Chip was gone for forty-five minutes, and during that time Ben sat by the window looking down at the parking lot. Brighton Beach was a Russian village, and it was possible that the remaining crew at the house where Cassy had been kept would have eyes on them.
He had just finished disassembling the Beretta to check if the pistol’s works had picked up any lint, and reloading it with the spare magazine, when Chip showed up with a big bag from McDonald’s.
“Did you pick up a tail?” Ben asked.
“There’s not a lot of traffic at this time of the morning, and I went around the block a couple of times before I came in and didn’t see anything.”
Cassy was still working on the laptop, her fingers racing over the keyboard.
“Do you want to take a break and have something to eat?” Ben asked her.
She waved him off.
“You need something.”
“Benjamin,” Cassy said sharply.
Ben and Chip exchanged a glance, then sat down at the small table by the window and had their burgers, fries, and coffee.
Ben looked at his watch. It was 3:45 already, a little less than six hours before the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. They were running out of time, especially if they ran into interference at BP.
“Do you want me to call Huggard now, give him the heads-up?” Chip asked.
“Not until we need him,” Ben said, when Cassy looked up.
“Done,” she said, powering the computer down and closing it. “Let’s get this to BP.”