CHAPTER SIX
8:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Skies Above the Atlantic Ocean
“Rock and roll,” Mark Swann said.
“Hip-hop, son,” Ed Newsam said. “Hip-hop.”
He held his big hand out across the narrow aisle of the small jet plane and Swann gave him a smooth, slow tap. Then Swann turned his own hand over and Ed appeared to place a few coins in Swann’s palm. They had just acted out the whole “gimme five, keep the change” brother man hand jive.
Since the last mission, Newsam and Swann had become unlikely friends.
Luke watched them. Ed lounged in his seat, steely-eyed, huge, neatly dressed in khaki cargo pants and a form-fitting SRT T-shirt. Ed’s job was weapons and tactics. Both his hair and his beard were close-cropped and the edges perfectly even. He looked exactly like what he was—no
