“Al, it’s that fucking lawyer.” “Whatever it is, we’re already suited up and on the road. I’ll call you back after we get this done.” “Al, listen—“ Allen Phelps moved the cell away from his ear, and pointed out the windshield. “Take Coolidge,” he said to the driver. “We’ll come up from the south and stage it from the south-eastern corner.” Allen, the driver and the four other TAC Team members in the back of the big black van were all in full-assault mode—suited out with clay-insert, neck-to-groin Kevlar, MP5’s, flash-bang canisters and whatever personal choice of sidearm they chose to carry. The van carrying them bore no markings, nor did the antennae-laden scout car following close behind. Allen scowled as he put the cell back to his ear. He had been relishing the state of energized, nervous focus that always preceded a job. He’d have been the first to admit that he was an adrenaline junkie, or a danger-seeker or whatever the hell it was people with psychology degrees wanted to call it.
