The police officer led them outside of the barricaded area toward a black stretch limo. Burke wasn’t sure the budgetary and judiciary capabilities and restrictions for the CIA, but a black Lincoln stretch limo seemed a bit excessive.

“Why do I have to come to this meeting?” he whispered to Carter.

Carter smiled. “Because you notice things when others don’t, and you’re damn near a human lie detector.”

Nic stepped in front of the others and pulled open the door to the Lincoln. Carter piled in with Burke in tow.

It took a moment for Burke’s eyes to adjust from the blazing Nevada sun to the dimly lit interior of the limo. He catalogued the smells while his eyes adjusted. Leather, scotch, the colognes of two men (one expensive and Italian, and one reminiscent of the beach) some type of air freshener (maybe clean linen smell or ocean breeze), and below all that, sweat and gun oil. Both of the men sitting opposite them were armed. Burke could tell from the smells as much as the telltale bunching of their clothing.

Nic shut the door behind himself and dropped down to within about two inches of Burke. He frowned at the cop, who apparently didn’t understand the concept of personal space. He moved to a seat on the opposite side of the limousine.

Carter was the first to speak, saying, “What’s the deal with the limo? I know you foreign services guys like to use up every bit of your budget, but this strikes me as a bit much.”

Burke studied the two men sitting side-by-side in the vehicle’s farthest rear seat. The man on the right wore an Armani suit with bright blue pinstripes, which matched his eyes. His hair was oiled and slicked straight back. The other man wore flip-flops, jeans, and a Las Vegas souvenir T-shirt.

Burke answered Carter’s question before any of the others could speak. He pointed to the man in the suit and said, “This is Mr. Tivoli ‘Ty’ Loria, and I assume this limo belongs to him. Mr. Loria is the Chief Executive Officer for GoBox. And this other gentleman must be the CIA agent.”

Burke looked the agent up and down again and said, “I suppose he must be undercover.”

The man from the CIA smiled like a Cheshire Cat. The grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Undercover. That’s funny. Unfortunately, that’s not the case this time. Airport lost my luggage. You can call me Yoshida.”

Yoshida had coal black hair and strong Asian features but no detectable accent, which made Burke believe him to be American-born. He wasn’t exactly small or out of shape, but he didn’t seem physically imposing. Certainly not muscular like Officer Juliano or the giant South African. Burke noticed that the man’s feet showed signs of severe burns, but they were old scars, probably from childhood. Yoshida also had strange mannerisms. He spoke and acted as if he knew more than all the rest of them. Not that he projected himself as being smarter than everyone, but some confident and indifferent way of speaking that implied that he knew he was five steps ahead of everyone else in the vehicle, and that was how he liked it.