Spy soared to the top of the cab and glared at me through the armored windshield. Without my asking, Cupcake turned the music up to cover the screams, and I opened my door. All the cats raced up, supple as silk, and jumped in. Except Spy. Limber and willowy, she walked across the hood to the open door, holding my gaze as if to make a point. She judged the distance and flew across, twisting in midair, and landed on my lap, an impossible leap-landing. Her claws dug in. She hissed.
“I have armor,” I said to her, maybe a tad too complacent.
She hissed again and sprang away. I figured I was doomed. She’d get me back for whatever she was mad about. As long as she didn’t hock up a hairball and deposit it on my pillow. I banished that thought and filled my head with images of tins of salmon, just in case she could read my mind. I closed the door. Cupcake turned down the music.
Minutes later, Amos clambered into the back and made himself comfy on his recliner.
Jagger motored up to us on his bike, pointed down the road, and took the lead. Into my earbuds, he said, “I’ll call the local Law at dawn with an anonymous tip. Gretchen will turn over the name of Deputy Darson, but not until he’s in my hands.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Any of Marconi’s men come here?”
Jagger hummed a note that might be an affirmative.
“Listen, Asshole, you can’t pretend that sex camp back there didn’t happen. Anyone who visited that camp and abused those people—”
“Will be dealt with. Part of the negotiations between Marconi and the OMWs.”
“But—”
“None of your business, Shining. I’ll handle it.”
My thrall had just shut me down. And he wasn’t even polite about it.
That was so bloody cool.
???
An hour outside of Charleston, my armor ran out of power and turned into a rock-hard solid piece of sculpture. It compressed into my middle like a seatbelt combined with an old-fashioned girdle. The pressure instantly made me have to pee, but I had to get out of my armor to do that. Desperate, I ripped one hand free. I lost a little skin. I left behind a little blood at the wrist joint, but the suit would be decontaminated once we got back to the hotel, and Mateo would have to decontam the cab after this trip anyway. The other hand was easier. I didn’t bleed on that one.
“What are you doing?” Cupcake asked as we bounced over ruts in the road.
I gave a grunt, lifted a leg up to the dash (which did terrible things to my bladder) and started on my right toes, manually unhinging the armor. The armor resisted. Clearly, I wasn’t doing it right, but I was growing frantic.
Spy and her crew took up positions on the dash and stared with intense interest at what I was doing. Occasionally they touched heads one to another. The black male cat thought I’d appreciate how limber he was, so he lifted a leg in the air and cleaned his unneutered privates. Which (again) I did not need to see.
Slowly my leg came free. When I got to my hip, I started twisting and bending in ways my bones were not designed to accommodate. Spy and her clowder thought I was hilarious and made little chuffing noises.
“As soon as I get one arm free, I’ll slap all of you,” I threatened. That made them chuff harder. Spy showed me her teeth in what communicated clearly, “Try me.” It took a lot of work, but I finally got my leg and the necessary parts free of the fancy armor and dragged the rest of me to the composting toilet in back. I tore my undies trying to get them off. “Bloody damn,” I muttered. The cats gathered around and watched, out of range of my hands or feet. I know. I tried to swat them. But the relief was immediate.
Getting back to my seat, I started working on the other leg. Mildly, Cupcake asked, “Are you trying to get your armor off?”
“What the bloody hell does it look like I’m doing?” I snapped.
“Mmm. Well. See the little silvery disk-shaped thing under either arm? That’s a little viber. Press the oval spot in the center with a finger.”
I glared at her. Touched the oval spot. Felt the spot shiver a little as the suit compared my identity with the primary initialization. There were little clicks all down my body. The suit fell off me. “You didn’t think that might be useful information for me to have?” I demanded.
“You don’t like it when we smother you.” Cupcake changed gears, slowed, and we bumped over a big rut in the road. I bounced in the seat, nearly banging my head. “It isn’t my job to tell you things unless I know you want me to.”
I opened my mouth to argue but snapped it shut. She had a point.
“You know how to talk. You can ask,” she said.
“You tell her, sugah,” Jolene said into the rig’s speakers. “All that moping and growling is just a case of bad manners. Yo’ mama taught you better.”
“You clearly never met Little Mama. She taught me to stand up for myself. And how to throw knives.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but some part of me was enjoying the burgeoning argument.Argument. My thrall (make that thralls)—Jolene and Cupcake—were arguing with me.Hallelujah.
“I bet good green money your mama taught you to say please and thank you and yes sir and yes ma’am,” Jolene said.
