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honor, sir! Very great honor, indeed!” The cowboy lifted his brim an eighth
at the squat little man standing before him with his empty right hand still extended. When the man spoke, it was in measured tones, in words that were barely audible. “Calm. The. Fuck. Down,” Shit said, Johnny Cash deep and low-down and barely above a whisper. The guy’s eyes, sharp now, sharp as a diamond cutter, bored holes into Joe’s face. After a while, he finally stuck his hand out. Joe shook it with some temerity, worried about the delicate bones in his fingers. But expecting tough, gnarled calluses, Joe found the handshake was civilized, almost weirdly soft and gentle for a rodeo cowboy.
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back during those golden days spent in Navy
the newspaper. “May I come inside?” “Oh, god. Of course! Please come in. Something’s
to get Brock and Chief Rainwater on the same page, pronto! “Charlie, Delta, Echo, this is Alpha, Bravo. We are in
window, said, grabbing Hawke’s shoulder. “What?” “We got to go! Spetsnaz troops are out on the docks, pouring gasoline and rigging charges all over our speedboats. The first one just blew! If we don’t withdraw right now and get the hell off this island, we’ll be trapped out here!” “He’s right,” Hawke said to Joe, and turned for the door. With his son cradled in his arms, he took one last look
