“Looks like it’s going to be smooth sailing,” said Sam.
I glanced out the side window as we passed Pink’s Hot Dogs—the awning of which was covered with moss and vines—saw startled Compies scatter like mice. “Let’s hope Roman’s mission is going as well.”
Black Mr. Fantastic—please; he’d nicknamed himself—was skeptical. “At a big base like Lewis-McChord? I doubt it. That place is one big Army surplus store now. You really think he’s going to just waltz in there and fly out with an Apache?”
“Hard to say,” I drawled. “But I do know this: If he succeeds, and if we’re successful in securing Eagleton’s bunker, nothing will be able to touch us again. That is, if it’s still, how shall I say it? Available.”
“It will be,” said Nigel. “Because nobody knows it’s there.”
“Except you,” sneered Laza
