Page 53 of Talk to Me
Without more information on what waited inside there, I wouldn’t know the challenges until we hit them. Didn’t mean I couldn’t get past them—just meant it might take a little more creativity than my usual methods.
“Understood,” McQuade said. Then there was nothing to do but drive.
This kind of operation should have at least three months to plan. Ideally, we could map all the security routes, and the layers. We’d know the schedule. I’d have access to internal cameras, or at least get cameras on it so I could see the comings and goings.
We were going to try and pull off what in the best of circumstances should take months in minutes? Hours?
I went over a mental checklist of what I had in my bags. Better to identify missing pieces before I needed them. The focus couldn’t distract me from the one truly troubling part of this operation.
We had no idea what Patch looked like. Her voice? Yes, I knew exactly what she sounded like and what her voice did to me. But I had no description. No age. No hair or eye color. I suspected Caucasian but that was just bias on my part. Picturing the woman that went with that voice.
But even that was reaching.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time, we finally arrived at the facility. It was worse in person than what I’d been able to see on the map. It still looked a lot like an abandoned factory. There was nothing coming out of the smokestacks.
A mosquito stabbed at my neck and I slapped it even as I studied the drive leading up to the place. “Three points on that road that can be choked.”
“Four,” Remington corrected. Like me, he had binoculars up and studying. We’d parked two miles back and hiked in, skirting the edge of the swamp. Getting her out that way if she was wounded would be more than problematic.
I switched my study to the vehicles in the lot. Anything I could hot-wire fast? An old beater would be ideal. Anything pre-90's would be a great start. The chances of Patch being uninjured after what? Ten? Twelve days of captivity? They were slim.
Very slim.
“Can you handle this?” McQuade asked as he thrust a Glock-19 at me. I didn’t comment, just checked the weapon, the magazine, then secured it in a holster located on the bullet proof vest he’d thrust at me when we got out of the car.
Sweat trickled down my back, even as the rough humidity left my face sticky and uncomfortable. The grip on the Glock wouldn’t slide out of my hand. That was something, I supposed.
“Not a lot of good sight lines here,” Remington said as unruffled now as he’d been since I walked in on him at Patch’s place. “I’ll set up in the grass, twenty meters east. It’s taller there. Better cover.”
Probably had snakes too. Another mosquito took a bite out of me and I slapped it dead too. Mosquitos. Dragonflies. Midges. Ticks. Alligators. Snakes.
It was a fucking paradise.
The heat of late afternoon sun added to the scalding, armpit temperatures.
“We’re not moving until dark,” McQuade said, raising a pair of his own binoculars. “Get comfortable.”
Right. Because hunkered down in the weeds near brackish water while being consumed by bugs was comfortable. I kept my comments to myself, however, while keeping an eye on the facility.
“Mr. McQuade,” I said, keeping my voice down and my eyes trained ahead. “You have a strange idea of comfortable.”
For his part, McQuade snorted. “You’re not bleeding and no one is shooting at you. It could be worse.”
“You’re not comforting either,” I mentioned, tilting my head from one side to the other. The crack of vertebrae releasing tension helped. Some.
“I doubt you want him comforting you.” The clipped intonation from Remington’s accent gave the words an air of formality that his faint smirk decried. Fucking Brits always sounded elegant even when they were telling you to fuck off.
Biting my tongue was not my favorite activity. First, it fucking hurt. Second, it was boring. Staring at the building I tried to picture the security, the layers, and the locks. The sting of a mosquito biting me again earned another slap.
Why didn’t the little bastards bite Cool Duck McQuade and Remington, Brit Remington?
“You should consume more garlic,” McQuade said. “You eat too much damn sugar.”
“Well, I have to maintain my sweet personality somehow.” The quip flowed easily. I could spend months stalking the right information to acquire a piece or casing an installation in order to get inside.
“Well, you might want to try something else,” Remington suggested. “Your diet is atrocious.”
“Everyone is a critic,” I muttered. I dug out the small pack of gum mashed in my pocket. The wintergreen cold released from my first bite was a violent contrast to the mugginess.