“My sister-in-law. Harlow. You stepped up and helped her out.”
“Well, yeah, Wasn’t anything, just faked like I was her bodyguard. This could get you killed, man.”
“You helped out my family.” His tone is firm. “Plus, Xavier wouldn’t be helping you if he didn’t like you. My brother likes you, I like you, and you also met Bax. Bax is easy to get along with but hard to impress.”
“You want to help us with the extract, Zane, I would welcome the assist.”
“I’m there. Been a while since I’ve had any excitement.” A pause. “You can’t kill—what about severe maiming?”
I laugh, and it’s a nasty sound. “Good with severe maiming, or anything short of straight up dead.”
He laughs with me. “Sounds fun. I’ll have Xavier’s pilot set me down a klick or so out, and we’ll meet on foot. We can coordinate via cell phones. I’ve got a nine and a KA-Bar. How are you fellas set for gear?”
Rev and I exchange glances. “We were at the mall with the girls,” I say. “We’re gonna have to go in hand to hand.”
“I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Something is better than nothing, right?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I return. “See you shortly. And thanks, Zane.”
The line rustles again. “It is Xavier again. I will keep watch on the residence. If anything develops or otherwise changes, I will contact you at this number.”
“Thank you, Xavier,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver, possibly literally.”
“Be well. We shall speak again soon. Goodbye.”
The line goes dead, and I pocket the phone.
“Bit of an odd one, but he pulled that shit out of his ass like it was fuckin’ nothing,” Rev says.
Not much to say to that, so I don’t. We make it to the neighborhood in question in what must be record time, finding a spot in an alley between the back of one row of houses and the front of others. Rev kills the engine and we hop out—he hits the lock button from inside rather than blipping the fob and risking the horn honking.
Rev eyes me. “At least you’re somewhat dressed for an infil-extract.”
I laugh—I’m in jeans, boots, and a tee, whereas he’s in gym shorts, cross trainers and no-show socks, and a muscle shirt. “I think it’ll be fine. If these guys are anything like her dad’s guys, this’ll be cake. Those dudes were just bodies with guns, doubt they had anything like real training. Just thugs. I don’t see these guys being much different.”
“Best to not go in underestimating them, though,” he says, scraping his hand over his mohawk. “Prefer to assume they’re well-armed and well-trained and be pleasantly surprised rather than assume they’re asswipe thugs and find out they’re former spec-ops badasses.”
I nod. “You’re not wrong.” I hear a faint, quiet thumping. “There’s the helo.”
Rev tilts his head, listening. “Still quiet. Must be a ways out still.”
I listen and realize it’s actually very close—he’s thinking it’s a normal aircraft. “Actually, no.”
I jog away from the G-Wagen and onto the street—I see the sleek, aggressive, stealthy helo settling down in the middle of the road a couple hundred yards away. A few feet above the ground, a figure drops out, hunching in a crouch, head ducked—he lifts a thumbs-up, and the helo rises and tilts away over the rooftops.
Rev watches, jaw open. “The fuck wasthat?”
“A prototype electric stealth helicopter designed and built by Valentine Roth,” I answer.
“That shit’s from, like, a sci-fi movie.”
I laugh. “You should see the robots Xavier builds. He showed us some stuff when we were hanging out yesterday.Thatshit is from sci-fi. I could not believe what I was seeing.”
The figure who’d descended from the helo has jogged over to us by now, and we both take a moment to assess the newcomer—Zane Badd. He’s a good few inches shorter than me, making him around six-feet even, but he’s built like a one-man wrecking machine. I’d guess he’s packed on bulk since leaving the teams, like Rev, Chance, and I all have.
When you’re operating at peak operational fitness, being bulky can be a hindrance. You want to be strong, but you need to be fit more than anything. Able to ruck fifty pounds of gear at a dead run uphill for miles, and still have breath to fight at the top. All of us bulked up when we left the teams, because you need to fill the hole—no more teammates, no more rush of combat, no more endless training, so you fill the time with the only thing you really have left, that being lifting heavy shit until you can’t move.
This guy is a beast. Six feet, and probably weighing in at two-ten, two-twenty of solid muscle and very little body fat. He’s a few years older than us, maybe mid-thirties. Brown hair under a plain black ball cap, the brim low over his eyes and curved just so; thick stubble that’s not quite a beard, but it’s obvious he doesn’t ever actually shave, just trims it back so it’s not bushy. Brown eyes.
