5:40 P.M.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Dewey hit speed dial and the phone started ringing.
“Hey,” said Tacoma. A din of music was in the background. “You gotta talk loud, I’m at a bar.”
“Move someplace quieter.”
“Okay, give me a sec.”
After nearly a minute, Tacoma came back on the line.
“Yeah?” said Tacoma.
“Someone tried to take me out at that little Italian place near my house.”
“The place with the good pizza?” said Tacoma.
“Yes, Rob.”
“Seriously? Jesus. What, you try and cut in line or something?”
Dewey didn’t answer.
“It sounds like you survived though?” said Tacoma. “That’s something. Think positive!”
“Great analysis, dickhead,” said Dewey.
“Who was it?” said Tacoma, taking on a serious tone.
“Iran,” said Dewey.
“Well, you did sort of steal a nuclear bomb from them,” said Tacoma. “I mean, not trying to criticize you or anything but what do you expect? I’d be pissed off too, you selfish bastard. Oh, and you stabbed that dude Paria in the neck. That must’ve hurt.”
“Thanks, Rob,” said Dewey. “Very helpful.”
Tacoma laughed.
“Listen, the reason I’m calling is because you need to be aware of it,” said Dewey. “Head on a fucking swivel, Rob.”
“Got it. Thanks, brother.”