Jagger and Jacopo both groaned.
“Seriously,” I said. “I think it’s a great place to get intel on the bad guys.”
“And . . .” Jagger drawled.
“I think I should I go in.”
Jacopo extended a hand without losing control of his weapon. “Pay up.”
“Over beer,” Jagger said.
“Only a woman could ride in, blend in, offer a helpful hand, and get intel. And I’m the only woman here. I’m hard to kill,” I added. And if I needed, I could take the DRs over. Make them mine. It would take time. It would screw up my sense of morality. But to save myself, I’d do it. The guys didn’t reply. The bet said they had known what I would be proposing going in.
My bits-and-pieces comms came on line with scattered background noise.
Cupcake said, “Amos and I are on site. Coming up on your six. Do me a favor and don’t shoot us.”
My nanos settled even more and I said, “Cupcake and Amos are joining us.”
Jacopo said, “Cats are on site. Somehow they got into the diner. The gray one caught a rat in mid-leap.”
“Spy’s the best hunter-cat in the destruction,” I said, proud of the young female.
Footsteps sounded behind us. Cupcake stretched out beside Jagger. Amos took a seat near Jacopo, saying, “Logan Jagger, she’s mine. Hands off.”
Jagger chuckled but said nothing. Amos had ridden with the HA as supplemental support until he met Cupcake. He knew just how much to needle a National Enforcer, and how much to stand back.
Over EntNu and the patchwork comms, Mateo said, “Going dark. Will drop off gear at the bottom of your hill and take up a location on the hill behind you.”
“Copy that,” I said. And Jagger said. And Jacopo said. We were a chorus of agreement.
There were a lot of chiefs and not a lot of troops. I said, “Cupcake, how well do you think we can pretend to be a cook and waitress.”
“And flirt,” Cupcake said.
Amos growled. Like—a real bear-growl or wolf growl. A “hands off” growl.
“For intel, Big Man,” Cupcake said, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “I bet we can be pretty damn good,” she added to me.
Mateo said, “I’ll be in place, two clicks away from your twenty, in ten minutes. I can block all long-range transmissions except the channel Jolene and I are on, and tie into everyone’s on site. Jolene, drone is now on site and able to listen in on enemy chatter and regurgitate it to me. The DRs are hungry and want breakfast.”
“Four cats have reconnoitered inside and are now outside with the DRs,” Jacopo said. “All on visual.”
Concentrating on Spy, I reached for that mental thing she did with me sometimes, where I could see through her eyes. I got nothing. Either she was being difficult, as cats often are, or she had nothing to share.
I scooted away from the crest of the hill and stood, dusting off my clothes, removing my kutte, and fluffing my hair. I put on fresh orange lipstick and unbuttoned the top buttonsof my shirt. Cupcake fluffed herself too, running her fingers through her blond hair and batting her blue eyes at me the way she did with Amos. It was her best flirting move. She was wearing a blue shirt that showed cleavage and she smeared on bright pink lipstick.
I unloaded all the weapons from my body and my bike, leaving only a Laser Target Designator for Mateo to home in on in case we needed something blown up, and small ancient handgun dangling by a strap on the handle bars. No one carried a weapon this way, and it made us look stupid which was the goal. I made sure the safety was on, so I didn’t shoot one of us by accident.
“My bike,” I said, to my friend. “You’re bitch seat.”
“Of course I am,” she said. “I’m the pretty one.”
She was right. I was a five, maybe a seven on a really good day, with makeup. Right now I had road dust and helmet hair, even with the finger ruffling. Jagger rolled over partway from his prone position and met my eyes. That electric something flashed between us. It was heated, and intense, and more than I wanted to inspect. I set the helmet on the ground, pulled my orange sunglasses over my eyes, and straddled my stripped-down ride.
Keying on the bike, Cupcake settled in behind me, her thighs around mine.
“No helmets?” she asked.
