"Hugo's okay. He even knocked back a couple of Guinnesses before he left, saying they would help ease the stabbing pain. Can you believe? As for Dimitri, the Deltas had a medic along, and he gave him a better than fifty-fifty shot. Said nothing vital seemed beyond repair."
“Thank goodness for that at least."
"Poor guy, he felt personally responsible for the whole mess. I think that was why he sort of lost his better judgment there for a second when we rushed Command and got careless."
"It can happen," Vance said. Looking back, he decided he had lost sight of better judgment several times over the past few hours.
The rest of the ARM team was checking out the gear and tying crates, all the while working on their second case of beer. Departure was imminent.
"Well," Vance added finally, "it was a nightmare, start to finish. What more can you say."
"Well, not entirely," Armont observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. "Bates is going to let us use the Agusta to fly back to Paris. And when we get there, one of the terrorists who got blown up is going to suddenly reappear. Jean-Paul Moreau."
"Know him well," Vance said, remembering the beating and his sense of hopelessness at the time. "Better not let me see the bastard. He might not make it back to Paris in one piece."
"Well, Michael, that would be very ill-advised. He's worth a small fortune. If the Greeks were to get hold of him, he could piss on the court system here and keep it mucked up for years, so we're taking him straight back to Paris." He paused to glance around. "Nichols is giving us an Apache escort as far as international airspace will permit. But you don't know anything about any of this. Keep your nose clean."
"Nichols?" The name didn't mean anything, but then his mind was still mostly in neutral.