Ronnie never cried out again.
“No …
NO
…!”
There was pounding this time as he lay down beside her, a pounding on the door.
“Ronnie? Ronnie?”
She bolted awake, aware of a voice in the dark. She sat up, panting, as the voice called out again.
“Ronnie?” Tiffany’s worried face peeped in at her. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Ronnie looked at the clock on her nightstand. 4:13. They’d been asleep only an hour.
“The same dream again?”
Ronnie could only nod.
Tiffany gave her a long hug. “I’m sorry. Life stinks, doesn’t it?”
“Thanks, Tiff. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Sorry I woke you up.”
“No problem.” She stood. “You okay?”
“I’m okay. It won’t come back tonight.”
“Good. And if it tries to, you just flip your stepfather off for me.”
Ronnie had to chuckle. “I’ll try to remember that.”
She settled back into the bed as Tiffany slipped out the door. She pulled the covers up to her chin, clutching them like a frightened eight-year-old-girl. She closed her eyes, hoping she could sleep, hoping she wouldn’t be yawning at work all the next night.
Ronnie hurried out to her largest table, balancing her laden tray on her shoulder.
She laid down the final steak platter, and waited while the customer cut into it.
“Is that acceptable, sir?”
The man’s words were slurred. “It’s acceptable, sweetcheeks. And so are
you
. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance for me.”
Ronnie crossed to the other side of the table and filled a few water glasses. “I’m just a waitress, honey, but thanks for the compliment.” She forced herself to give a saucy grin. “But I’ll take whatever tip you want to give me.”
The other men at the table laughed as she turned away. The sloppy man raised his voice.
“The names Ron, sweetcheeks! And I’ll keep tipping you until I get a dance. One of these days!”
Ronnie saw a new group sit by a table against the wall and hurried over, muttering, “Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”
Farther along the wall, behind a one-way mirror, several men sat in a room resembling a television production booth. Electrical equipment and control boards formed a horseshoe around them. One ran the many cameras, the other the control boards and computers. The third stood behind them, arms crossed, giving direction as the cameras scanned the room from all angles.
After a few minutes of silence, something on the control panel beeped, and the camera operator focused in tighter.
The man standing, uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Right there—who just sat down?”
“Hold on.” The computer operator tapped a few keys and waited while several face-prints and paragraphs of text flashed across the screen. “Name of Wayne Jackson. The other man is … wait … Darrell Hardy.” A few more clicks, and then a slow sound of satisfaction. “Ah … They’re both with that big electronics manufacturer Marco mentioned yesterday. The one Proxy’s looking at as a possible target.”
“Good. Good.” The first man nodded, pleased. “Are their positions helpful?”
More clicking on the keyboard, then the computer operator raised an eyebrow. “Jackson is just a midlevel manager, but … Hardy is apparently the chief operating officer.”
“Excellent. Tab those, get the necessary data, and notify Marco right away.” He straightened and his eyes turned to the next table along. “Let’s see if we can make this night a two-fer, shall we?”
Outside of Washington, D.C., a similar operation was taking place. Behind oneway glass, another camera scanned the crowd, capturing another face, another screen of data.
This one generated even more excitement. The data was compiled and transmitted to a control room in Atlanta.
Within five minutes, Marco was behind closed doors, staring at the promising data on his computer screen. He took a few cryptic notes and tapped his pen rapidly on the desktop. He would
“No …
NO
…!”
There was pounding this time as he lay down beside her, a pounding on the door.
“Ronnie? Ronnie?”
She bolted awake, aware of a voice in the dark. She sat up, panting, as the voice called out again.
“Ronnie?” Tiffany’s worried face peeped in at her. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Ronnie looked at the clock on her nightstand. 4:13. They’d been asleep only an hour.
“The same dream again?”
Ronnie could only nod.
Tiffany gave her a long hug. “I’m sorry. Life stinks, doesn’t it?”
“Thanks, Tiff. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Sorry I woke you up.”
“No problem.” She stood. “You okay?”
“I’m okay. It won’t come back tonight.”
“Good. And if it tries to, you just flip your stepfather off for me.”
Ronnie had to chuckle. “I’ll try to remember that.”
She settled back into the bed as Tiffany slipped out the door. She pulled the covers up to her chin, clutching them like a frightened eight-year-old-girl. She closed her eyes, hoping she could sleep, hoping she wouldn’t be yawning at work all the next night.
Ronnie hurried out to her largest table, balancing her laden tray on her shoulder.
She laid down the final steak platter, and waited while the customer cut into it.
“Is that acceptable, sir?”
The man’s words were slurred. “It’s acceptable, sweetcheeks. And so are
you
. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance for me.”
Ronnie crossed to the other side of the table and filled a few water glasses. “I’m just a waitress, honey, but thanks for the compliment.” She forced herself to give a saucy grin. “But I’ll take whatever tip you want to give me.”
The other men at the table laughed as she turned away. The sloppy man raised his voice.
“The names Ron, sweetcheeks! And I’ll keep tipping you until I get a dance. One of these days!”
Ronnie saw a new group sit by a table against the wall and hurried over, muttering, “Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”
Farther along the wall, behind a one-way mirror, several men sat in a room resembling a television production booth. Electrical equipment and control boards formed a horseshoe around them. One ran the many cameras, the other the control boards and computers. The third stood behind them, arms crossed, giving direction as the cameras scanned the room from all angles.
After a few minutes of silence, something on the control panel beeped, and the camera operator focused in tighter.
The man standing, uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Right there—who just sat down?”
“Hold on.” The computer operator tapped a few keys and waited while several face-prints and paragraphs of text flashed across the screen. “Name of Wayne Jackson. The other man is … wait … Darrell Hardy.” A few more clicks, and then a slow sound of satisfaction. “Ah … They’re both with that big electronics manufacturer Marco mentioned yesterday. The one Proxy’s looking at as a possible target.”
“Good. Good.” The first man nodded, pleased. “Are their positions helpful?”
More clicking on the keyboard, then the computer operator raised an eyebrow. “Jackson is just a midlevel manager, but … Hardy is apparently the chief operating officer.”
“Excellent. Tab those, get the necessary data, and notify Marco right away.” He straightened and his eyes turned to the next table along. “Let’s see if we can make this night a two-fer, shall we?”
Outside of Washington, D.C., a similar operation was taking place. Behind oneway glass, another camera scanned the crowd, capturing another face, another screen of data.
This one generated even more excitement. The data was compiled and transmitted to a control room in Atlanta.
Within five minutes, Marco was behind closed doors, staring at the promising data on his computer screen. He took a few cryptic notes and tapped his pen rapidly on the desktop. He would
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