SCENE: 10 P.M., FRIDAY NIGHT. INSIDE THE PENTHOUSE OF A HOTEL ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ATLANTA.
The man took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled. It would be another long night of questions from the man-in-charge. This late in the season, though, he was used to it.
“What’s the status?”
“Nothing new, sir. We thought going to Atlanta would bring us closer to finding him, but our intel must have been wrong.”
The man tapped his cigarette twice before bringing it to his lips. He paused for a second.
“Something might show up tomorrow. But I think our best hope will be Charlotte in a week or so.”
The man-in-charge sneered.
“Dammit, James. You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”