Chapter Eleven
A phone rang incessantly somewhere in the distance. Gordon flailed out a hand and elicited a grunt from Ripley when his elbow found her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he grabbed the phone and grunted into it.
“Lunch, thirty minutes,” Mark spoke in pre-fire briefing tone. “Two blocks south and one west. The Top Pub.”
Gordon managed to find a clock. It was straight up noon…at least he assumed it wasn’t midnight by the sunshine still leaking around the curtain’s edges.
“You hear me?”
“No.”
“No you don’t hear me?” Mark was doing his amused-with-the-world thing that always pissed off Gordon.
“No, as in I’ve had less than three hours sleep and I need more.”
“Yes,” Mark replied, “as in you need to get up and stay up until at least eight p.m. if you’re going to make the time zone switc
