Whatever, I say breathlessly. I head back down the three flights of stairs to my red, beat up, 1986 Honda Civic, where the last of our shit resides. A... I struggle to hold the boxes and close the trunk, I hear a voice. Moving in? Now Im no poet or romantic of any sort, but the one word Id use to describe this voice would be angelic. And in case you were wondering, but it wasnt a mans voice I was hearing. Not to say a man cant have the voice of an angel or anything. I shut my trunk, which. ”“No name?” I asked.“No Ma-am,” North replied.“Tell him that our detainee is Catholic and the Cardinal is attending to his needs; then tell him to go pack sand up his ass and not to let the door hit him on the way out,” I replied.“Ma-am, are you sure you want me to tell him that?”“Do I need to repeat it for you?” I asked.“No Ma-am!” Agent North replied.I turned my attention to Gitmo and Agents Croft and Doyle with an MTAC call.“How is the prisoner doing? Have you learned anything worthwhile?” I. More

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