mass grave out there?”
Batman hesitated—but then nodded yes.
“And was that not the point of your mission? To get rid of them?”
Batman nodded again.
“And you were paid?”
“Yes—we were…”
Jobo pounded him on the back. “Then celebrate, my boy. You deserve it.”
“But some strange things happened on that island,” Batman told him. “Things we really can’t explain.”
Jobo put his arm around Batman’s shoulder. “My friend—strange things are always happening out in these islands. And some of them no one can ever explain, even if they take a hundred years to try. The more time you spend out here, the more you will come to understand that.”
Batman thought this over. The pirates were dead. The BABE consortium had paid them. And the OAS representative was being quite clear he didn’t want to know or care how the pirates met their end.
So …
“End of mission, end of story?” Jobo asked him.
Batman finally managed a smile.
“You learn quick,” Jobo told him.
Batman turned and clinked glasses with Jennessa.
“All’s well that ends well,” he told her.
She smiled and kissed his cheeks again.
“Exactly,” she replied.
Crash, Gunner, Twitch and the Senegals had all joined them by now. They, too, were getting their glasses filled by Jennessa’s gorgeous colleagues.
“I guess our vacation starts today,” Crash said.
* * *
THE LITTLE CELEBRATION went on like this for a while. It was a perfect day. The warm winds were blowing, the crystal-clear water was lapping gently against the Dustboat’s hull, the sun was shining brightly.
Everything seemed ideal.
But not for Nolan.
He never joined the others. He spent the whole time up on the bow where the team’s helicopters had been brought, scraping off the oversized United States insignia they’d added before the assault on the pirates’ hidden camp.
His body language made it clear that he wanted to be left alone, and the members of Whiskey understood.
Flying the U.S.-marked copters and wearing the American flag on the back of his battle suit had been a reprieve of sorts for Nolan. For a little while, it was as if he were serving in the U.S. military again. Fighting for his country again.
It seemed like such a little thing, but it was hugely important to him.
Now that the mission was over, ending strangely or not, getting rid of the emblems was his job—no one else’s.
“What’s with him?” Jennessa finally asked Batman. “Doesn’t he like champagne?”
Batman just shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
Jennessa shook her head. “He’s really handsome, you know,” she said with a sigh, immediately taking the wind out of Batman’s sails. “Good build. Rugged looks. Has he ever done any modeling?”
“Only for the Army,” Batman replied with a sinister laugh.
It was true: When Nolan was an officer cadet, his picture had graced some Army recruiting posters.
“Well, the eyepatch adds just the right amount of mystery,” Jennessa went on, refilling Batman’s glass. “So please, tell him for me, no matter what he does, don’t ever do anything to screw up that face.”
PART THREE
The Sugar Men
11
Aden, Yemen
MARK CONLEY ARRIVED at the Kilos building an hour before sunrise.
Coffee in hand, he took his seat inside the OSS suite, glanced at his computer screen and let out a long sigh. More than three dozen requests for Whiskey’s services had come in overnight. Representatives from the governments of Japan, Saudi Arabia, Brazil and Spain were inquiring about the team’s availability. Companies from Greece, Taiwan, Sri Lanka and The Netherlands were also hoping to book them. They’d even received an inquiry from someone at a company in Los Angeles that simply said, “Call me.”
“We should just franchise this thing,” Conley thought aloud as he began the process of transferring the voice messages to text. “Then they can take over this whole freaking building.”
A letter was waiting on his desk. It was postmarked the Bahamas, three days before. Inside was a funds transfer slip from the Royal Bahamian Bank of Nassau to the Kilos-controlled OSS account in the First National Bank of Aden. The transfer was for five million dollars. An attached note read: “Wish you were here.” It was signed by Batman Bob Graves.
Wiseass, Conley thought.
The day went on. Conley split his time between OSS stuff and his real job of running Kilos Shipping’s Middle East security department. By 11 A.M., he was ready for lunch.
He left the Kilos building and headed for the docks. There was a falafel stand down there that actually sold hot dogs. Hebrew National hot dogs, yet.
Conley ordered his usual: three pups and a Saudi Arabian Pepsi. Packing it all in a brown paper bag, he headed back