All of them were attractive. But none of them was named Allison.
“You know,” Jones said from the back of the cargo plane, “there’s no telling what we’re getting into, other than it’s dangerous and probably illegal.”
“I know. But I’m a sucker for a crying woman.”
“Yeah. Me too. I just want to kiss their boo-boos and make them feel better.”
Payne laughed. “Define boo-boo.”
“Not a chance,” Jones said with a smile. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this: I’m more concerned than normal.”
“Why’s that?”
“Why? Because I can’t get arrested in Russia. Maybe you can with your big muscles and your white skin, but I can’t. I mean, there’s a drink called a Black Russian, but as far as I know, that’s the only black thing they’ve got. And I want to keep it that way.”
“No problem,” Payne assured him. “If the cops are called, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“I’m serious, Jon. I don’t want to be the black Yuri Gagarin.”
“What in the hell does that mean? You don’t want to be a cosmonaut?”
“No, I don’t want to be a guinea pig. There’s no telling what tests they’ll run on my black ass if I get caught. Not to mention everything else that’s done to a man’s ass in prison.”
Payne laughed, knowing full well that Jones was joking about Russia. In fact, just about the only time race was mentioned by either of them was when they were joking around.
And it had been that way from the very beginning.
They had met a decade earlier when they were handpicked to run the MANIACs. After a rocky start—mostly because Payne attended Annapolis and Jones attended the Air Force Academy—they became good friends. That bond had strengthened over time, a common occurrence when two soldiers watched each other’s back in countries all over the globe. Eventually, it evolved into something stronger than friendship. They became brothers.
A few years ago, Payne’s grandfather passed away, giving him the controlling interest in the family business. It had grown from a one-man shop near the Ohio River into a multinational corporation called Payne Industries. At the time, Payne hadn’t been ready to leave the service, but out of love and respect for the man who raised him, he retired from the military and moved back home to fulfill his familial duties.
To help with his adjustment to civilian life, Payne convinced Jones to retire and move to Pittsburgh. He sweetened the deal by giving Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and lending him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not? After the death of Grandpa Payne, Jones was the only family that Payne had left.
Not surprisingly, the pace of their life had slowed significantly in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they went out on their own.
And truth be told, even though they hated the circumstances of this particular adventure—namely, the death of Richard Byrd—both of them loved the adrenaline rush of a freelance mission. Not only did it get their juices flowing, it helped them stay sharp in case the government ever needed their talents for a special operation.
Sitting in the belly of the cargo plane, Jones couldn’t plug his computer into a phone line, which meant he wasn’t able to do the research he required. Since they were cruising 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, the odds of getting a wireless connection were pretty damn slim.
One of the most important skills in the Special Forces was the ability to adapt. Whether it was hand-to-hand combat or the planning of a mission, a soldier had to make the best of a bad situation or he wouldn’t survive very long. Knowing how much work needed to be done before they landed in Germany, Jones decided to contact one of the few people he could count on.
“Research,” said his friend as he answered his phone at the Pentagon.
“Hey, Randy. How’s life?”
Raskin groaned. “It would be much easier if you and Jon forgot my number.”
Jones smiled while adjusting his bulky headset. Without it, he couldn’t hear anything in the back of the noisy plane. “Truth be told, I didn’t even dial your number. I simply asked the pilot to patch me through to the smartest guy at the Pentagon, and you answered the