Drake’s, you’re welcome to call me JJ.”
Mike Munroe’s self-introduction was more respectful. “A friend might be a strong word, sir, but he likes our boss a great deal, so we all get ‘Drake’ privileges by association. Sort of.” His grimace spoke volumes he couldn’t read. But he could read his handshake. It proved that he was even less used to real work.
JJ glanced at his own hands and wondered who was calling the kettle black. Three-star generals had an entourage to do everything from driving cars to pouring coffee. Most were climbers, hoping for a ride on a three-star’s coattails. The last few weeks, with his pending retirement, they’d become relentless in seeking a last-minute favor. Few, like Taz, were useful. Too damn young to be given a star—too young to be a full colonel, but she’d earned it. Deserved the star more than most in the Pentagon.
“Your boss?” JJ was curious. He’d always been JJ, but Drake’s stiff spine allowed only a very select few to have that privilege.
“Miranda Chase.”
He glanced at Taz, whose memory was a steel trap for each detail of everyone who flowed past him. Stumped, she shook her head.
“Interesting. Colonel Taz Cortez remembers everyone.”
Jeremy finished his pizza and started crunching loudly on his Italian breadsticks. “If you haven’t dealt with plane crashes, then you wouldn’t know about her. She’s the best crash investigator the NTSB has ever had. Drake calls us in on all the really tricky ones. It only took her about an hour to figure out that your AC-130H crash was a fake.”
“Jeremy!” Mike admonished him, but the boy was on a roll.
“And I’ll bet she’s solved the Catalina crash already.”
That was information he’d like to possess. That crash was causing an inordinate amount of trouble, including their present situation of desperately needing Jeremy’s aid. However, JJ was not about to open up communications to anyone at this time. There wasn’t a single military person on this flight or at his operating base who wouldn’t be court-martialed the moment they were caught.
“She was talking to the weapons officer and she doesn’t do interviews until she already knows what’s happened. That’s the last step in her investigation process,” Mike agreed.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Taz cut in while JJ was thinking how much he’d like to throttle Rosa Cruz for betraying them. “If she told your boss about this, why didn’t she stop our flight?”
“He,” Mike spoke up. “Miranda was with a male weapons officer.”
“Oh.” Taz glanced up but she shook her head. Not one of theirs.
“And she’s probably trying to stop you right now. So, who are you about to have an illegal war with?” Jeremy asked as he dipped another breadstick into the cheese spread. He patted the control console like a favorite pet. “I mean, this baby specializes in area denial. You want to take out a tightly clustered group of weapons or people with extreme prejudice. You’re also banking that they don’t have the fighter jets to take you on, because as dangerous as the Ghostrider is, it’s big, slow, and does its best work below ten thousand feet. Or do you have a couple of escort jets of your own?”
Mike was watching his companion intently. So, this was all the young investigator’s conjecture.
JJ considered. Taz’s nod concurred with his own thoughts that frankness seemed appropriate.
“We’re going after people who have wronged every single person on this plane.” And JJ could feel the fury deep in his gut as he did every time. That had been his leverage for recruiting each member of this team for his final mission.
Jeremy nodded, then leaned forward enough to pull on a hat that had been between his shoulders and the seat back. It was brilliantly garish, even in the dim combat lighting.
“Put it on, Mike. The Three Amigos! Well, the Two Amigos.” Jeremy began popping cookies into his mouth.
“Why?” But Mike did as he was told.
“Because we’re going to Mexico.”
“And our chances of ever coming back?” Mike asked the astute question.
Jeremy looked at him blankly for a long moment, then choked on his cookies, and ended up coughing crumbs in every direction as Mike pounded on his back.
47
“Mexico?”
Rosa nodded, “But that’s all I know. I think only Tang—” She made a strangling sound.
Miranda decided it was a good thing they were still in the hospital, seated at one of the VA hospital Patriot Café’s tables. If Rosa needed a doctor—
But she cleared her throat, though she was far paler than a moment before,