“Excuse me, Beeker,” Harry interrupted. “Hang on just a sec.”
A flurry of activity at the door had caught the ex-biker’s attention. Four men had just trooped in, Stilman the obvious leader. Paying no attention to Harry, they took seats at a table and noisily called for a round of drinks.
“It’s okay, Beeker,” Harry said. “Just a little movement in the enemy troops. What was that you were sayin’?”
“Just that many people who had long since resigned themselves to being alone or the oddball in any group, find that …”
Harry was only listening with half an ear, the rest of his attention focused idly on the table of heavies.
They seemed to be in a good mood, shaking hands and patting each other on the back, and he caught the flash of Stilman passing out thick envelopes, presumably full of money, to the other three men.
“Hold on, Beeker,” Harry said, still eyeing the table of men. “There may be something goin’ on here. You might want to pass the word that …”
He broke off in midsentence, his blood suddenly turning ice cold.
Stilman had produced two objects from his pocket and was holding them up for inspection. From the back of the room, the ex-biker couldn’t see too clearly, but he didn’t have to. He’d know those things from a mile away. He should … he’d issued enough of them.
Stilman was holding two of the company’s wrist radios.
“Harry?” came Beeker’s voice in his ear. “Are you there? What is it?”
“Listen close, Beeker,” Hang growled into the phone, barely recognizing his own voice. “I may not have time to say this twice … got me? Tell the cap’n to run a body count on the company. Fast. I think someone’s in trouble. Only … listen up, Beek … be sure to tell him not to use the wrist radios for the check. In fact, tell him to pass the word to be careful what gets said over the radios period! It looks like the opposition has gotten hold of a couple of ’em, so there’s a good chance they’ll be listenin’ in … for a while, anyway. You got that?”