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She finished her conversation and snapped her cell phone shut as she walked up to Price. She pointed toward the newspaper in the mission controller’s hand.

“Since we’re on West Africa anyway you see the article about the new Congo player, General Nkunda?” she asked. “I started running an analytical of our files on that movement and him in particular.”

Price smiled. “You read my mind, Carmen,” she said. “Once we have Phoenix and Able taken care of, why don’t you send me a summary in case anything comes of it.”

“Will do.” Delahunt nodded. “I have to double-check the South American arraignments we made for the team’s extraction with the ‘package’—if it comes to that. It’s nice to be able to tap the resources of larger groups like the Pentagon’s Joint Special Operations Command, but coordination is a nightmare.”

“Let me know if anything goes wrong,” Price said.

Delahunt nodded, then turned and began walking back across the floor toward the connecting door to the Annex’s Computer Room, her fingers punching out a number on her encrypted cell phone.

Barbara Price smiled.

She could feel the energy, the sense of purpose that permeated the room, flow into her. Out there in the cold, eight men on two teams were about to enter into danger for the sake of their country. If they got into trouble, if they needed anything, they would turn to her and her people.

She did not intend to let them down.

She made her way to her desk, where a light flashing on her desktop phone let her know a call was holding. She looked over at Kurtzman and saw the man returning a telephone handset to its cradle. He pointed toward her.

“It’s Hal on line one,” he said.

“Thanks, Bear,” she answered.

She set her coffee down and picked up the handset as she sank into her chair. She put the phone to her ear and tapped a key on her computer, knocking the screen off standby mode.

“Hal, it’s Barb,” she said.

“I’m outside the Oval Office right now,” Brognola said. “Are the boys up and rolling?”

“As we speak,” Price answered. “Tell him operations are prepped to launch at his word.”

“All right. Let’s hope this one goes by the numbers,” the gruff federal agent said.

“As always,” she agreed, and hung up.

“All right, people,” she announced to the room. “Let’s get ready to roll.”

Nairobi, Kenya

PHOENIX FORCE MET UP in the capital and transferred to the Sikorsky MH-53 Pave Low helicopter. To them their mission was simple: go in and find a lone American survivor of a brutal attack. It didn’t matter that an entire army of heavily armed insurgents had taken him into a city turned into a hellish fortress.

They would proceed, always moving forward.

FOR ABLE TEAM THE MISSION evolved in a more circumspect manner.

In the back of the Lear jet taking them to the Farm the three-man team relaxed, unwinding from the mission. Thirty minutes into the flight, Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi opened the cockpit door.

“I got Barb on secure communications,” he told them. “I don’t think you guys are going home yet.”

“Perfect,” Blancanales said, laughing.

Nicaragua

ABLE TEAM’S PLAN WAS simple.

They would come in on a commercial flight and make it through customs clean. Following that, they would pick up a vehicle and make their way to a safehouse used by a joint CIA and Army Special Operations Intelligence Support Activity operation to establish a base before starting surveillance of the target.

Things began to go wrong immediately.

Carl Lyons pulled his carry-on bag down from the overhead compartment just after the Unfasten Seat Belts sign popped up on the TWA commercial flight. They were flying first-class as part of their administrative cover, and the team leader had watched, bemused, as Blancanales had seduced the Hispanic flight attendant with his gregarious charm.

Team funnyman Hermann Schwarz had cracked one stale joke after another as the silver-haired smooth-talker had reaffirmed his membership in the mile-high club thirty thousand feet over the Caribbean with a dark-eyed Nicaraguan beauty half his age.

In a more regulation-orientated unit such behavior as stand-up sex in an airplane restroom would have been a scandalous breach of operational security, one that a team leader like Lyons would have had to treat severely as a discipline issue.

Not so in the shadowy world in which Able Team operated. Now there wasn’t a person on the plane among the crew or passengers who didn’t think the three men were anything but what they claimed; middle-aged divorced tourists on a Central American vacation. Blancanales’s audacity was role-playing brilliance.

If there was anything bothering Lyons as he exited the plane after the flight attendant had slipped her cell number to Blancanales, it was that circumstances dictated they roll into the opening moves of the operation unarmed. Carl Lyons didn’t like taking a shower unarmed, let alone enter a potentially volatile nation without a weapon.

“Okay,” Schwarz murmured as they came into the big, air-conditioned terminal, “we can add a certain TWA flight attendant named Bonita to our roster of Stony Man local assets.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lyons replied. “I’m sure she’ll be a big help. We can just send David and his boys down here sometime and they can all crash at her hacienda. It’ll be like the Farm South.”

“You see how it is, Gadgets?” Blancanales said, voice weary. “You try to take one for the team and management doesn’t appreciate it. I try to show loyalty through service and all I get is cynical pessimism.”

“Oh, buddy,” Schwarz replied, voice dry as south Texas wind, “you just got a lot more on you than cynical pessimism.”

“Yes,” Blancanales replied seriously. “Yes, I did.”

“Can you gentlemen come this way?”

The voice interrupted their banter with the certainty of undisputed authority. Able Team turned their heads as one to take in the speaker. He was a tall Latino with jet-black hair, mustache and eyes and was wearing the crisp uniform of a Nicaraguan customs officer. There was a 9 mm automatic pistol in a polished holster on his hip but the flap was closed and secured.

However, a few paces behind him the assault rifles of the military security guards were right out and open as the soldiers stood with hands on pistol grips and fingers resting near triggers.

Lyons scowled. Schwarz gave the officer his best grin in reply to the summons. Then he turned his head slightly and whispered to Blancanales out of the side of his mouth, “Any chance you want to take one for the team now?”

Blancanales fixed an insincere grin of his own on his face. “Nope. This time we move right to cynical pessimism,” he replied. He turned to face the stern uniformed officer, face suddenly serious. “This isn’t about that flight attendant, is it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nicaraguan customs separated the three men quickly, hustling them into separate rooms. There they sat, isolated, for two hours. Carl Lyons found himself sitting in front of a plain metal table on an uncomfortable folding chair while the customs officer pretended to read official-looking papers he’d taken from a blue folder with a government seal at the top.

Fluent in Spanish, Lyons easily read the pages he set on the tabletop and saw that they were merely quarterly flight maintenance reports being used as props. Warily, Lyons decided to relax a bit; this seemed a more random occurrence than he had first feared. The Farm had considerable resources, but the operation was minuscule compared to other government agencies and Stony Man operatives were often forced to rely on logistical support from larger bureaucratic entities. Whenever that happened, security became a prime concern, but for now this seemed a more typical customs roust than anything more threatening.

The officer, whose name tag read Garcia, picked up Lyons’s passport with his free hand and opened it. “Mr. Johnson?” His English was accented but clipped and neat.

Lyons nodded. “That’s me.”

Garcia regarded him over the top of the little blue folder. “What brings you to Nicaragua?”

“Sunny weather, beautiful women, the beaches. All the usual. Is there a problem with my passport?”

The customs agent carefully put the blue folder down. He ignored the question and tapped the passport with one long, blunt-tipped finger. “There are many countries in Central America with beautiful beaches and women.”

“But only one San Hector Del Sur—it’s world famous,” Lyons replied in flawless Spanish, referencing Nicaragua’s most popular tourist destination.

Garcia’s eyes flicked upward sharply at the linguistic display. His eyes looked past Lyons and toward the large reflective glass Lyons knew from his own experience as a police officer was where the customs officer’s superiors were watching the interrogation. Garcia let his gaze settle back on Lyons. He offered a wan smile.

“I’m sure this is just an administrative error,” the officer said. “My people will have it sorted out in no time.” Garcia rose to his feet. “Please be patient.”

“Okay.” Lyons nodded agreeably. “But, man, am I getting thirsty.”

GARCIA LEFT LYONS and walked toward the interrogation room containing Hermann Schwarz. As he moved down the hallway he saw the tall, cadaverous figure in a dark suit standing off behind his commanding officer. The man met Garcia’s gaze with cold, dead eyes, and the Nicaraguan customs officer felt a chill at the base of his spine. What was he doing here? Garcia wondered. He stifled the thought quickly—it didn’t pay to ask too many questions about the internal security organization, even to yourself.

As he entered the room he saw a burly sergeant had Schwarz pinned up against the wall, one beefy forearm across the American’s throat. The officer was scowling in fury as Schwarz, going by the name Miller, smirked.

Schwarz looked over at Garcia as the man entered and grinned. “Hey, Pedro,” he called. “You know why this guy’s wife never farted as a little girl? ’Cause she didn’t have an asshole till she got married!”

The sergeant rotated and dipped the shoulder of his free hand. His fist came up from the hip and buried itself in Schwarz’s stomach. The Stony Man operative absorbed the blow passively and let himself crumple at the man’s feet. He looked up from the floor, gasping for breath.

Schwarz looked at Garcia. “You know what this pendejo’s most confusing day is? Yep—Father’s Day.”

His cackling was cut off as the sergeant kicked him in the ribs. Garcia snapped an order and reluctantly the man backed off. “Leave us!” he repeated, and the officer left the room scowling.

Garcia moved forward and dropped Schwarz’s passport on the table. He looked down as the American fought his way back up to his feet. Garcia watched dispassionately as the man climbed into his chair.

“This is a hell of a country you got here, pal,” Schwarz said. “Tell a few jokes and get the shit kicked out of you. I should get a lawyer and sue your ass.”

“You’ll find Nicaraguan courts unsympathetic to ugly Americans, Mr. Miller.”

“Yeah, well, your momma’s so fat when she walks her butt claps.”

“Why have you come to Nicaragua, Mr. Miller?”

“I heard a guy could get a drink. I think it was a lie. Seriously, I’m here with some buddies to check out the sites, maybe see the senoritas on San Hector Del Sur, but instead I get this?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t insult my officers?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t lock an innocent turista up for two hours in a room with a trained monkey like that asshole.”

Garcia sighed heavily, a weary man with an odious task. “I’m sure this is just an administrative error. We’ll have it sorted out shortly.”

“You’re damn well right you will,” Schwarz snapped, playing his role to the hilt.

“In the meantime perhaps you could refrain from antagonizing my officers? Yes?”

“Hey, Pedro—is that your stomach or did you just swallow a beach ball?”

Officer Garcia turned and walked out of the room, studiously ignoring the thin man standing outside in the hall next to the doorway.

“Hey, who do ya have to screw to get a drink around here?” Schwarz demanded as the door swung closed.

From behind the two-way mirror the thin man watched him with inscrutable curiosity.

AS CUSTOMS OFFICER Garcia entered the final interrogation room, Blancanales, whose own passport was made out under the name of Rosario, rose from his seat, manner eager and face twisted into a mask of hopeful supplication.

“Listen,” he began babbling, “I’m really, really, really sorry about what happened on the plane. I know I should have waited till I got to San Hector Del Sur but this is my first vacation in years and I guess I got carried—”

“Shut up and sit down!” Garcia snapped. “Yes, I know, I know. You are all here innocently. You are all planning to go to San Hector Del Sur, you are all thirsty and need a drink because you are just typical ugly American’s here to screw our women and drink tequila!”

Face frozen in a look of sheepish innocence, Blancanales settled back in his chair. He blinked his eyes several times. “Well, er, I guess…yeah.”

Face red, Garcia spun on a heel and tossed the blue passport on the table in disgust. He left the room and slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled in its frame. Blancanales called after him, “Actually, I am kind of thirsty, amigo.”

OUT IN THE HALLWAY Garcia marched up to his superior, who stood waiting next to the thin man in civilian clothes. “Sir, their paperwork checks out. Everything checks out perfectly. They’ve obviously rehearsed their story—or it’s the truth. Should I toss them in a holding cell?”

“That won’t be necessary,” the thin man said. “Let them go. Apologize for the mistake, wish them well.”

Garcia slid his gaze over to his commanding officer, who glanced over at the man next to him, then nodded. “Yes, we have enough. Let them go.”

Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo

THE ROTORS OF THE Blackhawk helicopter were still turning slowly as the side door to the cargo bay opened and the men Colonel Kabila had been sent to greet emerged. He surveyed them with a critical eye, noting the athletic physiques, flat affects and nonregulation weaponry hanging off their ballistic armor and black fatigues.

Kabila had seen enough special operations soldiers in his life to recognize the type, French, American, British. As much as they might have liked to think otherwise, nationality mattered little—the elite always had more in common with each other than even with others of their own country or military. Kabila was wise and realistic enough to know he himself did not belong among their ranks. It was no matter of ego for him; his interests lay in other directions.

At the moment it remained focused on gaining these mysterious commandos’ trust, leading them into hostile terrain beyond the reach of help, and then betraying them—making himself a little wealthier in the process.

The first man to reach Kabila was tall and broad with fox-faced features and brown eyes and hair. Having spent the past five years operating alongside British forces in Brazzaville the rebel police officer recognized an Englishman even before he spoke and revealed his accent.

“You Kabila?” David McCarter asked.

Kabila nodded, noting the man did not identify either himself or his unit. Behind the Briton his team paused: a tall black man with cold eyes, a stocky Hispanic with a fireplug build and scarred forearms standing next to a truly massive individual with shoulders like barn doors and an M-60E cut-down machine gun.

Behind the tight little group another individual, as tall and muscular as the rest, turned and surveyed the windows and rooftops of the buildings overlooking the secured helipad. There was a sniper-scoped Mk-11 with a paratrooper skeletal folding stock in his hands. The eyepieces on the telescopic sight popped up to reveal an oval peep sight glowing a dim green.

“We were briefed on the flight in,” McCarter continued. “You get us past the Congolese security checkpoints and militia crossings until we’re within striking distance, then fall back with the reserve force should we need backup.”

“Just so.” Kabila nodded. “I’m surprised you agreed to having only Congolese forces as overwatch. Did you work with us in Brazzaville before?” The question was casually voiced but still constituted a breach of etiquette in such situations.

“Has there been a change in the situation since our initial briefing?” the black man asked, cutting in.

Kabila turned to face Calvin James, noting the H&K MP-7 submachine gun dangling from a sling off his shoulders down the front of his black fatigue shirt. In his big, scarred hands the man casually cradled a SPAS-15 dual-mode combat shotgun. Its stock was folded down so that he held it by the pistol grip and forestock just beyond the detachable drum-style magazine.

Just as with the rest of them, Kabila saw the man’s black fatigues bore no unit insignia, name tag or rank designation. His voice was flatly American, however, the accent bearing just a trace, perhaps of the Midwest, but he couldn’t be sure.

The Congolese pretended not to notice the pointed disregarding of his own indelicate question. Behind the team the Blackhawk’s engines suddenly changed pitch and began to whine as the helicopter lifted off.

Kabila shook his head to indicate no to the black man’s questions, then waved his hand toward the APC parked on the edge of the helipad’s concrete apron. The Dzik-3 was a multipurpose armored car made in Poland and used by Congolese army and police units throughout the country.

The 4.5-ton wheeled vehicle boasted bulletproof windows, body armor able to withstand 7.62 mm rounds, puncture-proof tires and smoke launchers. T. J. Hawkins, covering the unit’s six as they made for the APC, thought it looked like a dun-colored Brink’s truck and doubted it could withstand the new special penetration charges currently being used as roadside improvised explosive devices. He would have felt a lot safer in an American Stryker or the Cougar Armored Fighting Vehicle.

He was used to stark pragmatism, however, and made no comment as he scrambled inside the vehicle, carefully protecting his sniper scope. Despite the rotation of special operations soldiers through Stony Man, the exact nature of the Farm and its teams remained clandestine in the covert community. There were enough special-access programs floating around the intelligence and military establishments performing overlapping and complementary missions that the true carte blanche under which Hal Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group conducted business was greatly obfuscated.

It had been easier to coordinate a blacked-out operation through local Congolese forces than to bring international authorities operating in the Brazzaville theater in on the loop because the deployment had been so frenzied. Hawkins accepted the situation without complaint.

Inside the armored vehicle the team sat crammed together, muzzles up toward the ceiling. Rafael Encizo sat behind the driver’s seat holding a Hawk MM-1 multiround 40 mm grenade launcher. As Kabila settled in the front passenger seat beside his driver, he looked back at the heavily armed crew with a frown.

“I am in charge of my vehicle during transport and thus am commanding officer for this phase of the operation,” he said, voice grave. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you put your weapon safeties on.”

McCarter leaned forward, shifting his M-4/M-203 combo to one side as he did, the barrel passing inches from Kabila’s face. He held up his trigger finger in front of the Congolese colonel’s face and smiled coldly.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I know you’ve heard this before but—” he wiggled his trigger finger back in forth in front of Kabila’s eyes “—this is my safety.” He settled back into his seat. “End of story.”

Kabila turned around, face gray with fury. He slapped the dash of the vehicle and curtly ordered his driver to pull away from the tarmac of the helipad. As the vehicle rolled out into traffic he forced himself to calm. It was as the old African proverb, claimed by the English as their own, said: who laughs last laughs best, and Colonel Kabila planned to be laughing very hard indeed at the end of the next few hours.

PHOENIX FORCE REMAINED alert as the Dzik-3 left the main traffic thoroughfares surrounding the airport and pushed deeper into the city. They rolled through Congolese national army and police checkpoints without a problem, but as the buildings grew more congested and run-down and the signs of the recent civil conflicts became more prolific—in the form of bullet-riddled walls, the charred hulks of burned-out vehicles, gaping window frames and missing doors—so did flags and graffiti proclaiming rebel slogans and allegiance.

Now the checkpoints were manned by local force police officers who all wore subtle indicators of tribal allegiance in conjunction with their official uniforms. Phoenix Force was entering a section of the city where centralized authority had lost its influence and clan leaders and tribal warlords were the de facto power structures.

The checkpoint stops became longer and the night grew deeper. In the backseat Gary Manning used a GPS-program-enhanced PDA to plot their course as they moved through the city. After a moment he froze the screen and leaned forward to tap McCarter on the shoulder. “We’re here,” he said.

McCarter nodded and looked out a side window. They had entered an era of urban blight forming a squalid industrial bridge between two more heavily populated sections of the city. The dull brown waters of the Niger River cut through concrete banks lined with empty and burned-out factories, manufacturing plants and abandoned electrical substations. A rusting crane sat in a weed-choked parking lot like a forgotten Jurassic beast of steel and iron.

“Pull over,” McCarter told Kabila.

The man looked back in confusion. “What—we still have two more checkpoints to go before the rendezvous point,” he protested.

“Pull over. We have our own ops plan.” McCarter repeated. “When we give the signal, you and the chase vehicle can meet us at the RP. We’ll insert on foot from here.”

“This isn’t what I was told—” Kabila sputtered.

“Pull over.”

Kabila scowled, then barked an order to his driver, who immediately guided the big 4.5-ton vehicle over to the side of the road. They rolled to a stop and Phoenix Force wasted little time scurrying out of the vehicle, weapons up.

Before he slammed the door shut, McCarter repeated his instructions to the Congolese police officer. “Get to the RP. Link up with the chase vehicle and hold position as instructed. When I come across the radio we’ll be shaking ass out of the AO so expect hot. Understood?”

Kabila nodded. His face was impassive as he replied, “I understand perfectly, Englishman.”

“Good,” McCarter answered, and slammed the Dzik-3’s door closed.

As soon as the man was gone Kabila had his cell phone out. He could feel his laughter forming in his belly and he bit it down. He’d save it for when he was looking at the bloody corpses of the Western commandos.

Managua, Nicaragua

ABLE TEAM STEPPED OUT into the equatorial sunlight from the cramped depths of the customs station on the far side of the international airport. Hermann Schwarz’s eye was swollen slightly and he had a bemused look as he used a free hand to rub at his sore ribs.

He turned toward Lyons, who was squinting momentarily against the hard yellow light of the sun. “Next time you play the asshole,” he said.

Blancanales chuckled to himself. “It does come more natural to you,” he pointed out.

Lyons shrugged and slid on his shades. He stood in the doorway of the customs station and smiled. “Quick, use your cell phone to take a picture of me.”

Pretending to laugh along with the joke like ugly American tourists, Blancanales quickly opened his Samsung cell phone and thumbed on the video function. He started rolling, capturing the scene.

Immediately he saw a cadaverous man in a business suit watching them from beside their interrogator as he pointed the camera over Lyons’s bulky shoulder. The man frowned as he saw the Americans taking pictures, and then he turned and walked away.

“Something to remember Managua by,” Schwarz said loudly.

“Oh, that was great acting,” Lyons muttered, walking forward.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Did you get it?” Lyons asked.

“You mean, tall, skinny and corpse-looking?” Blancanales asked. “You betcha. I’ll see what Aaron’s crew can do with it.” He hit a button and fired off the short video clip to a secure server service that would eventually feed it into Stony Man.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

THE EMAIL TRAVELED with digital speed through security links and into Carmen Delahunt’s computer. Seeing the priority message beeping an alert, she quickly raised her sensory-glove-encased hand to her left and pantomimed clicking on the link with a finger. Inside the screen of her VR uplink helmet the short cell phone video played out.

“Just got something from Pol,” she said. “They want an ID on what appears to be a civilian who’s buddy-buddy with Nicaraguan law-enforcement officials.”

From behind her in the Annex’s Computer Room Aaron Kurtzman’s gruff voice instructed, “Send it over to Hunt’s station. His link to the Roadrunner is more configured to that kind of search than your infiltration and investigation research algorithms.”

The head of the Stony Man cyberteam referred to the blade farm IBM Roadrunner supercomputer used as the primary workhorse of the Farm. The IBM Roadrunner was considered the fastest supercomputer in the world, though Kurtzman, much like the NSA, preferred using a Blue Gene/L archetype for defensive counterhacking operations. The Stony Man Roadrunner model was every bit as efficient as the one in Las Alamos Laboratories, provided them digital espionage options equal to any agency in the American government or overseas.

Tapping the stem of a briarwood pipe against his teeth, Professor Huntington Wethers froze the video image on a single shot, then transported it to a separate program designed to identify the anatomical features on the picture then translate them into a succinct binary code. He ran the program four times to include variables for age, angle and articulation, then ran a blending-sum algorithm to predict changes for bad photography, low light and resolution obscurity. He grunted softly before firing off double emails of the completed project, one back to Carmen Delahunt and the other to Akira Tokaido.

“There you go,” Wethers said. “I would suggest simultaneous phishing with a wide-base server like Interpol and something more aimed, like Nicaraguan intelligence.”

“Dibs on Nicaraguan intel,” Tokaido called out.

The youngest member of the Stony Man cyberteam slouched in his chair using only his fingertips to control the mouse pads on two separate laptops.

“That’s just crap,” Delahunt replied. “I already have a trapdoor built into Interpol. Dad, Akira’s stealing all the fun stuff!”

“Children, behave,” Kurtzman growled. “Or I’ll make you do something really boring like checking CIA open agency sources like your uncle Hunt is doing.”

“Your coffeepot is empty, Bear,” Wethers replied, voice droll.

“What?” Kurtzman sat up in his wheelchair and twisted around to look at the coffeemaker set behind his workstation. To his relief he saw the pot was still half full of the jet-black liquid some claimed flowed through his veins instead of blood.

“Every time, Bear. I get you every time,” Wethers chided.

“That’s because some things aren’t funny,” Kurtzman said. “I expect such antics from a kid like Akira, but you’re an esteemed professor, for God’s sake. I expect you to comport yourself with decorum.”

“Brother Bear,” Wethers said, his fingers flying across his keyboard, “if you ever did run out of coffee you’d just grind the beans in your mouth.”

“Bear drinks so much coffee,” Delahunt added, her hands still wildly pantomiming through her VR screen, “that Hector Valdez named his donkey after him.”

“Bear drinks so much coffee he answers the door before people knock,” Tokaido added. He appeared to be hardly moving at his station, which meant he was working at his most precise.

Stony Man mission controller Barbara Price walked into the Computer Room just in time to catch Tokaido’s comment. Without missing a beat the honey-blonde former NSA operations officer added a quip of her own.

“Bear drinks so much coffee he hasn’t blinked since the last lunar eclipse.”

Kurtzman coolly lifted a meaty hand and gave a thumbs-down gesture. Deadpan, he blew the assembled group a collective raspberry. “Get some new material—those jokes are stale, people.”

“Bear drinks so much coffee it never has a chance to get stale,” Delahunt said calmly. She tapped the air in front of her with a single finger and added; “Ortega, Dan—”

“Daniel,” Tokaido simultaneously chorused with the redheaded ex-FBI agent.

“Of the General Counterintelligence Agency,” Wethers finished for them. All humor was gone from his voice now. “The Nicaraguan military intelligence agency.”

Sensing the tension immediately, Price turned toward Kurtzman. “What does this mean for Able?”

Kurtzman pursed his lips and sighed. “Trouble.”