“Need some help?” a voice called out.
Both the Reds turned, spotting an elderly man with saggy jowls who was walking a similarly saggy basset hound.
“Got a package for Zig?” the man added with a bit too much pep for this early in the morning. “I don’t mind grabbing it for him if you want.”
Seabass looked down, nearly forgetting he was holding the FedEx box.
“It’s signature only,” Reagan announced from the car.
“Idontmind,” the man said as if it were one word. “We sign for each other all the time.”
“His signature,” Reagan clarified, shooting Mr. Jowls an icy stare that stopped him in his tracks. “Must be something expensive,” she added, trying to sound friendly, but not really.
On Zig’s front lawn, the saggy dog was sniffing around.
“We’ll make a note for the next driver,” Reagan added. “You happen to know when he’ll be back?”
“You actually just missed him.” The man gave a tug to his basset hound, to keep away from some fresh dog crap on the lawn. “He was so excited to get out this morning—to see his old friends at Dover.”
Reagan and Seabass exchanged a glance. Dover Air Force Base. They’d been there before. It wasn’t far.
Storming down the porch steps, Seabass headed to the car.
For a few seconds, Mr. Jowls stood there, staring, as if he was noticing for the first time that Seabass didn’t have a uniform, or that he and Reagan were in a regular car rather than a FedEx truck. The man’s mouth shifted slightly, like he was about to ask them their names, or what company they worked for. He even reached for his phone, his fingertips on the edge of his pants pocket, like he was about to snap a photo—but then, relying on centuries of evolution, self-preservation, and other primordial instincts he couldn’t quite verbalize, his hand stayed where it was and he wisely stayed silent, narrowly avoiding a regrettable turn of events.
The old man was still standing there as the Reds sped up the block.
36
It’d been two years since Zig had been here.
At first glance, it looked the same—same long road, same brown-and-white welcome sign, same single-file line of cars, all waiting to get in. At the very front were the same armed guards in the same triangular-roofed building that looked like a tollbooth. Zig wasn’t surprised. The military didn’t like change, which was what he was counting on.
“To the left!” called one of the guards out in the street, directing traffic.
Zig took a breath and tugged his steering wheel to the left, following the line of cars around the one new addition—half a dozen concrete barriers that made the traffic zigzag from lane to lane, apparently to make sure no one could get to full speed and ram the front gate. Or at the very least to give the guards a better look at who was coming.
“Keep moving! Next!” the guard announced, waving the line forward.
In front of Zig was a Ford pickup, an extra-wide F-450, that blocked his view. It also kept him from being seen, which, really, was far more valuable.
“Next!” the guard called again.
Zig took a glance in his rearview. Still no one behind him. Then he pumped the gas, getting a better look at the guard up ahead, who was carrying an MP5 assault weapon.
At most stateside military bases, the guards carried M9s. Handguns. If they’ve got MP5s, they’re on alert, or expecting a VIP . . . or keeping an eye out for someone. Zig again glanced at the rearview.
“To the left!” the guard called again as Zig pulled past him, telling himself not to be so paranoid. Especially here.
In front of him, the pickup pulled into the tollbooth. A minute went by, then another. Usually, it was quick. Zig craned his neck, but the truck in front of him was too big.