Chapter Four
As soon as Sloan entered his office, he knew by the look on Don’s face this wasn’t a social call. Last weekend when they’d bar-hopped together, his buddy had spent most of the night bitchin’ about the officious little prick they’d lined him up with, and now Sloan was able to see first-hand what he meant.
“Special Agent Nigel Dullen.” The slim dude dressed in a beautifully- designed gray suit with his creaseless navy tie shouting ‘silk’, looked like a walking advertisement forGQ 100. His groomed brown hair, blow-dried and sprayed in place, made Sloan sorry he hadn’t dealt with his own messy mop.
He reached over to take the extended hand, decided the gold watch Dullen sported must have cost him a paycheck, and then wondered how the slick, bug-eyed character whitened his teeth so they positively glowed. “Sloan Booker.” He shook hands and purposely turned his back soSlickwouldn’t see his grimace or the wink he sent his friend. “Hey, Don. What’s up?”
“Hey, Sloan. How about I let Nigel fill you in.”
Not sure if it was a good sign or not when his pal looked out the window to hide his sudden grin, Sloan felt himself tightening.Something’s going on…When two men worked together as long as he and Don had, they learned to read each other’s body language. This morning, Don’s attitude screamed,Oh man, you’re not gonna like this!
Bracing himself, Sloan went to sit in his chair behind the desk where he would feel more in charge of the situation. On the side section, his drawings for the Corvette job they’d started were laid out. Instinctively, he covered them.
Suddenly there was a tense feeling in the room that warned him the papers had been moved. Though not caring if Don had checked them out, he knew his partner would have waited to be invited or would’ve asked. Only one other person had had the chance to snoop and this knowledge made his hackles rise.
While he settled himself, Agent Dullen had also made himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair, crossing his knee over the other like most women did.
Bristling, Sloan felt the walls closing in and decided to get the party started. “So, Nigel, how about you fill me in?”
Don smothered a chuckle that almost brought a smile to Sloan’s face.
“Yes. Good. Here it is. We want you to work with the agency again for a limited time and for a special op.”
Cutting him off, Sloan stood. “Not interested.”
Shocked and too stupid to hide the fact, Dullen stuttered. “B-but you haven’t heard what this is all about.”
“So which part of the two-word sentence didn’t you understand, Nigel? Not or interested?”
Totally baffled, Nigel looked over at Don, who shook his head, lifted his hands and made a face that clearly read,I told you so.
Trying once again, Nigel used a more conciliatory tone. “Agent Booker. You must let me explain.”
“No. What I must do is kick your skinny ass out of my place and get back to work on the drawings that I see someone has tampered with.”
Now Don let out a bark of a laugh that drew a hateful glare from Dullen and a frustrated growl from Sloan. “Man, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You better believe it. I told the bosses you’d be a pig-headed idiot who’d refuse to listen to our perfectly-conceived plan. I’m so glad you didn’t disappoint me.”
Sloan narrowed his gaze. Figuring Don was playing him didn’t alter the fact that his damned curiosity had been stroked.
Sitting back down, he said. “Okay, then. You’ve got five minutes.”
“Oh, good.” Dullen’s sigh was overdone.
Sloan first pointed at Dullen. “Not you.” Then swivelled to aim his finger at Don. “Him.”
Now alert, leaning forward on the small couch he’d chosen when entering the well-lit office, Don began, “Actually, man, it’s not you we need so much as your house. It’s about the Amans, the family of five who moved into your neighborhood recently, right across the street from you.” Don pulled out his cell phone and within seconds began reading from his notes. “The father is Samir and the mother’s name is Janna. The children range from nine to three—a boy called Faisal, and two girls. The five-year-old is Dina, and the youngest girl who’s three is called Anya. She’s the only one who was born here on the island.”
“Hold it. I know their names as well as you do. They didn’t just move in, and you know it. They’ve been living here for five years. And they’re nice people. When they first came, they reached out, held a barbecue to introduce themselves and made a lot of friends in the neighborhood.”
Nigel’s snort of disgust interrupted. Sneering, he added, “Many terrorists appear to be nice people. They’re trained to be good pretenders.”