Minutes to Burn (2001) by Gregg Hurwitz Page A

attitude we're running into, I want you to keep it low-key around the UN troops. Change into civies and keep your Sigs out of view." Opening the weapons box, he pulled out two pistols and tossed them to Cameron and Tank. He slammed the lid, locked both padlocks, and looped the keychain around his neck.
    "Anyone finds out you're carrying and it's my ass. If you run into trouble with UN or domestic, flash ID; with the element, retaliate reasonably. I'm assuming you'll be fine. It's broad daylight, and I'm pleasantly surprised by the stability of the city, even beyond the checkpoints. We'll wait for you here, and see about dinner later." He flipped Cameron a rubber-banded wad of sucres, bluish-green on one side, red and orange on the other.
    Cameron wedged the money into her front pants pocket, safe from pickpockets. The baby next door let loose with a scream, and she saw Derek's face tighten, as if he were bracing for a punch. He regained his composure quickly. No one else seemed to notice.
    "The lab is out by Julian Coronel," Rex said. "It's not the nicest part of town."
    Tank laid an enormous hand on Rex's shoulder, guiding him toward the door.
    "Don't worry," Cameron said. She stole another glance at Derek before turning to follow. "You're in good hands."

    Chapter 10
    The paper crackled as he inhaled, the orange ring of the cherry inching its way down the length of the joint toward his generous lips and well-manicured mustache. Diego Byron Rodriguez held the burn in his lungs for a moment, his chest stretching the fabric of his cheap Darwin Station T-shirt, and surveyed the mess around him.
    A filing cabinet lay with its top smashed into his desk, a webbing of cracks working their way from one end of the fine oak surface to the other. Supporting a slender laptop, a dissecting microscope, and a coffee can full of pencils, was a makeshift second desk, humbly erected from four fallen cinder blocks and a piece of plywood. A screensaver--flying marine iguanas--blinked across the computer, and the power cord plugged into an orange heavy-duty surge protector on a cable that threaded its way through the detritus and out the broken window to functional outlets in the Protec t ion building next door. Amid the shattered glass from the two picture windows fluttered fallen papers and posters, diagrams of fire ants, the wings of stiffened insects in broken cyanide jars.
    On the wall hung two photos, frames cracked and glass shattered from their many falls, of Stephen Jay Gould and Niles Eldredge--an homage to Diego's heroes.
    Diego's dark brown hair was sleek, his short ponytail seeming of one piece. His face was youthful, though traces of wrinkles remained for a few moments after he smiled or frowned, as if his face, coming into its fourth decade, had developed an aversion to change. His long hair seemed at odds with the neatness of his mustache, his faded T-shirt with his suit-bottom pants, the tassels of his Miami-bought Italian loafers with the stripes of bare, dusty skin visible at his ankles.
    A pair of his boxer shorts was drying on the antenna of the PRC117 Delta satellite radio. Because he'd fried it two weeks ago by overloading the circuits, he now had to use an old-school, high-frequency PRC104 that the ejercito had dropped off on their last swing through. The rigid, ten-foot whip antenna that stood up like a coat rack from the low-tech PRC104 only permitted regional transmissions.
    Leaning back on the ripped cushion of his leather couch, Diego exhaled, watching the jet of smoke unravel. He propped his feet up on a fallen TV and stared at the two items on the coffee table before him: a telephone, and the last box of .22 rounds on the Isla Santa Cruz. He ran his tongue over his teeth, leaned over, and tried the phone for the fourth time. Miraculously, the call went through.
    A gruff voice answered. "Guayaquil Shipping. Tomas aqui." Though Diego had never met Thomas, he knew him well enough from the fat gringo accent and the