Who would have believed that the hard, unemotional agent would have such poetry?
“You okay?”
Paskia looked up, shocked that she hadn’t heard Cali come into the room, shocked that the sound of the drinks dispenser hadn’t reached her ears.
Cali sat, her mug steaming. She glanced down at the screen. “News?”
Paskia nodded.
“Good or bad?”
“Good—I think. Daventree.” She took the final sip of her drink, barely lukewarm now. “Here.”
Cali read, and Paskia watched her, waiting patiently. When she’d finished, Cali raised her eyebrows. “Sent last night, right?”
Paskia nodded.
“He talks about tomorrow—so that’s today. Midday.” She glanced at the screen. “Six hours.”
“So we set the explosives this morning, then meet him,” Paskia said. “That’s doable, isn’t it?”
“Should be.” She took anoth
