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that he’s your bitch.”
I’m just about to point out that she fits that description too, when Ryan gives me the high sign. He’s ready to get down to business.
As I shoo the kids into the great room, Trevor gives me a wave before Mary slams the door behind her. Normally I’d be angry about this, but I couldn’t help but notice the tears in her eyes.
I’ve got to nip Trevor’s puppy love in the b and fast.
Ryan never cracks jokes. His emotions run the gamut from solemn to serious, with varying shades of sobering stoicism in-between.
In time, we who know him best have tuned into his microcosmic emotional nuances. When he’s angry, a shadow darkens his pupils. Sarcasm elevates his right brow, ever so slightly. For him, fear is an emotion best served with a cold sweat.
When he unconsciously pats the back of his neck with this what is left of his pizza-soaked napkin, I realize the merry is about to go out of our Christmas.
“From the moment that sadistic bastard Muammar Qaddafi was caught squealing like a piggy in a sewer pipe, we knew this day would come,” Ryan starts. “It’s no secret that he stockpiled twenty thousand surface-to-air missiles—mostly Russian SA-24s, and some SA-7s.”
Both of these weapons are highly accurate MANPADS. That is, man-portable air-defense systems, which are easily fired from shoulder launchers.
“I was under the impression that the location of many of these arms caches had been previously identified by satellite surveillance and secured when Tripoli fell,” Jack says.
Ryan nods. “Unfortunately, our assets in the Middle East are still scrambling to confiscate as many as they can. But a few of the hideaways had already been ‘liberated’ by rebel forces. The ransom for these arms is high. It may cost the US up to forty million to get our hands on them. You know the game. The toys go to the bidder with the deepest pockets.”
Jack frowns. “I guess we all know who that is. The Quorum.”
Ryan nods. “I’m afraid so.”
Not good. The Quorum is made up of rogue operatives who have defected from a myriad of covert agencies. They are well-funded by corporations who view weapons of mass destruction as a profit center on their balance sheet. Acme knows this well, since one of its assassins defected to the Quorum: my soon-to-be ex-husband, Carl.
So far, it’s been one messy divorce. But anyone who doesn’t kill you (in my case, Carl, who’s shot me, and tossed me over a railing into the ocean) makes you stronger, right?
Jack doesn’t like the news any more than I do. “Let me guess. The Quorum has sold off portions of it to the AQIM—the Al Qaeda cells in the Islamic Maghreb—and Somalia’s Al Shabaab.”
“Yep, sales to both organizations have been confirmed,” Arnie chimes in. “And a ship carrying several cargo containers of MANPADs also ended up in Boko Haram, in Nigeria.”
“Right now, we’re sweating the whereabouts of another stash,” Ryan continues. “Qaddafi tolerated his country’s Christians, but just barely. One anti-Qaddafi militia was made up of Libyan Catholics, many of Italian descent. This particular rebel group secured one of the larger munitions depots. But now that the euphoria of the Arab Spring is over with, secular tolerance is being tamped down by radical Muslim factions. The Christian minorities are worried that things may be just as bad, if not worse, than what they endured under Qaddafi. Many Christians have already emigrated out of the country.”
His eyes seek out Emma. “Fortunately, Acme—well, specifically, Emma—picked up chatter on the whereabouts of one particular shipment from that warehouse. Apparently, the Catholic rebel leader used it to buy his family’s safe passage out of Libya. But his wife felt guilty enough to confess this to her priest, along with everything she knew about the shipment’s final destination. She left the priest with a thumb drive detailing the items in the munitions cache.