own, like a fifth limb. And the way she moved … I mean, lust just demeans it. It was true love. I seriously understand now why kings and shit launched entire wars over just one woman—risked their countries, their fortunes, gave away everything they had. I understand chivalry now, dude. She is Tyra of Troy. Just look at her.”
She came out to applause, turning on her big Tyra smile, playing surprise at the warmth of the reception, putting a flat hand to her breathless, voluptuous chest, then pursing her lips in a kiss.
“There. The air kiss. That’s our little signal.”
Maven looked at skinny Ricky hunched over before the small screen. “Your signal?”
“This cruel world keeps us apart. Experts say there are three events that could trigger a worldwide cataclysm. One—the sun burns out. Two—an asteroid impact destroys the atmosphere. Three—Tyra Banks marries a white man.”
Maven thought about it, and agreed. “I think three would cause the most typhoons.”
Ricky watched his goddess on a flickering four-inch screen. “She should wear stretchier tops.”
A pickup stopped outside, the driver bald, leather-jacketed, with the extremity of a tattoo—something dull, blue, penal—visible at the sides of his neck. He left the pickup running with a pit bull sitting in the front seat, came in, paid cash for a box of Phillies Blunts and some beef jerky, then drove off feeding the jerky to the dog.
The prison tat jumped out at Maven, got him feeling that nervous energy again. Beyond all his qualms, beyond all the questions he still had, beyond the voice in his head telling him, Don’t, he was undeniably excited. He couldn’t wait for his shift to be over. For the new day to begin.
He had gone into this thing wanting to know more about Danielle Vetti, and instead found himself beguiled by Brad Royce.
Ricky said, his mouth full of Sour Patch Kids, “You’re not eating tonight?”
Maven shook his head. Tomorrow Man. “I’m thinking about trying to get back into shape.”
That straightened Ricky. “You’re going to reenlist,” he said, as though it were something he had been dreading all along.
Maven smiled and shook his head, looking out the window again, searching the sky for signs of dawn.
R ATS D ANCE
T HE SIGHT OF HANDGUNS ON THE HOTEL ROOM BED JOLTED M AVEN . He hadn’t seen a plain-view hot weapon since returning to the States. In Eden, they were standard-issue, like bottles of water. Here in a Back Bay hotel room, a pistol loaded with live rounds looked like a bomb waiting to go off.
He geared up with the others. Royce provided him with soft tactical body armor that fit all right, except for riding up into his throat when he wanted to sit down. The vest had full-wrap protection, critical for close-quarter engagements, when an arms-out gun stance left the sides of the torso vulnerable. Because soft body armor did a decent job of fragmenting pistol bullets but repelled rifle fire about as effectively as a wool sweater, Maven was used to wearing ceramic plates in the front and back pockets. So the vest felt light and almost silly, like wearing a life preserver indoors.
A patch was Velcro’ed onto the vest front, wide and rectangular. Maven started to pull on it when Royce’s hand touched his arm. “Later,” he said, handing Maven shooting gloves made of neopreneand synthetic leather, and a police-blue windbreaker long enough to hide his belt holster.
Maven stepped to the corner and drew his sidearm, a Sig Sauer 225. He was familiar with the weapon, knowing, for example, that the 225 was manufactured without a safety. He pressed the side button and caught the magazine as it ejected from the grip. He racked the slide and found the firing chamber empty, then racked it a few more times, trusting that it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. He then thumbed the rounds out of the magazine, counting eight, a full load for the 225. He fed them back inside the magazine, one by one against the spring,
She came out to applause, turning on her big Tyra smile, playing surprise at the warmth of the reception, putting a flat hand to her breathless, voluptuous chest, then pursing her lips in a kiss.
“There. The air kiss. That’s our little signal.”
Maven looked at skinny Ricky hunched over before the small screen. “Your signal?”
“This cruel world keeps us apart. Experts say there are three events that could trigger a worldwide cataclysm. One—the sun burns out. Two—an asteroid impact destroys the atmosphere. Three—Tyra Banks marries a white man.”
Maven thought about it, and agreed. “I think three would cause the most typhoons.”
Ricky watched his goddess on a flickering four-inch screen. “She should wear stretchier tops.”
A pickup stopped outside, the driver bald, leather-jacketed, with the extremity of a tattoo—something dull, blue, penal—visible at the sides of his neck. He left the pickup running with a pit bull sitting in the front seat, came in, paid cash for a box of Phillies Blunts and some beef jerky, then drove off feeding the jerky to the dog.
The prison tat jumped out at Maven, got him feeling that nervous energy again. Beyond all his qualms, beyond all the questions he still had, beyond the voice in his head telling him, Don’t, he was undeniably excited. He couldn’t wait for his shift to be over. For the new day to begin.
He had gone into this thing wanting to know more about Danielle Vetti, and instead found himself beguiled by Brad Royce.
Ricky said, his mouth full of Sour Patch Kids, “You’re not eating tonight?”
Maven shook his head. Tomorrow Man. “I’m thinking about trying to get back into shape.”
That straightened Ricky. “You’re going to reenlist,” he said, as though it were something he had been dreading all along.
Maven smiled and shook his head, looking out the window again, searching the sky for signs of dawn.
R ATS D ANCE
T HE SIGHT OF HANDGUNS ON THE HOTEL ROOM BED JOLTED M AVEN . He hadn’t seen a plain-view hot weapon since returning to the States. In Eden, they were standard-issue, like bottles of water. Here in a Back Bay hotel room, a pistol loaded with live rounds looked like a bomb waiting to go off.
He geared up with the others. Royce provided him with soft tactical body armor that fit all right, except for riding up into his throat when he wanted to sit down. The vest had full-wrap protection, critical for close-quarter engagements, when an arms-out gun stance left the sides of the torso vulnerable. Because soft body armor did a decent job of fragmenting pistol bullets but repelled rifle fire about as effectively as a wool sweater, Maven was used to wearing ceramic plates in the front and back pockets. So the vest felt light and almost silly, like wearing a life preserver indoors.
A patch was Velcro’ed onto the vest front, wide and rectangular. Maven started to pull on it when Royce’s hand touched his arm. “Later,” he said, handing Maven shooting gloves made of neopreneand synthetic leather, and a police-blue windbreaker long enough to hide his belt holster.
Maven stepped to the corner and drew his sidearm, a Sig Sauer 225. He was familiar with the weapon, knowing, for example, that the 225 was manufactured without a safety. He pressed the side button and caught the magazine as it ejected from the grip. He racked the slide and found the firing chamber empty, then racked it a few more times, trusting that it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. He then thumbed the rounds out of the magazine, counting eight, a full load for the 225. He fed them back inside the magazine, one by one against the spring,
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