"Yeah. It's time for you to become a field agent; you up for that? We don't have the time for you to teach me about drugs. I use a different approach, but for this, I think your way is best."
She stared him right in his eyes. "Yes."
Styles looked right back at her and grinned. "Of that, I had no doubt. One condition: we can't have you get hurt — or worse. I'll do the heavy work, but I'm sure you'll get a little dirty. Besides, since this will be a daylight raid on their compound, two shooters are better than one. I know you can shoot."
"What about me?" questioned Christman firmly.
"J. C., you're on chopper duty. Unless you can rent one with an M60 machine gun mounted, it's gonna be hard for you to fly and shoot."
"I'll buy that, but why don't I bring a little something with me so when I'm waiting on you, I can bring something to the party if I get the invite or if I have to crash it?"
Styles thought quickly. "All right, but you don't attend unless I invite you. Understand? No buts about it. Bring one of the suppressed ARs and a suppressed pistol. However, if someone crashes your party, feel free. Just use good judgment."
"Got it, loud and clear."
"Okay, Phillips, I want you to—"
"Taken care of," she interrupted. "I've been practicing on my own. I took a clue from what you like and pretty much copied it. I had an AR built, along with a Beretta. A .40. I've put about two thousand rounds through the AR and maybe three hundred with the pistol. I'm competent."
Styles face showed surprise. "You've got them with you?"
"Of course."
J. C., exclaimed, "What the hell? Where? I didn't see them."
"J. C., a girl has to have some secrets."
"My kind of girl."
"I will not disagree," voiced Styles.
"So when do we go in?" asked Phillips.
"I'm going later tonight to plant some more cameras. We'll go in tomorrow after Ellhad leaves. Do you have access to their camera feeds in the field?"
"Styles, please."
"Sorry, I withdraw the question."
"You are forgiven."
"Thank you. I'm going to go for a run. When I get back, we'll get some dinner. That okay?"
"Fine," they said in unison.
Phillips left to go back to what originally had been J. C.'s room, wearing her hair up under a ball cap.
Christman went back to study the laptop that he'd been watching earlier for any signs of further conversation.
Styles changed clothes. Rather than his usual running attire, he changed into sweats, including a hooded top. He tied it in place and went out the door looking like a boxer in training. He stretched and then started out along the road. Twenty-five minutes later, he was within sight of the Holiday Inn. The motel was still closed to the public, although the action had died down. Styles ran through the parking area as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
"Hey, where do you think you're going?" shouted someone.
Styles turned and yelled back, "Just cutting through here like I always do!"
"Not tonight. Don't you see the crime tape? It doesn't say, 'Welcome.' Now turn around."
"What happened?"
"Read the fucking papers. Now move along."
"Sure, Officer; didn't mean any harm." Styles withdrew and headed back to the Comfort Inn.
Arriving back at the room, Christman was absent. Styles grabbed a quick shower and had just finished changing back into his familiar clothing of choice: jeans, sweatshirt, and athletic shoes. He was still sporting his three-day growth on his face — something Starr pointed out at every opportunity.
"What's up?" he greeted Christman.
"Been over with Phillips. I was wondering who the CIA was watching over at the Quality Suites since we're here, and they were at the Holiday Inn."
"Funny you should mention that, J. C. I was thinking the same thing running back here. I went by there just to check it out. Nothing new. Then I got thinking…"
"Well, Phillips says she knows why. She booked a room there under D. Phillips. Guess that got the CIA's attention. I think she was just screwing with them. I have a feeling she knew they were onto her, as far as DPO goes, anyway."
Styles lay down on the floor, hooked his feet under the bed, and started doing sit-ups. "You know, J. C., now with the president gone, we're going to have to make some hard decisions. It's not a problem for me, and I know how I can square it with my dad."
"How, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all. I'm just going to lay the cards on the table about everything. Then I'm going to tell him he has to go dark too. That way we can still have a relationship, and no one will be able to find him to use him against me."
"How would they find that out — about you, I mean?"
"Don't know that anyone would, but plan for the worst. That's what's kept me alive all these years." He paused doing his sit-ups for a moment to look at J. C. "I've been through some really deep shit, and that's how I got through it: always plan for the worst."
The practiced sequential knock sounded from the door. J. C. opened it, and Phillips came walking in with four bags. "Beef stew and biscuits from Cracker Barrel. I thought we could use a change."
"Thanks, D," said Styles.
Phillips grinned as she spread the food around the table. "Everybody has two orders; they aren't real big. Don't worry, J. C. I got extra biscuits."
"I was concerned," he joked.
While they were eating, Styles asked Phillips, "So do you think the CIA was there specifically to watch you?"
"No, two birds with one stone. They're onto Ryyaki Ali, just like I said. So is the FBI. I guess J. C. told you about the room I booked. Funny how such a simple trick can fool those agencies. It just confirmed what I strongly suspected."
"How deep are you being investigated?" asked Christman.
"Myra Banks would love to know what I had for breakfast."
Styles's phone rang, and it was Starr. "I'm back. Anybody need anything?"
"No, we're set. Grab yourself some takeout if you're hungry and get back to the Comfort Inn. You're bunking with J. C. and me in my room. Phillips is in yours.
"Gotcha," he said and hung up.
"Flyboy back okay?" Christman asked.
"Yeah, he's on his way back here." He continued, "Phillips, you've been unusually quiet. Something on your mind?"
"A lot, actually. As much as I've been searching, I haven't been able to gather much new information, at least not as quickly as I expected. This issue with Myra Banks is starting to piss me off. If Backersley spent the time working what's important rather than what feeds his damned ego, he'd get more done."
Styles got up from the table and sat down across from her. As usual, she was sitting on a sofa with three laptops open in front of her.
"Talk to me."
She sighed. "Backersley is going to be a problem. He's got Banks running every search on me possible: phone records, credit cards, bank accounts, probably the library. She's even hacked the Interstate Highway System checking for my E-ZPass cards. She's the one who got my photo at the Portland airport, possibly that hunting store, and at the car rental center. They have cameras there, and I didn't see them. I'm really pissed I didn't pick up on that. I was sloppy, and sloppy could get us all killed."
"It could have been any one of us at that counter. Don't beat yourself up over it."
"But it wasn't; it was me, and I'm supposed to think about that shit. That's my job."
"No. Your main job is gathering intel. You were picked for a reason, because the president thought you were the best person for this job. He was right. That is the only thing you need to keep in your head. Like I've said, we all have a specific job within this team, though I'll be damned if I can figure out Starr's." That brought some much-needed laughter. "We all need to keep in mind that at any time, shit happens. How all of us remain focused determines how we deal with it," Styles continued. "Look, as we go forward, all our roles will continue to expand to a degree, but we all will always have our primary responsibility. Hell, Starr just flew our plane. You'll be in the field. J. C.'s helping on the computers. I'm even cooking. Darlene, please, let it go."