Hauke got off the phone with Camilla without telling her that he was less than fifty miles away, enduring a sandstorm from the safety of a mobile command tent a few miles outside Varus, one of the largest cities in Serinasca. He leaned back in his chair, turning from the communications set-up and picking up the folder full of situation briefings.
He had known about the Efferis's new financial status long before she called. He also knew that Conlan was making a trip to somewhere in Diminea, the purpose of which was still vague but growing clearer.
"Matt," he mumbled, wiping his brow and flipping to one of the last pages in the book - a memo he had written a couple of months back, noting his suspicions that the manhunt through Braslia, Pretia, and two other countries had been targeting one of the agency's former would-be assets. Since then, he had deduced that (if it was her) she had evaded capture and made it to either Costa Rhial or Costa Nocehina. And now, presumably with a portion of his windfall in tow, Conlan was sailing straight over to that very region.
"What is it about her that keeps everyone from thinking straight?"
This was just about the worst time possible to leave the fortress. Everyone from reporters to event promoters to salespeople were going to be descending in search of endorsements and quotes and lord knows what else. Short of a lock down, nothing would stop the bombardment. But for Mattica, well, she more or less generated a hurricane by force of thought.
A wayward gust of wind slammed the north side of the tent, blowing the door in and permitting a spiral of sand to plaster the center conference table. Before he could refasten the tent flaps (whoever had left last had done it wrong) every loose paper in the room had been displaced.
This was not the kind of nonsense he had flown down here for. Where was the rest of the team? Didn't they have contingencies for storms? At this point they were going to be caught off-guard . . .
Under the tent, the sand rippled.
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