Page 153 of One Minute Out

This house is a shit box. I’m in Bakersfield, sitting in a small living room full of car parts, empty beer bottles, and dirty clothes. If the four men sitting across from me now were fresh-faced kids in their early twenties, I would take this for a frat house that lost its house mom.

But these aren’t kids. Not even close.

The men are all in their late forties. Rodney and Stu are white, A.J. is Latino, and Kareem is African American. They all have beards, they all wear glasses, and they all look like they could stand to drop thirty pounds.

They’re younger and fitter than Duvall, true, but that’s not saying much.

This isn’t exactly the A-Team.

Duvall isn’t here; he’s on his way from Vegas after arranging the helo he promised to acquire. But he’s called his old team from Southeast Asia and arranged for them to meet me at the home of one of them, and he just texted me to tell me to get started without him.

He also hooked me up with a place in LA to stash Talyssa: at the home of the sister of one of the guys here with me, although I don’t even know which one.

There are five surviving members of the Manila team in addition to Duvall, but one of their number told Shep that due to a recent hip replacement, he’d be more hindrance than help.

The four men with me have agreed to nothing; they don’t even know the target or the mission, but they are here, waiting to hear my spiel, and I take that to be a good sign.

Kareem, the African American, opens the discussion: “We all talked to Papa.”

“Papa?”

“Duvall. His call sign is Papa.”

“Makes sense.”

“He tells us you’re legit, your mission is righteous, and it’s time sensitive. But we have some questions.”

“Fair enough. Shep tells me you four are as good as they come.”

Rodney, the homeowner, eyes me suspiciously. “Then that makes me wonder if the shit he said about you was BS, too, because we sure as hell ain’t exactly at our peak.”

A.J., the one I take for Latino, says, “Speak for yourself. I’ve got my shit squared away.”

But the one calling himself Stu replies, “Rodney’s right. Shep didn’t tell you that.”

I’ve oversold the platitudes. Dumb. Quickly I backpedal. “Okay, he didn’t say that, exactly, but he said you guys were solid. Together you ran missions in the Third World rescuing kids caught up in human trafficking.”

“And then what did he tell you?” Kareem asks.

“I heard about Manila.”

The tension in the room increases a little, but no one blinks.

Stu says, “Well, if you did, then you know we’ve been blackballed by the community. No one is going to send us back out anywhere.”

“I’ll send you out.”

It’s quiet in the room for several seconds. I register the hopeful looks on the men’s faces. Yeah, they want back in the fight just as much as their leader does.

“So...” Rodney says, “you are Agency?”

“I’m not going to be able to answer that.”

Kareem mutters, half under his breath. “He’s Agency.”

A.J. turns to him. “How can you tell?”

“Look at him.”

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