He spoke into his throat mike. “Kirk, is Moms still on with Ms. Jones?”
“She just clicked off,” Kirk responded.
“I’m here,” Moms said over the net. “What’s up?”
“I’m doing an Area Study of Senators Club,” Nada said. An Area Study was part of the Bible of Special Operations. Anywhere in the world they went, they spent as much time as possible studying the locale. For the Nightstalkers, often an Area Study wasn’t feasible as they dropped in guns blazing, like with the Fun Outside Tucson. The first Special Forces teams into Afghanistan had had three weeks to do their Area Studies, mission planning, and briefbacks. Nada had a few minutes at the kitchen counter in Senators Club, which was a luxury for the Nightstalkers.
Nada glanced at Scout. “Correct me if any of this is wrong.”
“Okay.”
Nada read over the net: “Senators Club is the Research Triangle’s only gated community. It is regarded internationally as one of, if not the most desirable place to live in the southeastern United States.”
“Subtle,” Eagle commented.
“I like Texas better,” Mac said.
Scout chimed in. “It’s twenty-four hundred acres of the most finely tended golf courses, hiking trails, lakes, and tennis courts designed for exceptional living, all at a price for the discerning buyer.”
“You sound like a brochure,” Eagle said.
“Twenty-four hundred acres?” Kirk wondered over the radio. “Why are some of the houses on top of each other?”
“It is in the brochure and right there on that website,” Scout said. “Plus how can you compare yourself to the Joneses if you can’t see them? And how can you tell when undesirables like you show up if you can’t see your neighbor?”
“Hey!” Roland paused in cleaning his pistol. “We’re the last line of defense protecting these people from the things that go bump in the night!”
“You just killed a curling iron,” Scout said. “Do you get a medal for that?”
Mac laughed. “Old Kirk could probably put in for a Purple Heart: got burned grabbing for a curling iron. That would look real good.”
Roland started running the toothbrush across the pistol’s lower receiver so hard, it was surprising sparks weren’t flying. “I don’t like this kid. She’s a smart-ass. Why do we need her?”
Scout spun about on her bar stool and jumped off, going into a handstand. She spoke, upside down. “I know where every security camera is, all the blind spots, and where every motion sensor in the place is. All the trails off the beaten path. All the ways to sneak around twenty-four hundred acres without being spotted.” She pushed up with her arms and landed on her feet. “You guys couldn’t even kill a dog without having some dumb girl see you. That is not part of the exceptional living experience offered by Senators Club.”
Nada spoke in a low voice. “You were lucky that dog didn’t rip you to shreds. Things taken over by Fireflies are pretty nasty.”
“Well, that’s a good question,” Scout said, returning to her stool. “Why didn’t Skippy rip me to shreds?”
Nada opened his mouth to answer, then realized there was no answer. He looked from the kitchen to the living room, where Roland had stopped trying to file down the lower receiver with the toothbrush and Mac placed a shaped charge that could burn through two inches of steel on Lilith’s expensive coffee table. The door from the garage opened and Eagle walked in carrying a bag of clothes Support had just dropped off, using a FedEx truck as cover. Moms came down the stairs, still in the tennis outfit.
“Why didn’t the curling iron fry her?” Eagle asked. “Damn near fried Kirk when he secured it, before Mac blew it into a thousand pieces.”
“My curling iron is in a thousand pieces?” Scout actually seemed horrified. “My mother is so going to be all over me about the mess.”
“Support is cleaning your house up, remember?” Moms said, looking through the bag and pulling out a pair of pants with her name safety-pinned to them. “It will be just like it was.”
“Did you get me another curling iron?” Scout asked.
Moms looked at Nada.
Nada spoke on the net. “Kirk, get me Support.”
“Roger,” Kirk replied. There was a click over the net.
“Support, did you replace the curling iron?”
There was a pause, then a new voice came on, like Mac’s but southern, not Texan, there is a difference. “Why sure, Nada. Exact same model. House is clean as a whistle. Them gate transmitters work for the final gate, old friend?”
“Sure did, Cleaner,” Nada said, having recognized the voice. “Thanks.” He clicked that freq off the team net.
“Cleaner?” Scout asked.
“He’s the guy who comes behind us and cleans up,” Nada said.
“I bet he earns his pay,” Scout said.
“We all do,” Roland said.
“On task, people,” Moms said, and Roland’s scars flushed red, although whether from embarrassment or anger, it wasn’t clear. She pulled out a pair of khaki pants and a sport shirt and tossed them to Roland. “Those will fit better.”
Nada looked at the computer screen. “Feel free to interpret,” he said to Scout. “The exclusive life experience bestowed by Senators Club being the fact that it is situated on the highest elevation in the region—”
“I like the high ground,” Roland muttered.
“—which features spectacular three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the surrounding countryside for miles in every direction.”
“So they can look down on the peons,” Eagle said, which earned a roll of the eyes from Scout.
“The houses built here match the uniqueness of the terrain, meeting stringent standards for beauty, functionality, landscaping, and friendliness to the environment. Senators Club’s priority has always been to coexist in harmony with nature.”
“That harmony ain’t gonna last long,” Mac said, “if it attacks us.”
Nada pressed on. “This has brought together over nine hundred special, committed, and engaged families from all over the world to our community. We have residents from twelve countries and thirty-two states who have chosen us as their ultimate destination for living.
“Our private oasis of understated beauty and elegance—” Even Nada had to pause as Eagle laughed, Mac snorted in disgust, and Kirk just said: “What the hell?”
Nada cleared his throat. “Uh. Where was I?…understated beauty and elegance situated in the intellectual capital of the South, the Research Triangle—”
“Hah!” Mac said. “That’s like saying you’re the tallest contestant in a midget beauty contest.”
“All right,” Moms said. “We know what we’ve jumped into. The Fireflies are our mission. We get them, obliterate them, and get out. Clear?”
“Clear,” everyone on the team responded.
Roland was pulling off the way-too-tight sweatshirt, and Scout’s eyes bulged as she saw his torso, whether it was because of the toned muscles or the puckered scars that three bullets had made on his upper right chest. Roland didn’t notice as he pulled on the sport shirt.
“Change the pants in another room,” Moms said to him.
“You never told me if I get paid,” Scout said.
“Don’t you have to be home sometime?” Moms asked, because once more the team was off balance.
Scout hopped off the stool and did three cartwheels toward the front door.
“You’re going to have to keep both feet on the ground,” Moms said, “because you’re giving me a headache.”