Derek hung up.
I sat in my
truck outside a convenience store for ten minutes.
Then I made a call.
Not to an old SEAL teammate.
Not to a lawyer.
To a woman named Rebecca Sloan, whom I had not spoken to in nearly nine years.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Cole?”
“Hi, Becca.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh, hell.”
Rebecca had served as an intelligence analyst attached to one of our overseas units before leaving government work and becoming a forensic accountant.
She was the smartest person I had ever known who carried three different
calculators.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“That phrase from you usually ends badly.”
“I think my wife and her boyfriend are planning something involving my house.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
