Doyle glanced at Sterling, then back to Buddy. “Because Frost doesn’t need digital, pattern, or grounds. He needs someone who can look at what’s happening around him and tell him whether it’s corridor residue or a completely new threat wearing old clothes.”
“You helped shut down that corridor. Why can't you do it?” Buddy asked.
Sterling knew the answer. So did Buddy. But it should be interesting to see how Doyle answered it.
Doyle turned his beer bottle on the table. “There were names in that corridor that never made paper,” Doyle said. “Cutouts. Brokers. Freight coordinators. Customs ghosts. Men who showed up once, used one route, and vanished. The official files have pieces, but there are things only Sterling remembers, even if he doesn't know he remembers.”
“That's a dangerous game,” Sterling said. "You're asking me to extract information the government doesn't want me to. Not unless they come knocking."
“And it sounds like you're asking for names,” Buddy said.
The texture of the mission had also changed slightly, if Sterling understood the situation correctly.
"We're asking you to run counter-intelligence and surveillance with me and another one of my team members, and assess intent and proximity of a threat. All we need are the names of people who are actually coming after our client. Ones from that corridor. That's why I suggested you to Rutgers."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sterling watched as Juniper approached with another round of beers and a basket of fries.
“You boys looked like you could use a fresh round." She set down the drinks and basket and cleared the empties.
"Thanks." Sterling smiled. "You're the best."
"And don't you forget it." She glanced at Doyle. “Tara says to remind you that the movie starts in forty-five minutes.”
Doyle laughed “You can tell her as long as these guys let me go, I'll be ready in a half hour.”
"He'll be ready," Sterling said.
"I'll let her know." Juniper squeezed Sterling's shoulder, turned on her heels, and stopped by another table.
“Back to Frost and the mission.” Sterling reached for a French fry. "Has your boss considered Shrike at all? Have you?" Sterling studied Doyle's face for a reaction and got nothing. Which wasn’t a surprise. Doyle was a master at blending and hiding. “Because I've been thinking a lot about it since you showed up."
“I suppose I don't blame you,” Doyle said. “But I've never really thought much about that organization. Or that word, really. I think it's right up there with conspiracy theories. I mean, do you really think there's some puppetmaster manipulating our missions and pocketing money in the process.”
“Stranger things have happened."
“Seriously, I just need you for this job,” Doyle said. "You're the best one for it. And you don't have to give me names, unless they’re actually coming for my client. And then it's teamwork. We take them down together. We turn them over to the authorities, together."
Somehow, Sterling didn't believe that.
"Hey. You see that." Buddy jerked his chin.
A man strolled into the bar. He was average build, medium height, and had his hands stuffed into his sweatshirt, which was odd because it was eighty out.
He also wore a dark ball cap.
The same one from the sketch.
“Is something wrong?” Doyle asked.
“I'm not sure.” Sterling narrowed his stare, taking in every detail. Blue eyes. Sandy brown hair. Freckles. There weren't any freckles in the sketch, but that didn't mean anything.
Sterling set down bottle, pulled his phone from his pocket, and texted Dawson the details.
Dawson replied immediately, stating he was four minutes away.
"Dawson's on his way," Sterling whispered.
"Okay, what's going on?" Doyle said.
