Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8), стр. 16

“Nothing that would keep mama in new shoes. How ‘bout you? Did you learn anything at the market or just walk away like me, wondering how a country could eat so many damn vegetables?”

“I got something. But it’s not actionable. Not yet, anyway.” I filled him in on what the old man at the market told me, how Kathleen had been forced into a car by two men. “He couldn’t offer any details.”

“Your Deputy Director, Watts. He seems to like you.”

“He’s brought me in on a couple missions this last year. And I saved his life in Rio a few days ago.”

“No crap. How’d that go down?”

“The head of a local drug cartel planned a revenge assassination because the DEA accidentally killed his wife during an op down there. The op was overseen by Homeland, and Watts was seen as the one ultimately responsible.”

“Let me guess. They ambushed his convoy.”

“Just north of downtown. They pinched his convoy in a construction zone and unleashed hell.”

“And you saved him?”

“I had help. But I managed to get him safely out of his SUV and into another that got him back to safety.”

“Damn, boy. So you’re like Homeland’s golden child right now. You could probably ask them for your own island and they’d give it to you.”

“Right now, I just want to find my boss.”

An exit ramp appeared, and Boomer took it off Motorway 6 and followed it around to the stop light. He turned right at the light and began a circuitous route through a decaying industrial park. Crumbling brick buildings still functioned as warehouses, and old cinder block structures were hemmed with loading docks with thistles and weeds pushing through.

“These used to be munitions factories during the Second World War,” Boomer said. “Zinc and lead from Oklahoma and Missouri were shipped out here, and the Allies made a hell of a lot of .30 ammo for the M1. After the war, I heard they were converted to clothing factories before being abandoned in the ’60s.” He turned around a stand of cypress and continued on where the crumbling road turned to dirt, passing between two buildings whose bricks had lost most of their mortar to decay and weather.

A loading bay opened up ahead of us where a scattering of weeds stood like stalks of corn. Boomer drove over them and parked beside a gray multi passenger van. A rusted door stood closed in front of us. I could just make out a worn stenciled logo in its center: HCI Logistics.

We got out of the Hummer, and the building’s door squeaked in protest as Boomer opened it. He held it open for me and called out as we walked in.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Our footsteps echoed deeply into the empty space. Two sodiums high in the rafters dimly lit our way to a curtained area glowing with floor lamps. I followed Boomer around a curtain where half a dozen tables were loaded with computer monitors and battle gear: rifles, loaded magazines, body armor, web kits, and hand guns. Two other men were among the gear, both wearing black cargo pants and light gray polos. One was watching a TV show on his phone while cleaning the barrel of a McMillan TAC-50 rifle. His unkempt beard and massive shoulders gave him a mountain man appearance. He wore a blue ball cap backward on his head, and a fresco of tattoos covered his left arm. The second operator was leaning back in a chair and staring at a wide screen monitor, his boots on the table in front of him and a wireless keyboard on his lap. He was clean shaven, his long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Yo!” Boomer called out. Both men looked over. “This here is Ryan Savage, with Homeland. I found him drowning in the ocean and thought he could use a hot meal.”

“What’s wrong with Diakos’s food?” the big man chuckled. “Not hot enough for you?”

Boomer raised a hand toward him. “Savage, meet Teapot. He’s recon and ordnance. And over here is Granger. When he’s not doing our laundry and talking to his mother, he’s decent enough with computers and comms.” Granger lifted his middle finger to Boomer and then raised a hand in greeting.

“Sorry to hear about your boss,” Teapot said. “If we have anything to do with it, she’ll be back home safe and sound in no time.

“Thanks, gents.”

“Chachi, he’s out doing a little recon,” Boomer said. “Getting his ear to the ground and talking to the locals. If there’s anything useful out there, he’ll hear about it.”

I couldn’t help but marvel at the sudden turn of events. Half an hour earlier, I was walking through the market, feeling under resourced and ill advised. Now I was standing among some of my country’s best warriors, men who knew how to locate targets, subvert the enemy, and accomplish the mission objective as well as anyone on the planet. And while I didn’t possess their level of training and experience, I was still supremely capable and found myself right at home among them.

Boomer made his way toward Granger and looked at his computer monitor. “Anything yet?”

“Just about.” Granger bit down on his bottom lip as his fingers flew expertly over the keyboard. “It’s taking a little longer than I thought.”

I stepped up to one of the tables. Sitting there were three desert Sig Sauer P-226s, two Glock 19s, three M9A1 Berettas, and over a dozen spare, fully loaded magazines. On the next table were several M1A carbines, HK14s, and a single M3 submachine gun.

“Whose grease gun?” I asked.

Teapot was running a cleaning pad down his rifle’s barrel, but he raised a finger. “That would be mine. I plugged a muj last month with one of those HKs over there. He was carrying the M3, and I decided to relieve him of it. I’m going to modify the front sight when I get back stateside. But it’s fun to shoot.”

Granger suddenly raised a celebratory