The bar was on the fifteenth floor of the hotel; it was a rotating, flying saucer–shaped affair that gave patrons alternating views of the airport, Washington, D.C., and the deceptively peaceful waters of the Potomac. It was now midnight, the end of one long day for Fox and the beginning of another. His wife had dinner on the table for him when he finally got home around 11.00 P.M., but a pink Post-it note with Ozzi’s cell number was also waiting on his plate. He and Ozzi had a quick phone conversation, and 10 minutes later Fox was back in his car, speeding down Interstate 95, eating a hastily made peanut butter sandwich and working his own Nokia. Fox knew his deputy had arrived back in the D.C. area at noon that day and yet he never contacted the office. This was unusual behavior for Ozzi, usually a slave to the rules. It was also unusual for him to want to meet Fox in such an out-of-the-way place at so late an hour. The bartender was clearing away three empty glasses in front of Ozzi when Fox walked in.
What do You think about Strike Force Bravo (2004)?
