The waitress visibly swoons. “You got it, sugar.”
I bring my beer to my lips again, and my hand visibly shakes.
“You okay, Kat?” Josh asks.
“Yeah.” But the truth is, I feel like I’m gonna barf—and not from the Patron. Today was insane. It’s one thing to want to do something outrageously scary to help your best friend, and it’s quiteanother to physically force yourself to actually do it while crapping your pretty undies the entire time. As I found out today, thinking about doing something brave (or tremendously stupid) and doing it are two very different things.
“Do you need—” Josh begins, but his phone rings and we all jump.
“Here we go,” Henn says, rubbing his hands together.
Josh puts his phone to his ear, his eyes bugging out. “Jonas,” he says evenly, and then he listens. “Oh, thank God.” He addresses Henn and me. “We did it, guys. They got it all.”
Henn fist-pumps the air, but all I can do is lean back in my chair, my body melting with outrageous relief.
“We’re in a bar in Henderson,” Josh says. He looks around and his eyes fall on a television behind the bar. “Yeah, they’ve got one, but it’s not on.” He listens for a moment and rolls his eyes. “Really? We’ve been sitting here wondering this whole fucking time, shitting our pants, and you didn’t—” He listens again and smiles wickedly. “Oh. Well, then I forgive you.” He snickers. “I’m sure you were. Okay, we’ll turn on the TV and check it out. I’ll call you right back.” Josh flags the waitress. “Hey, could you turn on the TV—put it on the news?”
“Sure, sweetie.” She walks over to the bartender, says something, and the TV comes on—and, literally, instantly, there’s no doubt our crafty littleOceans’ Elevencrew has hit a grand slam homerun.
“Just keep it here,” Josh calls to the bartender.
On the screen, a female reporter is talking into the camera while a banner declaring “Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las Vegas” scrolls beneath her. Behind the reporter, law enforcement officers in Kevlar vests are marching in and out of a cement building, carrying boxes.
“Hey, could you turn up the sound, man?” Josh calls to the bartender.
“... being told by federal authorities the terrorist plot was ‘sophisticated, imminent and massive,’” the reporter is saying.
I’m confused. They’re calling The Clubterrorists? Maybe I don’t fully understand the implications of that word. The Club was plottingterrorism?
“... and that the terrorist organization has ties to the Russian government.”
Henn chuckles. “Dude, it’s like I’m a fucking ventriloquist.”
“Straight from your puppeteering mouth into the reporter’s,” Josh replies, his eyes fixed on the screen.
I’m totally confused. What the hell are Josh and Henn talking about?
An older woman with dyed blonde hair appears on-screen being escorted into a dark sedan.
“... in this footage from earlier, we see one of the alleged terrorists being taken into custody,” the reporter says.
“Is that Oksana?” I ask.
Henn nods. “Yup.”
“She’s aterrorist?” I ask dumbly.
The look that passes between Henn and Josh in reaction to my question makes me feel like I must be having a total blonde moment. What the heck am I missing here?
The reporter continues: “... the names of the two alleged terrorists killed during the raid have now been confirmed by authorities—”
“Henn,” Josh says insistently, yanking on Henn’s sleeve.
“Yeah, I know,” Henn says, batting Josh’s hand away like he’s swatting at a fly.
“... the two men killed in a shoot-out with federal authorities at the scene were Mak-sim Be-len-ko and Yu-ri Na-vol-ska,” the reporter says slowly, clearly doing her mighty best not to screw up the pronunciations of the names.
“Oh shit,” Josh says, beaming, and Henn high-fives him.
