That quirk of his lips as he meets her gaze. “Ma’am, I am not the one you need to worry about. Let’s make sure you get back, okay?”
“You gonna stick with me, then?”
“Hell, yeah. You’re under my wing now, True, and I am your fucking guidance counselor.”
Just like that. Adopted.
Her eyes close in relief. She breathes out through pursed lips, bleeding off tension. “Okay, then.”
For now, at least, they are on the same side.
“When you get downstairs,” he adds, “wait by the door. I’ll let you know when you can egress without the Sibolts watching.”
It’s a brief wait but time enough for True to reflect on what she’s seen of Shaw. She realizes now she had thought to find a broken, unstable man, but what she found is more frightening. If asked to describe him, she would use words like calm, logical, rational. A man in complete control of himself. He is also the mercenary Miles encountered in the desert, who supervised the execution of innocent men—she doesn’t doubt it—because alongside Shaw Walker’s calm demeanor is a sense of lethal purpose. It’s there, evident in his nature, clear as a cobra’s hiss.
Her thoughts turn again to his setup, to Variant Forces. This warehouse is part of his operation. No doubt he has other such places. His Arkinsons are housed somewhere. He has to have staff to help administer things. He has to have soldiers under contract.
Where are they? Do they know where he is?
He doesn’t want them to know his business.
Trust no one. That, he said, was the secret to setting up a pirate PMC.
Shaw speaks through comms. “You’re clear to exit. Turn right and proceed quickly past this building and the next one.”
“Roger that.”
Despite the unknowns, and despite his history, his lethality, they are operating in tandem tonight. The agreement has been made, and she can go forth or she can go home.
She’s not ready to go home, so she steps outside.
Her slim pack hangs low on her back. Her right hand is tucked into her pocket, fingers resting lightly around the pistol’s grip. There are no streetlights and no lights seeping from the nearby buildings, but the moon is bright and through her MARC she can see every detail of the empty street. She can hear a steady low hum of printers. Or maybe she feels it as a faint vibration rising up from the ground. From a few streets away comes the static of tire noise.
She follows Shaw’s instructions, walking quickly, staying close to the building. A narrow alley divides it from the next building in the complex. She trots across the open space and keeps going.
“At the end of the warehouse, turn right,” Shaw says. “Okay, you see the angled driveway to your left? Take it. You’ve got twelve seconds to make it to the other end. Go.”
She sprints the length of the alley, holding tight to the pistol so it doesn’t bounce against her gut. She can see that the alley spills into a wider street ahead. Short of the end, she pulls up. Shaw says, “Good job. They’re a block over, but their Sibolt just found you. So they should roll in shortly. If you’re still into it, go say hello.”
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and moves ahead until she has a clear view of the cross street. She doesn’t move away from the alley. She wants the option to retreat if it comes to that.
She hears the static crackle of the truck’s racing tires, then it screeches into sight around the corner, headlights off. Her hand is still in her pocket as she tries to strike a nonchalant pose. No worries here. I’m just a harmless little girl. She came out to meet them because she believes their assignment was to watch her, not to kill her. She hopes she’s right, but her chest is tight and she’s sweating under her arms all the same.
The truck is a four-door SUV, desert brown, tinted glass. She can’t see inside. It brakes hard, stopping ten meters away. The front doors open. Two men get out. They step clear. Neither wears an AR visor, relying on moonlight. The driver is an older man, straight-backed, strong-featured, both hair and beard neatly trimmed and shot through with gray. He appears calm and self-assured—in contrast to a partner who is younger, bulkier, more heavily bearded, at least three inches shorter, and who walks with a bully’s strut.
It’s immediately clear she’s misjudged the situation, because both men are carrying assault rifles. They haven’t aimed their weapons at her. Not yet. But her working theory, that they are not here to kill her, seems a bit strained at this point.
They yell at her in Arabic, telling her to put her hands in the air.
Shaw sounds amused when he asks, “You gonna do it?”
Nope.
Her heart races; she keeps her shaking hands hidden in her pockets. Inappropriate time, but nevertheless she thinks of Alex and how pissed off he’s going to be if she gets herself killed even before he has a chance to file for divorce. That would not be fair. Still, she is not going to surrender. Gray and the bully need to know that, first thing.
Her guess is that they both speak some English and if she’s wrong, well, maybe they have access to a translation program. The bully, at least, is wearing an earpiece that looks a lot like a TINSL. So, in a voice carefully modulated to sound strong but nonbelligerent, she asks, “Who hired you? I want a name.”
The bully doesn’t take well to her defiance. A flush darkens his face where it’s visible above his beard and he yells at her again, this time in English, “Hands in the air! Now.”
Her chest tightens, even as she thinks, A man should be able to control his temper.
Gray appears to share this sentiment. He speaks in an undertone, harsh words for his partner. But it’s another sound that draws True’s attention. A distant, waspish buzzing. She wants to make sure her assailants notice it too, so she lets her gaze drift up into the hazy night sky. She doesn’t see anything. She doesn’t expect to. But when she looks again at the two soldiers, the dynamic has changed. Gray has realized they’re in trouble. He gestures at his partner to move back to the truck and the bully complies. Even he has recognized that this encounter is escalating.
They don’t move fast enough.
The waspish buzz ramps up, a dopplered assault of sound as a dark meteorite impacts the hood of the truck, smashing through it into the engine block where it explodes in a confined burst of brilliant light and a harsh concussion that True feels in her chest.
The two soldiers throw themselves clear, diving for the ground. True ducks back into the alley, using the moment to get the pistol out of her pocket. With the weapon secured in a two-handed grip, she peeks out again.
The two men are face down on the street. The engine block of their truck is shattered. “Damn it, Shaw,” she whispers. “I came here to circumvent a war, not start one.”
“So get on it, ma’am. Best you exert some authority while they’re still down on the ground.”
Yeah. Good advice. Already the two are looking up, looking around, reassessing the situation. She decides to clarify things.
She steps out of the alley. Determined to remain polite, she keeps the pistol pointed at the asphalt—although it’s a section of asphalt right in front of the bully’s nose. In a soft voice made gruff by the dryness of her throat, she warns them, “Stay on the ground or the next kamikaze targets you.”
Anyway, she hopes Shaw has another projectile or two in reserve.
When she hears his low amused grunt, she decides this was a good bet.
Both men still have a hand on their assault rifles, but they don’t try to pick them up and they don’t try to get up. True suspects the faint sound of a buzzing wasp is encouraging their cooperation. She says, “I don’t want to see you hurt. And I’m sure you don’t want to hurt me, right?”