” Trav asks him.
“What if Ahmed found our bug, and this is a trap?”
“We need to be prepared for anything, but there’s been no indication that our surveillance has been tampered with at all.”
Trav runs through his plan, which includes flying to a US airbase in Darbardeh like we did when we rescued Saint, “borrowing” a Hawk from the US military, flying through Muharib territory, and taking out countless members of Farouk’s army as a diversion while another team sneaks into the mansion from the other direction.
After hearing Trav’s detailed plan, I have more faith in it than first hearing “We’re breaking into the palace,” but I still have reservations.
And they all have to do with the man sitting beside me.
I’ve never had that before—the need to consider my partner when being offered a job. But with Saint, I’ve turned down missions so I could support him with his therapy, and now I’m contemplating staying with him for this one even though I thrive on this kind of shit.
I turn to him and try to assess where his head is at.
Surprising me, he says, “I’m in.”
Easy decision, then. “Me too.”
“Obviously,” Trav says to me. “I already had you down to go.”
The thing with the members of Mike Bravo is if Trav says we need as many volunteers as it’ll take, we’re all going to be there for him. So when it’s unanimous, Domino sighs.
“So I’m the only one who’s going to miss out on the fun?”
“You do get to be the boss while we’re gone,” I point out.
“Of … no one. Thank you very much. I basically have to sit here and make sure the place doesn’t burn down. I have a twelve-year-old’s job.”
“Hey. Hey. Don’t sell yourself short. You also get to answer phones. So, really, you have a receptionist’s job.” I smile.
“At least you’re not staying behind,” Domino mumbles.
“Everyone gear up, make the necessary arrangements to be away for up to a week, and meet me at the airfield in two hours.” Trav walks out.
Everyone jumps into motion, calling or texting their brothers, sisters, mothers, whoever to tell them they’ll be gone for a while. Saint and I don’t have anyone to call.
“Does this part ever get better?” Saint lifts his chin, gesturing to everyone on their phones.
“Which part?”
“The gut-wrenching part of realizing you’re the only one who has no one at home waiting for you.”
“I’d like to say it does, but better isn’t the right word. You get used to it, if that helps.”
“It really doesn’t. I’m gonna hit the head and grab some extra clothes from my locker downstairs.”
“Okay.”
Saint slinks away, and I realize I don’t ever want him to get used to this feeling like I have. I’m alone, but up until him, I’d accepted it. I thought I did better by myself because giving nonanswers all the time to things I got up to at work was becoming exhausting. I’d nearly all but given up on relationships until Saint.