“You don’t strike me as a smoker. No nicotine stains under your fingers or on your teeth. No twitchy reach for a pack,” Mr. Smith detailed, reminding Jose that every damn move he made was analyzed.
“I’ve broken the habit for the most part. I hold out for one a month, reserve it for a stressful time.” He pulled out a lighter but… held back. “Having Stella captured by separatists hell-bent on torturing her qualifies as stressful.”
Smith pulled out his lighter again but didn’t light up the cigar. He just flicked the flame on and off, on and off. “I quit a year ago.”
Jose watched the dude, not quite able to get a read off him. He didn’t hold a cigar right so why did he have one? The question would have to wait because top priority now was keeping the head spook here from walking around the hangar while Stella snooped around.
“I imagine you’ve got big fat files on me and my team since we’ve stepped in to help on security.”
“Just call me Big Brother,” Smith said, but he wasn’t laughing.
“Well, since we’re playing on the same team here, I’m happy to help out with the profiles, if you need anything.”
“Oh really,” Smith said, eyeing him as if he already knew this was all a game.
Who the hell cared as long as it kept him outside, away from Stella? Jose shifted through for some benign stuff to share, things that were likely already in their files anyhow, like their call signs.
“You can tell a lot about each guy on the team from his call sign—nickname. Wade Rocha’s is ‘Brick,’ which means rock, like rock, rock head. He’s one hardheaded, driven dude. Then there’s Marcus ‘Data’ Dupre because, well, he’s just like Stella with the analytical brain. We call Gavin Novak ‘Bubbles’ because of the irony. We had a team leader named ‘Walker,’ but he’s moved up the chain. Captain Dominic Jablonski’s our new one. Jury’s still out on him.”
The first sign of interest showed in Smith’s eyes. “You don’t trust him?”
Unease made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. That mission at NASA with a corrupt general was a fluke, damn it. It had to be. He wouldn’t be able to do this job if he always had to question if his teammates had his back.
He stared up at the sky, jets roaring past in a three-ship formation, striping contrails through the sky. He weighed his words before continuing. “I trust Jablonski in the big scheme of things as far as loyalty to his country and holding his own on the job. He hasn’t been around long enough for us to get a sense of his leadership.”
“What’s his call sign?”
“Saint.” An odd one they still hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he was willing to ponder on it if that gave Stella more time to nose around about translations on the cloth. “There are several rumors about how he got his call sign. His first name is Dominic, so Saint Nic, like Santa. Others say it’s because he’s holier than thou.”
“Not popular with the team.”
“I didn’t say that exactly.” But he’d been thinking it. “He’s just—how can I put this?—a really good guy.”
“What about the kid, Fang?”
Jose smiled at the tradition. “The acronym says it all.”
Fuck, Another New Guy. A new guy needed to be watched until he proved himself—or didn’t.
“There has to be more on Sergeant Zane Thomas.”
“He’s been around awhile.” Too long as the newest team member, actually. “It’s past time for a new Fang, but government cutbacks and crap… We’re making do.”
“Stretched thin. I feel you there, brother.”
And what the hell? He’d come out here to divert Smith so he didn’t walk in on Stella. The last thing he’d expected was a warm and fuzzy bonding moment. “Never thought I’d be on the side of a spook.”
“We’re all on the same side,” Smith said with such a somber air the fella could have been a hundred and ten rather than…
How old? Smith had that ageless look most CIA dudes wore like a suit of armor. Best guess? He must be in his forties. Did he have a family back home? Kids? Or was he married to the job?
“With all due respect to your secret agent awesomeness, since when did you stop marking your territory?”
“Everybody needs a smoke break once in a while.”
“Fair enough.” Jose tucked away his unused cigar. “What’s in your file about me?”
“You’re a recovering alcoholic.”