"On the ground, now," he ordered. "Face first, hands on your heads."

"What are you, a fucking cop?" The big guy snapped, but despite the moment of defiance, he did as he was told. They all did.

"Are the keys in the truck?" He asked Ginger.

She didn't want to answer him at first, but he dug the gun barrel deeper into her neck, and she said, "Yes, okay? Stop trying to give me a tracheotomy."

"Don't try me, Ging," he hissed in her ear. "You have no idea how badly I want to hurt you."

That wasn't a lie; he did want to hurt her, as much as hurting a woman disgusted him. But she was willing to hurt him and Holly, and therefore she had lost whatever gender immunity she had. As he basically carried her to the nearest vehicle, he asked, mostly out of spiteful curiosity, "How many people have you killed, Skipper?"

"I've never killed anyone."

"Never lie to the maniac with the gun."

"What do you want me to say, Stanley?"

Someone moved, so he whistled sharply to let them know they'd been spotted, and they stopped. He shoved Ginger around to the passenger side of the large SUV, inexpertly hidden behind the creosote, and said, "I want you to shut up and drive."

She gave him that pouty look again, like he was just annoying her, and as soon as she opened the door he shoved her violently inside, and she yelped, more surprised than anything. As she pulled herself into the driver's seat, she straightened out her rucked up skirt and gave him an acrid look that could have peeled paint off the truck. "You get your jollies pushing women around?"

"You're not a woman," he replied, keeping the gun leveled on her as he got in the passenger's seat and slammed the door. "You don't count."

"Where the hell am I driving?"

"Towards Abandon."

Ginger gave him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. Too small a town to have warranted her notice. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Thataway, pardner."

She hardly looked amused, but she gunned the engine, and pulled out wildly onto the pitted road,  speeding away as if she really did want to escape her useless protectors. A glance in the rearview showed the men getting up and hastily pulling up their pants.

"So where are we going?" She asked again.

"You'll see," he said, being deliberately obtuse. He wanted her to squirm.

He succeeded. After fidgeting in the leather seat, she asked, "Who are you working for?"

He grinned at her humorlessly. "Ah, now that would be telling."

"Is there someone else? Or are you doing this on your own?" She said that disdainfully, as if trying to get a rise out of him. A nice try, but he already knew the moment you got really emotional was the moment you lost control of a situation.

"What, you think I'm some stupid James Bond villain? I'm going to tell you all my evil plans, so you can escape and foil me before the final reel? No, darlin', I don't think so. So, yeah, I'm working this all by myself. I found out about Galleon and Zhelov and Peacemeal and the nighttime transfer via boat in international waters all by myself. I'm a genius, honey, remember?"

From the way she suddenly paled and stared at him with a single eye, she hadn't been aware he knew that much. It was also clear he had convinced her he was working for another group, as she would never believe he could find out so much on his own. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel, making her knuckles turn white, and finally she said, "The feds wouldn't do this. You can't be working for them."

He said nothing, and showed no reaction, just kept staring ahead and glancing into the rearview to check for pursuers. That made her even more nervous. "NSA?" She wondered.

"Told you honey, Homey don't play that." They weren't pursuing. Either they were afraid he'd hurt Ginger before they could hurt him (and thereby spark the wrath of Gabriel), or there was a tracker in the truck -GPS - that would allow them to intercept them at any time. He was betting on the latter; that's why Ginger didn't seem terribly concerned either.

"What's in Abandon?"

He gave her a small, humorless smile. "A gas station minimart, a trailer park, a bar, and a smoke shop, I think. Not exactly party central."

"So why are we going there?"

"I never said we were. I said we were going in that direction."

He smiled at the sour look that earned him. "So where the fuck are we going?"

"I'll let you know when we get there."

He wondered if she'd ever realize her hate just amused him.

The sky was a remarkably pale blue, so washed out by the sun that it was virtually colorless, and even the road looked bleached out, black macadam turning ash grey, as crumbly as stale bread at the edges where it met the ocher ground.

They were in the middle of nowhere, driving for the end of nowhere, surrounded on both sides by endless expanses of sand, broken only by creosote, tumbleweeds and cactus, heat adapted wildflowers adding tiny spots of color to the otherwise sunbleached landscape.

They drove for miles without speaking, the only sound the thrum of the tires on the blacktop and the hum of the air conditioner, and finally he saw, ahead on the far right, a jagged ridge of rock cliffs like the spinal column of some fearsome dinosaur, once red but washed out by the sun to an anemic salmon hue. "We're goin' off road," he told her, gesturing to a run down path just to the left of a large boulder.

"Why?"

Waving the gun was his only reply. She frowned, but did as she was told.

The shocks on the SUV were excellent; he barely felt the difference from transferring from the road to the sand, and he pointed her in the right direction, towards the rocks. He directed her around the nearest ridge, and there, parked in the shadow of the rock, was a pale blue Taurus.

As she stopped the truck, she gazed at the car with shock, and said, "This was planned, wasn't it?"

"Of course. Do you think this was slapdash?"

She looked at him with a newfound respect; apparently she didn't think he really was working with others until now. "Where's the bomb?"

"Does it matter?" He leaned over and plucked the keys out of the ignition, putting them in the pocket of his jeans before getting out of the truck. Since she no longer could start the SUV, and there was nowhere to go, she got out
and followed him as he walked to the Taurus. He already had the key for it in his opposite pocket.

"What do you mean does it matter?" She repeated. "You stole it. Don't you care?"

He turned to her, and gave her a big, phony smile. " No, I don't care, Skipper. Haven't you figured it out yet?"

Her expression seemed to fall, then resolve itself into something stony and grim, something that aged her incredibly. "It was never about the bomb," she said in a small, quiet voice.

He nodded. "It was never about the bomb."

He walked up to the passenger side of the Taurus, but she lagged behind, honestly stunned. "Who are you working for? NSA? Mossad? FSB? Some kind of splinter group?"

"Already told ya, sweetie, we ain't discussing me." He didn't even know what FSB was, but he wasn't about to ask. He tossed her the key."Get in."

"Why do I have to drive?" She asked petulantly, placing her hands on her hips in a universal gesture of defiance.

"Up front or in the trunk," he replied. And he meant it too.

She must have understood that, because, in spite of the constant death stare, she did as she was told.

In spite of being parked in the shade, the car was as hot as the inside of a broiler, and as soon as she started it Stan turned on the air conditioner. It would take a minute or two to start putting out cool air, but some was better than none.

It started fine, but why not - it had only been sitting idle a single night.

Ginger got the car started easily, but as soon as they got back on the road, he told her, "No honey, turn it around."

"What?"

"Back the way we came, towards the trailer."

She was going to fight him on this. He could see it in the set of her jaw, the suspicious narrowing of her eyes. "Why?"

"Didn't Gabriel give you that whole misdirection lecture?" He waved the gun at her until she did a wide u - turn and headed back. "Besides, you want the bomb, right?"

That made her look at him sharply. "You didn't have it, Stanley. We searched that trash heap you called a home."

"Not there, no. But I know where it is. Isn't that all you care about?"

For a moment she just stared at him, hands firmly on the wheel but eyes off the road, although it didn't matter since they were the only car to be seen. Finally she looked back out at the road with an impatient sigh. "Okay, so you did this to get to Gabriel. Don't you get it, Stan? You've been used again, duped. They get the bomb, and you get stuck with Gabriel, who's going to kill you. You have no idea how pissed off you've made him."

"Oh, I think the hit squad was a clue, Skipper. But you're thinking that old Gabe is actually going to win this time."

"You can't. I don't care who you're teamed with."

"Oh yes I can. Don't you watch movies, Gilligan? The bad guy only seems to win for a while, but then the good guy rallies in the third act and saves the day."

"Real life is not a movie."

"Tell me about it. In real life, the bad guys often win. But since I'm one of them now, I feel I'm on equal footing, don't you?"

The look she gave him was sarcastic, verging on derisive. "Stealing one lousy weapon prototype doesn't make you a bad guy, Stanley. It just makes you ..."

She seemed reluctant to finish her thought, but he knew, with startling clarity, exactly what she had intended to say.

"Stupid?"

She nodded, with the slightest of scoffs. "Yes, exactly."

For some reason that made him laugh, a sort of humorless cackle that made Ginger avoid his eyes. She thought he was unstable, nuts? Good. Great.

Maybe he was. He didn't know anymore, and right now he didn't care.

They drove in silence, past the pillar of black smoke that marked the remains of the trailer and the Mustang, and the other SUV - and all the pantsless men - were gone. He wasn't surprised, nor was he shocked that they didn't immediately come after Ginger. They probably had a nice chat with Gabriel, who told them to wait and see where the GPS signal sent them. Of course it would send them into Death Valley after an abandon truck, but who would appreciate that slight of hand more than Gabriel?

After he directed her to the road that would take them to the freeway, he asked, "Where is Gabriel now, Ginger?"

She tensed, so much that she put a little extra pressure on the gas pedal. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because I want to say hello. I saw this great Tarantino film on video the other week, and I'd love to discuss it with him. Where is he, Ging?"

She stared straight at the road, never looking at him. "You'll tell your friends. You'll kill him."

Not a question. "Oh, come on now. Are you telling me you'd give your life for his?"

She swallowed hard. When it came down to it, he knew her answer would be no. Gabriel wouldn't even think twice before shoving her into the line of fire - psychopaths had no loyalty. "You're going to try and kill us both, Stan. Cut the shit."

He loved the way she threw in 'try'. "No, Skipper, I'm not. I will if I have to, but my ultimate goal is far worse than that."

Now she glanced at him, but only briefly. She stared straight ahead as she considered what he could mean. "You're gonna turn us over to your group, aren't you?"

It was so much fun to make her squirm, keep her guessing. It was her turn to deal with this shit, and she was liking it even less than he had. But then again, he wasn't the sociopathic control freak with the mass murdering boyfriend. "People didn't only die at your hands, they suffered. Now it's payback. Karma's a bitch, ain't it?"

"It won't work, Stanley." Ah, using his name again. Wasn't that in some sort of handbook on what to do in dealing with a criminal? Actually, he had no idea, but it sounded like some sort of psychological personalization ploy. He bet she knew all the ploys. "It can't. He knows people - "

"He has more enemies than friends," he interrupted, knowing that for a fact. "If word gets out he's been caught, there'll be a bidding war for him."

Ginger fell silent. How did you respond to the truth? She was obviously trying to think of some way around this. There was no denying she was reasonably bright, but to team up with a psycho she must have been, overall, pretty damn dumb.

Before she could say anything, he dropped his bombshell. "You don't have to suffer his fate."

Bam. The quiet shock on her face was evident, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. It was obviously a very tempting offer. Who wanted to die, or worse yet, suffer at the hands of terrorists or foreign governments with a grudge? After a long moment, she said, "I know you're not going to let me go." A statement, not a question.

"No, I'm not," he admitted. "But you can ultimately choose your own fate. Tell me where he is, and I'll hand you over to the feds: if you turn States, they'll probably go really easy on you. You don't have to worry about Gabe havin' you killed, as he will be very, very dead - or at least wishing he was - at that point."

"And this is a good option?" She asked incredulously.

"The other one is I turn you over to the Mossad, and let them get the information out of you."

"The Mossad?" She was so shocked she almost swerved into a BMW in the oncoming lane. "Holy shit, you're working for them?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes, as if disappointed that he let the cat out of the bag. "They got me shortly after I supposedly killed Gabe. They knew one of theirs was not behind this, and they thought I had worked with Gabe - or whatever the hell his name really is - and they wanted to know where he was. They weren't pleasant about it. Eventually they grew convinced I got sucked into this, and then asked me if I might ever be interested in participating in a 'sting' to get even with him. I said no ... at first."

"And then Holly died," Ginger said quietly, finishing the story herself.

He nodded. "Let me tell you, Ging - they have a real hard on for you and your boyfriend. All I have to do is give my handler the code word, and an army of commandos will be crawling up your ass in two minutes flat."

The Mossad were not an enemy you wanted to have. The Israeli Secret Police may have belonged to an allied government, but it was well known they generally played by their own rules, and Washington pretended not to notice. They were ruthless, efficient, and had perfected the art of torture, having practiced it on Palestinians ( and sometimes their own people ) for years. They could kill you from a distance with a car bomb or a rigged cell phone; they could kill you quietly with poison; they could make a show of it and send dozens of body armored, automatic weapon wielding commandos crashing straight into your living room. It all depended on circumstances, and who was leading the charge. Ultimately, the Mossad could be the worst hands for Gabriel to fall into, because he had killed and framed one of their agents - a rogue one, but still theirs - and they could make him instantly disappear off the face of the earth, thrown into a pit that would make the 'Black Hole of Calcutta' look like a trip to the day spa.
And he was gambling that Ginger knew that as much as Gabriel did.

"So why haven't you?" She asked, with some reluctance. Maybe she was afraid of giving him ideas.

"Because as much as I hate you - and believe me, dollface, I do - I know I no longer matter to them. You were right: they did use me. I was better than all their computer geeks, and they knew it. They wanted me on board so I could get Peacemeal for them as much as bring in Gabriel. And when I give the word, I'll get no joy out of this - they'll spirit Gabriel away, and I will never get to see him suffer like he deserves. At most, all I'll get is a slap on the back and a suitcase full of blood money. It's not enough."

"You can't get Gabriel on your own."

"I know, but maybe I can try. And look at it this way: your boyfriend has a better chance to survive if I go in alone. If I instantly hand him over to the Mossad, he doesn't have a chance in hell." He paused before adding the kicker: "And neither do you."

He just let that sink in for a moment, then asked, "So where is he, Skipper?"

She thought about it, and then said, "There's a third option."

"Yes. I kill you."

"No. We go to the airport. I buy a ticket on the next plane out - I don't care where to - and before I board the plane I'll tell you where he is. Then I'm the hell out of there, and so are you, and we're all happy."

"You can call him from the plane."

She made a noise of angry frustration. "Fine, I'll catch a charter. They generally don't have phones."

"Do you have a private charter on standby at LAX? Is that why you want to go?"

She made the noise again. "No! Look, you want Gabriel? Fine, okay, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison. If anyone can understand that, Stan, it's you."

He pretended to consider that, glancing out at the cars passing by them. He saw one woman who was either talking to herself or singing along with the radio, a man drinking coffee at the wheel of his SUV, another man who looked to be shouting into his cell phone and also looking for something on the passenger seat as he tried to drive. All these people probably led normal lives, that never had anything to do with terrorists or bank robberies or weapon prototypes that could knock a modern city back into the Stone Age. Most of these people probably hadn't ever seen a dead body, nonetheless the murdered bodies of people they knew, or seen someone blown up right in front of them. He envied them their blissful ignorance.

"Take the next exit," he said, feeling weary, his head starting to ache again.

"What?"

"You heard me. Do it."

"What about - "

"I'm thinking," he snapped, kneeing open the glove compartment. Inside there was a travel pack of Kleenex near the 'emergency road kit' and he ripped open the pack and held a wad of tissues against the back of his head, where he had been previously pistol whipped. He had some glass cuts that were starting to hurt too, but nothing like his head. He pulled the wad of tissue away to see how bad it was.

It was bloody, but not sodden, so he had to assume that was a good sign. No brain bits, or fragments of skin or scalp either.

"You think your head hurts," Ginger grumbled. "You got any aspirin or something?"

"I pulled the punch on you. Your goon didn't with me." He gave her a sidelong glance. She did have a dark spot on her forehead, which was probably a bruise from his mild hit with the gun butt, but her thug had full out walloped him. He was lucky he didn't lose consciousness, and would be lucky if he didn't have a concussion.

He had planned for the possibility that he might be injured seriously enough that he couldn't quite keep going. He had with him, hidden in a pocket in his boxer shorts ( it was made for a condom, but hey, he wasn't planning on getting laid today ), some pure grade speed, a type he had done once or twice in college to successfully pull all nighters. It kept him up, it kept his brain sharp, and there was no pesky drug high to interfere with his concentration. It was just a pure adrenaline bullet train ride ... for about ten hours, and then the crash was spectacular, which is why he had only done it twice, when he knew slamming caffeine and sugar wouldn't be enough. No matter the injury, it would keep him almost oblivious to pain, and firing on all cylinders. It also might trigger a heart attack, and severe bleeding due to its anti - coagulant effects, but those were risks he was willing to take.

"Here's the deal," he said, pressing the tissues back against the wound. Pressure hurt, but not in a way he couldn't handle. "There's a safe house a few miles from here, and I use that term loosely, because it's really just the frame of a house - nothing else there, no telephone, no electricity, and no one around. I take you there and drop you off, and you tell me where Gabriel is. I leave you there, and you do whatever the hell you want. You lie to me, you get to a phone and warn Gabriel, my Mossad friends will hunt you down within three days."

"How is that better than dropping me off at the airport?"

"Because it will take you at least an hour to walk out to civilization, especially on those heels. Things should be well under way by then."

She thought about it. "How will you explain that to your Mossad buddies?"

"I killed you and took care of the body myself. As long as you're contained somehow, they won't care."

"I still don't see why the airport -"

"You're tryin' my patience, sweetheart. Truth is, I may not need you - they may have found him already. And prison wouldn't be that bad for a tough chick like you, would it? There's no fear of anal rape at least, unless Large Marge manages to smuggle a long handled wooden spoon out of the kitchen ..."

"That's really classy, Stanley."

"Take a right here," he instructed, as the freeway exit gave way to a grid of small town streets. It wasn't even a decent town, just sort of a speed bump, a way station on the route to more important locations. "I know I was an idiot when you and Gabe found me, but I'm not completely naive. I did time in Leavenworth; I can lecture you on the base ugliness of some elements of humanity."

"So that's why you're contracting for the Mossad now?"

"No. I did that so I could nail you two. I wouldn't remind me if I were you."

They were silent for the next few miles, as run down stores and tumble down houses gave way to miles of barren scrub and rolling yellow hills that might as well have been part of Death Valley, or even some part of a lunar landscape. After three more miles, she asked, "You weren't kidding about it being outside civilization, were you?"
"Nope."

Eventually the road smoothed out, a recently paved stretch leading to what looked like a small cluster of pressed wood A- frames, the skeletal braces of pre - fab suburban homes yet to be. "What is this place?" Ginger asked.

"It was supposed to be a brand new housing project that would 'reclaim' the desert as well as servicing the 'white flight' from the surrounding towns. But there were problems securing water rights from the biggest utility in the area, and then one of the business partners in this venture accused the other of embezzling funds, and the whole thing exploded into a huge mess all over the front pages of the financial report. The partners are now suing the snot out of each other, the stockholders are suing them, and this place has been in litigation hell for over a year. No one comes here, and most likely they'll just tear down what's here and sell the land to recoup their losses."

"So we can add trespassing to our list of offenses," Ginger said wryly, as she drove up the road that would have been  the main route through Buena Sierra Estates. To prove how doomed the project was, the road ended abruptly a quarter mile ahead, exposing nothing but more hard packed sand.

"Second house on the end," he said, pointing to the right.

She brought the car to a stop in the middle of the truncated road, parallel to the A frame. Well, there was no traffic to worry about. Stan used the gun to motion she should get out, and with a scowl, she did. He grabbed the key from her before getting out himself.

"Great place to dump a body," she said, shading her eyes as she glanced around.

"Yep, sure is," he agreed. He crossed his arms over his chest, still keeping a tight grip of the gun, and said, "Location, Ginger."

"What's my guarantee that you won't shoot me afterwards?"

"What's my guarantee that you won't lie and buy some time to save your ass and that of your boyfriend? It looks like our mistrust is gonna have to meet in the middle, or one of us is gonna end up dead, if not both of us."

She stood in a defiant posture once more, arms crossed and shoulders thrown back, acting as if she was trying to stare him into submission. He simply leaned back against the car and returned her look, unfazed and uncaring.
After a moment, she huffed a sigh through her nose, and said, "There's a private dock near Santa Monica. He's staying there, on the boat."

"What's the name of the boat?"

She hesitated, as if not willing to say, or trying to make up something good. "Freedom."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, of course. I should have guessed that, shouldn't I?"

She shrugged one shoulder, feigning a disinterested look. "You tell me, Stan. Can I go now?"

"Not yet. I want to see if it's on the suspect list."

Now she looked genuinely concerned. "Huh?"

"Into the house. You'll see."

She wasn't about to move, but gun gesturing got her going.

He hated calling it a house when it was just the outer walls of one: there was no door, no windows, no upper story, and no roof. It was a shell of a house that would never be completed.

Inside it smelled faintly of sawdust and plastic, and the sand was so hard packed it seemed like a floor ( the truth was the floor was never put in ). Debris was piled in two corners of the pseudo home, tangles of wires and cables too heavy for anyone to steal, rolls of insulation no one would bother to steal, and assorted broken wooden panel and aluminum tubing.

Ginger paused in the middle of the floor, a ray of sun catching her like a spotlight, and gestured around like a frustrated game show host. "There's nothing here."

"Yes there is. It's hidden." He walked over to the corner where the wires were tangled up with rolls of insulation, and said, "Move and I shoot you in the leg."

"Where do I have to go?" She replied peevishly. But she stood there, arms folded over her chest,and watched as he kicked some of the debris aside.

Under it all, hidden by deliberate scuffs and dirt, was a large, flat metal case, chained down to the frame of the house. Stan peeled the plastic cover off the small digital lock pad and entered the numeral code that released the internal locks with a clank. Ginger shifted position, but carefully, only leaning forward to see what he had.

Inside the case was a matching Ashton Digital Passport laptop ( matching in every way, including software ), a cell phone, and a silver metal suitcase with its own locking mechanism. As he put the laptop and cell phone aside, he hefted the metal suitcase out, and she gaped at it, wide eyed and gobsmacked.

"Is that Peacemeal?" She gasped, almost walking towards it, but thinking better of it.

"Yep. I haven't delivered the goods yet. As I said, once they get this, they don't need me anymore."

She stared at him like he was a complete loon. "You can't be thinking of fucking around with the Mossad."

He nonchalantly shrugged a single shoulder. "My world, my rules."

The look on her face seemed to suggest she thought he wasn't a loon more than a complete raving psychopath, but then her expression began to inexorably shift. Wide eyes narrowed in suspicious, but her mouth remained open in shock, and she finally came to the conclusion he wanted her to. "You aren't working with anyone, are you Stan? You did plan this all by yourself."

"Who? Me? Oh, come on Skipper - you know I ain't smart enough." But he grinned fiercely at her, enjoying the shock and disbelief sinking in, all of it visible on her face.

Now she was convinced he needed Thorazine. "Stan, listen to me. That's a very dangerous weapon, and Gabriel is more dangerous than you realize. He - "

He stalked right up to her, and he enjoyed the fear that made her take a step back. "Guess what, honey? I'm more dangerous than you realize."

He punched her right across the jaw, hand wrapped around the butt of his gun for just that much more added force on the hit. Like he expected, she went down like a bag of hammers, a cloud of sand kicking up on her impact with the ground. As soon as he was sure she was unconscious, he went to the opposite corner and dug out the roll of duct tape.

Duct tape was a much better binder than rope, if used correctly. It stuck to every goddamn thing and just didn't want to let go - that's why it was so valuable in home repairs.

He taped her wrists together first, behind her back, and then taped her ankles together. After that was done he bent her legs back, and then used duct tape to bind her ankles and wrists together - hogtied. That was an almost impossible position to get out, especially when tape was involved. He made sure her head was turned to the side since she was down on her belly - he didn't want her to suffocate - and then threw what was left of the roll of the tape back into the debris pile. It had done what it was supposed to do.

And now it was time to get down to some real work.

The Ashton Digital Passport was the same, right down to the daemon running in the background. As soon as he input the code to disable it, he called up the files he needed, attached the filter to the cell phone, and started punching up the first number.

There were 'independent' Mossad operatives functioning in the U.S., after Palestinian terrorists and their financial backers, wanted back in Israel. They were generally kidnapped and snuggled out of the country, although the Mossad always denied this; they also denied any assassinations.

Officially, the U.S. Government knew nothing of them, and did not sanction their actions. Unofficially, there was a small cadre of officers working with them on terrorist investigations. If you knew the right pages to hack, you could find encrypted data all about it in N.S.A. files. And if you could decrypt the data, you could get a lot of things - such as phone numbers, operation code words, locations.

After three rings, the phone on the other end was picked up. "Hello?" A faintly accented male voice replied, almost covering the tiny click of a recording device.

Stan activated the voice filter, so his voice would be mechanically distorted. Perfectly audible, but so fucked up they'd never even be able to discern if the caller was a man or a woman, even if they put it through other computer filters. The equipment was out there, if you had the money to pay for it. Stan did. "Tzedaka," he said, his voice mechanically deepened.  It was a Yiddish word that meant, basically, righteousness, and was the code name for an operation in place.

The man must have switched to a more secure line, because there was another click, and then he said, "Mr. White is not here." According to the file Stan had displayed on his laptop right now, that was the appropriate code phrase. Now he had one more to say. He thought all that shit in spy movies was made up, but apparently they did occasionally speak in code. "Take a message for Mr. Black."

Another click. "Who is this about?"

"Serpent." It was their code name for the man who called himself Gabriel Shear, but wasn't. It was an appropriate name. "He's in country, at a private dock in Santa Monica, on a personal yacht - " Stan was guessing there. " - named Freedom. He will be leaving soon - time is of the essence. Also, we have an agent in play: six foot three, two hundred pounds, blond, wearing a black leather jacket with yellow accents - he'll be a civilian in a sea of suits. We'd appreciate if he is not collateral damage. Confirm."

"Confirmed."