Pearl Harbor Rafe Mccawley 소설 & 이야기

I whispered. “Nova,” he growled. “Who the fuck is out there?” I wasn’t looking at Cruz anymore. I was staring through a hairline crack in the broken window, and there he was. Rafe. “No,” I breathed. “It’s not possible.” Cruz’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Rafe who?” I turned to him slowly. “Rafe Moretti.” His face changed instantly, filled with rage, disbelief, and shock. “That son of a bitch is dead,” Cruz said. “He died in the raid two years ago. Blade saw the body.”

PRESENT TIME SPO4 Ralph Veneracion had a gentle smile when he went down to meet with Elaine in their wide living room in Makati. From the hotel she and Drew were staying in, she found herself in Marco's uncle's place. For years, it hadn’t been easy for Elaine to go back and face the person who would remind her of the incident that almost ruined her life. But unlike before, it was easier now not to quiver in front of the former police officer.

Why did Ralph bring her along? "Who's the beautiful lady, Ralph?" Asked the guy who entered last. "Oh, sorry. This is Raven Porterfield, my assistant. You can trust her," said Ralph. "Raven, meet Scott Marshall, ex-navy seal, and our friend. He's helping us out," said Ralph. Raven greeted him and he came forward to shake her hand, holding it a little longer. Ralph cleared his throat and glared at him. All three chuckled and sat down to discuss the matter at hand.

And someone in my precinct someone in Hawks helped make that happen. Raffaele stood a few feet away, speaking low into a burner phone, coordinating with his contact. He moved with that same quiet control he always had. But I knew him too well to miss the edge in his tone, the tightness in his jaw. He was holding himself together for my sake. That thought did things to me. Things I couldn’t afford to feel right now. I turned away from the window and walked to the war table we’d set up blueprints, CCTV grabs, maps with red markers like blood drops. Travis hovered nearby, pale and shaken but doing his best to stay useful. He knew his survival depended on it.

Because you are the only person alive who can connect Marco Vega's murder to a name that still owns half a continent's shipping lanes, and he needs to know whether you are a loose thread or a dead end before he commits to doing anything permanent about it. Rafe found them still at the table an hour later, pulled from bed by a text from Colt that had said only: war room, now, bring your notes on the Denver freight pattern. He took one look at the room, at Emmett Cole's unfamiliar face, at Sloane's still expression, and set his usual arsenal of jokes down somewhere outside the door. He said: someone want to catch me up. Colt did. It took twenty minutes and Rafe did not interrupt once, which Sl

bases at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii almost simultaneously, on December 7th on the eastern side of the International Dateline. The 9th and the 10th were spent sending plane after any sort of plane that could be had stuffed to the edge of endurance with American citizens off to Australia as the Japanese began a relentless invasion up the Malay peninsula with only token resistance. With each plane departure, Stanfield begged Abegail to get on board. But Abegail staunchly refused, saying she would take the last plane with Stanfield—when the last American who wanted to go was on board a plane.

Rafe walked unsteadily up the stairs one by one to the second floor of his mansion. He finally came back to this place after a full week of working to find evidence of Cooper Smillow's involvement in the Las Vegas shootings. He flew to Las Vegas after he managed to bully Cooper, then he worked and worked until he didn't realize he had spent too long in Las Vegas. But mostly it was because of his promise to Maria. He feels responsible for solving the shooting case and punishing the people who killed Weston.

While he agreed it made her difficult to recognize, the more likely reason for their success was that Marlene Dietrich had returned to Los Angeles on the same train. Making a careful examination of his jaw, Andrew studied his reflection in the mirror, and satisfied with his handiwork, rinsed his safety razor under the tap. “Maybe no one. As I told you before, it will depend on who shows to this particular gala. I’m interested in the two commanding officers at Camp Holcomb, a Major James Jones and the newly appointed Brigadier General Clayton Vogel.” “Why are you interested in them?”