13
Mickey was still puzzling at his own set of problems when Mark’s phone rang.
“Henderson.” His voice was no longer that of a guy throwing out pebbles and advice. Nor was it the leader of MHA. It had a sharp, military snap. Not that Mark Henderson ever slouched, but now he sat bolt upright.
Then he keyed in some code.
Mickey tried throwing a few more pebbles at different angles to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping, but they merely plinked into the water except for the ones that drowned silently.
For his efforts, all he heard was a couple of “uh-huhs,” one “okay,” and a bunch of “yes sirs.” A glance at Mickey, then a “Lola and Tim would be good.”
Then, “I’ll let her know. I’m sure she sends her best right back to you. She’s talking about going to visit her parents since she can’t fly t
