on the Charlie situation. I also wanted his take on Junior Reporter’s suggestion there might be a connection between Pipe Guy and the Duarte shooting.
I figured that scary possibility would keep me tossing and turning all night, but I zonked right out. It did, however, make me exercise a bit more caution when I left for work the next morning.
My thumb hovered above the alarm button on my keypad and I surveyed the parked cars carefully before I approached my own. In the bright light of day, the vicious dents and shattered taillights looked a whole lot nastier than they had last night. Sighing, I added three items to my already extensive mental checklist.
Take car in for estimate.
Get copy of police report.
Call insurance company.
Thank heavens I’m insured with USAA. The giant corporation is run by former military personnel and caters exclusively to active duty troops, retirees, honorably discharged veterans, and their dependents. Their fees are also graduated to fit military pay scales. As you might surmise, second lieutenants rank darn close to the bottom of the scale.
If I timed everything just right, I could drop my car off at the Chrysler dealership, hitch a ride to the Ford dealership, get Charlie’s truck out of hock, and drive it until my car was repaired.
Or not.
If that was one of Richie Boy’s goons last night and he had mistaken me for Brenda, it might not be too smart to tool around town in Charlie’s pickup. For all Pipe Guy knew, his primary target was still in El Paso.
I decided to hold off on switching vehicles until I’d talked to my insurance company. So of course my defunct taillights got me stopped twice on my way to work. Once by an EPPD traffic cop and once by a Fort Bliss gate guard. Luckily, both bought my explanation of the recent nature of the damage and my promise to have it repaired as soon as possible.
I parked across the street again, but let myself in through the side door this time. Once inside, I recorded two immediate impressions. One, electrical power had been restored to our end of the hallway. The lights were on and the air-conditioning hummed quietly.
Two, my quivering nostrils picked up a powerful scent. Not the odor of damp or mold, although I fully expected both to set in after yesterday’s fiasco. That was coffee I smelled, dark and rich and fresh.
I dumped my hat and purse on my desk and followed my nose to the break room. Before she’d left last night Pen had lined her tea canisters up like a row of Prussian soldiers. But one of the other team members had beat her in this morning, thank God, and brought a coffeemaker, microwave, and emergency supplies with him.
I had a good idea who. The industrial-size carton of PowerBars sitting beside the microwave pretty well IDed Noel. I filled a mug, snitched a peanut butter caramel crisp bar, and strolled down to his work area.
Here’s the thing about noncoms. The good ones operate an intelligence network that makes the CIA look like an amateur enterprise. They’re also world-class foragers. Especially Special Ops types like Noel. They get dropped behind enemy lines and can live off tree roots and grubs for months. In more civilized settings, nothing is safe around them unless it’s nailed, soldered, or sutured. Even then I wouldn’t turn my back on it.
Noel was on the phone. He waved a hand in greeting and finished his call while I polished off the PowerBar.
“Right. I’ll be here. Thanks, Chief.” He hung up with a satisfied grunt. “That was Sergeant Major Callahan at the Supply Depot. He’s sending over temporary replacements for our computers. Should be here in a half hour.”
“Great.” I held up my mug. “Who donated the coffeemaker and microwave?”
“Sergeant Hawkins over at A Company. One of his artillery batteries just shipped out for a six-month rotation to Iraq. He let me, ah, borrow a few items.”
Uh-oh. I’d met some of A Company’s artillerymen. They didn’t hear very well—the big
I figured that scary possibility would keep me tossing and turning all night, but I zonked right out. It did, however, make me exercise a bit more caution when I left for work the next morning.
My thumb hovered above the alarm button on my keypad and I surveyed the parked cars carefully before I approached my own. In the bright light of day, the vicious dents and shattered taillights looked a whole lot nastier than they had last night. Sighing, I added three items to my already extensive mental checklist.
Take car in for estimate.
Get copy of police report.
Call insurance company.
Thank heavens I’m insured with USAA. The giant corporation is run by former military personnel and caters exclusively to active duty troops, retirees, honorably discharged veterans, and their dependents. Their fees are also graduated to fit military pay scales. As you might surmise, second lieutenants rank darn close to the bottom of the scale.
If I timed everything just right, I could drop my car off at the Chrysler dealership, hitch a ride to the Ford dealership, get Charlie’s truck out of hock, and drive it until my car was repaired.
Or not.
If that was one of Richie Boy’s goons last night and he had mistaken me for Brenda, it might not be too smart to tool around town in Charlie’s pickup. For all Pipe Guy knew, his primary target was still in El Paso.
I decided to hold off on switching vehicles until I’d talked to my insurance company. So of course my defunct taillights got me stopped twice on my way to work. Once by an EPPD traffic cop and once by a Fort Bliss gate guard. Luckily, both bought my explanation of the recent nature of the damage and my promise to have it repaired as soon as possible.
I parked across the street again, but let myself in through the side door this time. Once inside, I recorded two immediate impressions. One, electrical power had been restored to our end of the hallway. The lights were on and the air-conditioning hummed quietly.
Two, my quivering nostrils picked up a powerful scent. Not the odor of damp or mold, although I fully expected both to set in after yesterday’s fiasco. That was coffee I smelled, dark and rich and fresh.
I dumped my hat and purse on my desk and followed my nose to the break room. Before she’d left last night Pen had lined her tea canisters up like a row of Prussian soldiers. But one of the other team members had beat her in this morning, thank God, and brought a coffeemaker, microwave, and emergency supplies with him.
I had a good idea who. The industrial-size carton of PowerBars sitting beside the microwave pretty well IDed Noel. I filled a mug, snitched a peanut butter caramel crisp bar, and strolled down to his work area.
Here’s the thing about noncoms. The good ones operate an intelligence network that makes the CIA look like an amateur enterprise. They’re also world-class foragers. Especially Special Ops types like Noel. They get dropped behind enemy lines and can live off tree roots and grubs for months. In more civilized settings, nothing is safe around them unless it’s nailed, soldered, or sutured. Even then I wouldn’t turn my back on it.
Noel was on the phone. He waved a hand in greeting and finished his call while I polished off the PowerBar.
“Right. I’ll be here. Thanks, Chief.” He hung up with a satisfied grunt. “That was Sergeant Major Callahan at the Supply Depot. He’s sending over temporary replacements for our computers. Should be here in a half hour.”
“Great.” I held up my mug. “Who donated the coffeemaker and microwave?”
“Sergeant Hawkins over at A Company. One of his artillery batteries just shipped out for a six-month rotation to Iraq. He let me, ah, borrow a few items.”
Uh-oh. I’d met some of A Company’s artillerymen. They didn’t hear very well—the big
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