“You should,” Marcus insisted. “We used to joke I was my own action figure, and you were your own army.”
I grinned and nodded, reflecting on the witty memory.
“We need to talk,” I insisted.
“That’s the goddamned understatement of the fucking day,” he blurted. “Tell me why I shouldn’t reach across the table and strangle your skinny little ass.”
“Because, like me, you’re a patriot, and our country is finding itself suddenly low in supply.”
“So what do you go by nowadays?”
“Okay, August,” he replied, hands extended, palms up. “This better be good.”
“You taught me a long time ago that in a fight, you take the fight to them and fast.”
A subtle grin appeared as he recalled the memory.
“I need your help to . . .” I continued. “. . . take the fight to some very bad people.”
“What’s the threat?”
“A number of rovers.”
“Where?” he asked, interested. “Middle East, Africa, Asia, Mexico?”
“Some twenty miles of the coast of Pensacola.”
This time, the look that passed between us was one of raised eyebrows. He cringed before the certainty of my eyes and dropped back in the booth with a thud.
“You’re talking US soil.”