won’t be prepped to fly for another two hours. They’re still loading the cell to contain Simmons.”
I gave that one about a moment’s thought. It had come to my attention in the last couple years that the U.S. Government was exceedingly well equipped for transferring metahuman prisoners, considering they had purportedly been out of that business since the 1990s. I’d seen blueprints detailing about thirty different types of meta restraint devices, useful both for short-term prisoner transfer and long-term containment. It was a little disconcerting, but I suppose we hadn’t gotten in trillions of dollars of debt just spending $500 per hammer.
“So we’ve time to kill,” I said, and heard a faint rumbling in my stomach. I hadn’t gotten my coffee, and worse, now I was hungry. “Suggestions?” I asked, not really sure what would come back.
“Shawarma?” Reed asked, and at first I thought he was joking.
It made me a little angry, no lie. “You ass,” I said. Then I thought about it for a minute, and—dammit—the idea held some appeal. When else was I going to get a chance to try shawarma? “Is there a shawarma joint around here?” I asked, a little cautiously.
Reed’s answer came back with an obvious smile leaking into his voice. “I know a place.”
9.
The shawarma wasn’t bad, but it would have been better if Eric Simmons hadn’t woken up about halfway through the meal.
The smell of the meat filled the air, wafted through my nose, and every bite was a deeply satisfying antidote to my rumbling stomach. Reed stared at me from across the table. Simmons was next to us, unconscious in the seat at the end of the table, bound hand and foot with meta restraints.
When Simmons opened an eye, I sighed. I had been enjoying myself, even though I’d been watching him like a paranoid person the entire time. As I should have.
“What … the hell?” he asked, sitting up in his chair. It was pretty obvious when he came to, not just because of the eye-opening, but also because his neck had been drooping back, his body slack, and that changed in a second. He sat up with a start, taking it all in with a confused and befuddled look.
“It’s called lunch,” I said, taking a bite of my shawarma. “If you’re good, you’ll get some. If you’re not, I’ll club you unconscious and leave you drooling blood on the floor while we eat.”
He blinked his eyes at me, as though I were a blast of harsh daylight after he’d spent a month in a tunnel. Sorta true, I guess. “Sienna Nealon,” he muttered and lowered his head.
“That’s me,” I said, pausing to take another bite. I spoke as I chewed. Rude, I know, but I was hungry. “You want to make our lives easier and tell us who your girlfriend is and where we can find her?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Simmons said sullenly, his face going slack and falling. He cased the area around us in seconds, looking for an easy escape route. Not finding one, he drew his eyes back to me.
“Would you like more to drink?” The waitress appeared over Rocha’s shoulder, pitcher in hand. She spoke with a slight accent, nothing too heavy.
“Hey,” Simmons said and broke into a grin. She looked over at him uncertainly; the place was near empty except for us and the staff. “Would you like a big tip?” His grin got wider. “Or would you like the whole thing—”
I lashed out and kicked his chair out from under him, sending him to the floor. I enjoyed a flood of satisfaction at the panicked look on his face as he hit that moment of weightlessness when he reflexively knew his chair was gone and he was falling but his conscious mind hadn’t worked out what had happened quite yet. He hit the ground and all the air rushed out of him. I was on top of him a second later and slammed a fist into his jaw. “Be polite,” I cautioned him, menace edging into my voice. “Don’t be a pig.”
“Damn, girl!” he moaned, cracking his body as he took assessment of
I gave that one about a moment’s thought. It had come to my attention in the last couple years that the U.S. Government was exceedingly well equipped for transferring metahuman prisoners, considering they had purportedly been out of that business since the 1990s. I’d seen blueprints detailing about thirty different types of meta restraint devices, useful both for short-term prisoner transfer and long-term containment. It was a little disconcerting, but I suppose we hadn’t gotten in trillions of dollars of debt just spending $500 per hammer.
“So we’ve time to kill,” I said, and heard a faint rumbling in my stomach. I hadn’t gotten my coffee, and worse, now I was hungry. “Suggestions?” I asked, not really sure what would come back.
“Shawarma?” Reed asked, and at first I thought he was joking.
It made me a little angry, no lie. “You ass,” I said. Then I thought about it for a minute, and—dammit—the idea held some appeal. When else was I going to get a chance to try shawarma? “Is there a shawarma joint around here?” I asked, a little cautiously.
Reed’s answer came back with an obvious smile leaking into his voice. “I know a place.”
9.
The shawarma wasn’t bad, but it would have been better if Eric Simmons hadn’t woken up about halfway through the meal.
The smell of the meat filled the air, wafted through my nose, and every bite was a deeply satisfying antidote to my rumbling stomach. Reed stared at me from across the table. Simmons was next to us, unconscious in the seat at the end of the table, bound hand and foot with meta restraints.
When Simmons opened an eye, I sighed. I had been enjoying myself, even though I’d been watching him like a paranoid person the entire time. As I should have.
“What … the hell?” he asked, sitting up in his chair. It was pretty obvious when he came to, not just because of the eye-opening, but also because his neck had been drooping back, his body slack, and that changed in a second. He sat up with a start, taking it all in with a confused and befuddled look.
“It’s called lunch,” I said, taking a bite of my shawarma. “If you’re good, you’ll get some. If you’re not, I’ll club you unconscious and leave you drooling blood on the floor while we eat.”
He blinked his eyes at me, as though I were a blast of harsh daylight after he’d spent a month in a tunnel. Sorta true, I guess. “Sienna Nealon,” he muttered and lowered his head.
“That’s me,” I said, pausing to take another bite. I spoke as I chewed. Rude, I know, but I was hungry. “You want to make our lives easier and tell us who your girlfriend is and where we can find her?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Simmons said sullenly, his face going slack and falling. He cased the area around us in seconds, looking for an easy escape route. Not finding one, he drew his eyes back to me.
“Would you like more to drink?” The waitress appeared over Rocha’s shoulder, pitcher in hand. She spoke with a slight accent, nothing too heavy.
“Hey,” Simmons said and broke into a grin. She looked over at him uncertainly; the place was near empty except for us and the staff. “Would you like a big tip?” His grin got wider. “Or would you like the whole thing—”
I lashed out and kicked his chair out from under him, sending him to the floor. I enjoyed a flood of satisfaction at the panicked look on his face as he hit that moment of weightlessness when he reflexively knew his chair was gone and he was falling but his conscious mind hadn’t worked out what had happened quite yet. He hit the ground and all the air rushed out of him. I was on top of him a second later and slammed a fist into his jaw. “Be polite,” I cautioned him, menace edging into my voice. “Don’t be a pig.”
“Damn, girl!” he moaned, cracking his body as he took assessment of
Similar Books
