Day 162: 10 Jan 2011
The Air Force dropped me off at Pope Air Force base in North Carolina yesterday and set me up with a ride. A nice young Airman named Briggs was assigned to drive me to New Orleans. The kid was all of about 12, but he was pleasant enough. We rode in one of the military's bone-stock unmarked Dodge Chargers, making pleasant small talk on the 15-hour drive to Louisiana.
That is, until my phone rang. I checked the caller ID -- it said "Unknown," but I answered it anyway.
"Hello?"
"Cassie. Eric Drake. Remember me?"
"Sure. What's up, Eric?"
"I'm back in Vegas. Business is getting underway again here. There's talk. The Russians are saying they've seen your guy Jared around."
"How solid is your intel?"
Shit. Hanging out with Black too much. I'm starting to sound like one of these Special Operations guys.
"Pretty solid. Russians are piss-scared. West Coast guys, too."
I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Briggs.
"How fast can you get us to Las Vegas?"
"I'll make a call," Briggs told me.
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