Payne reflected on those days as he listened to the roar of the chopper while it hovered outside his window. It transported him to another time and place, back when he carried a gun for protection and a knife for fun. When he risked his life and killed for his country without giving it a second thought. Back before his grandfather had died and left him a corporation to run. That was the main reason he had left the military—to honor his grandfather’s dying wish.
The shrill of the desk phone cut Payne’s memories short. Annoyed, he let it ring a few more times before he answered, finally turning to face the window to see who was calling. He stared at the chopper, eye to eye, more than a thousand feet above the city. The only thing separating them was three inches of bulletproof glass and Payne’s reluctance to get back in the game.
“This is Payne.”
“This is Colonel Harrington. Sorry to drop in like this, but we’ve got a situation.”
Payne had heard those words hundreds of times before, and it always meant trouble. Once in his lifetime, he wanted to hear the term situation followed by a dose of good news.
“Colonel, I’m guessing you didn’t get my memo, but I’m retired.” Harrington growled. “I’m guessing you didn’t get my memo. I don’t give a fuck.”
The chopper landed on the building’s helipad, where it was greeted by four armed security guards who questioned the pilot and searched the aircraft before escorting the colonel inside. Unarmed, he wore the domes of a civilian—khaki pants, white dress shirt, black overcoat—an outfit that would have blended in with the business world, if not for his dramatic arrival. Normally Payne’s visitors parked in the garage under the building instead of on the roof.
Then again, his entrance wasn’t the only thing that stood out. There was something about Harrington, a quality that one noticed but couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it was his board-straight posture or his striking white hair, shorn tight on the sides. Whatever it was, he had a presence. An air. One felt it when he walked into a room. The man commanded attention.
Payne waited for him in the conference room, a chestnut-lined chamber equipped with the latest audiovisual gadgets—computers, plasma screens, high-speed connections. Plus it was windowless, which was the best safeguard against laser-guided listening devices. Or getting lased, as the military calls it. A single video camera, mounted in the far corner, tracked Harrington as he strode toward Payne, who stood at the head of the conference table.
Instead of saluting, Harrington simply nodded. “Colonel Joshua Harrington, U.S. Army.”
Payne looked him straight in the eye. “Jonathon Payne, U.S. Navy. Retired.”
“Yes, Payne, you’ve made that quite clear. Still, I think you’ll want to hear me out on this.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because it involves you.”
Payne was not surprised. “That’s a shocker.” Harrington sneered and sat in one of the leather chairs. He waited there, poker-faced, until Payne took a seat as well. “This also involves that buddy of yours, David Jones. Is he here?”
Payne nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s still around. Do you want me to get him?”
“No need. I’ll get him myself.” Harrington pointed toward the video camera in the corner of the ceiling, then pointed to the chair next to Payne. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here shortly.”
Payne grinned, duly impressed. The colonel was in the room less than thirty seconds yet had properly assessed the situation. Jones was watching them from an adjacent room, running a background check on Harrington while Payne handled the small talk. The fact that the colonel was able to sort things out so quickly said a lot about the man. Somehow it proved his worth.
So did the credentials that appeared on Jones’s computer screen. Harrington was a graduate of West Point and earned his silver eagle the old-fashioned way: by going to war and being a hero. In fact, the more Jones read, the more surprised he was that he’d never met him before. His resume read like a Tom Clancy novel. Only six hundred pages shorter.
A moment later, Jones entered the room with the look of a busted schoolboy, a combination of shame and embarrassment that would have been much more apparent if his flushed cheeks showed through his black skin. He was tempted to offer an apology but realized it wasn’t necessary. He was simply running security on an officer he had never met. It was protocol.
“So, did I check out? Did I pass your little test?” Harrington pulled his bifocals from the inner pocket of his overcoat and slipped them on. “Or do you want my fingerprints, too?”