Still, Nic thought they could have at least painted the equipment they received black. When the BearCat arrived, he had offered to go grab a can of black spray paint, but Deputy Chief Edgar had looked at him like he had spit on the Pope. Nic explained that he used to do a little tagging, that he could probably make it shine like it just came out of the factory. Especially out here with the Southern Nevada sun to bake the paint nice and pretty. Still, they shot him down.

As Nic approached the comm center, Taz stepped down the stairs of the big black RV and walked out to meet him halfway.

“What are you doing here, pendejo?” the five-foot-four Puerto Rican said.

“What? Was I not invited to the party?”

“No, the water’s warm. Come on in, cupcake. Grab a Miami Vice from the pool bar. But I heard you were almost ventilated. Why aren’t you in the hospital or at home, resting, clearing your head? We’ve talked about this.”

“Yeah, I got it, Ma. I’m fine. Seriously.” Nic held out his left hand between them and said, “See. Steady as a rock.”

Taz shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Well, let me see your shooting hand then cowboy.”

Nic held up his right arm with the hand and arm flopping around like he had a fish out of water attached at his joint.

Taz shook his head and chomped his gum. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a regular Gene Wilder. Only he was charming. And funny. And people liked him. On second thought, you’re not much like him at all.”

Nic cocked his head to the side as if in deep thought. “Blazing Saddles came out in 1974, so would that have made you like forty at the time, grandpa?”

Taz looked and acted like he was in his late twenties, but in reality, Nic knew his sergeant was almost twenty years his senior.

The little bundle of muscle and fire said, “Grandpa could still put you on your ass. Don’t forget that, pendejo.”

Nic raised his hands. “I surrender. First question, where do you want my guys?”

“Have them check in on the perimeter. But I want you to come with me.”

Nic relayed the orders and followed Sgt. Ortiz into the comm center. There were a couple of communications technicians manning the terminals—which occupied the space where a normal RV held a fridge and stove—and a small conference room occupied the back section, where the master bedroom would have been in a motorhome.

The interior was all gray and hexagonal, plastic and futuristic-looking, like they were stepping onto a spaceship. It was a new rig with some cool new toys, but it didn’t have that new car smell. Instead, it carried the odors of sweaty cops and sizzling coffee, just like their old comm center.

Taz took a seat at the conference table. Deputy Chief Mike Edgar was already seated. Chief Edgar wore his uniform to perfection, not a line out of place. Nic knew that Edgar was a West Point graduate. Edgar brought it up not-so-casually anytime he had more than two beers in him. Edgar had pale skin, honey-colored hair, and a thin brown mustache sitting on a slender face. But when he spoke, he had a deep narrator’s voice. Nic always thought the guy should be doing voiceovers for penguin documentaries or Capital One commercials.