Nope.Nope.That pendulum swung too far in the opposite direction. This is bad. I need help.
I need to take a cold shower.
I finally get a hold of myself long enough to perform a lobotomy and do some quick calculations.We’re at least ten miles out from the first location, where the suspects were originally reported in action, and it occurs to me, without warning, that I don’t even know Rosabelle’s birthday. It further occurs to me that I should ask her. That now is probably the best time to ask her.
Shut up, I tell myself.Shut up.
Ten miles would take us forever on foot. The hospital is even farther out. That means we’re going to need to steal a car. Correction: borrow a car.
I’ll definitely give it back.
But we need to make a decision, now.
Rosabelle releases the magazine on her gun, and I turn in time to see her checking the ammo before sliding it back into place with a satisfyingclick. “Why is all your tech and weaponry so old?” she says. “How can you afford to continue manufacturing bullets?”
“Hey, when’s your birthday?” I say, then turn toward the wall in mute horror, squeezing my eyes shut, wanting to kick my own ass.
“My birthday?” she echoes, surprised.
“Yeah,” I say tightly, like this is normal. I wonder how hard I can hit my head against the wall without causing myself permanent brain damage.
“James,” she says. “If you don’t like my plan you can just say so. We can discuss it. You don’t have to distract me with random questions.”
“That’s not what—”
“I just happen to think you have more rats in your house than you realize. I’m worried you’re relying on unsecured sitreps for critical updates.”
Okay, this actually resets my head.
I turn to face her. “You really don’t think I can trust the people in my own command center?”
She considers the question, studying me a moment before saying, finally, “I’d advise you to be cautious in every instance going forward. Choose your trusted circle carefully; vet everyone else thoroughly. And doubt everything you hear.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You think the situation is that bad?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
“Have you gotten any messages from your brother?” she asks.
“Who? Warner?”
“Yes,” she says.
“No.”
“Nothing at all?” she says.
“No.”
She thinks this over. “I maintain that we take up positions at the first location. You said it was some kind of a warehouse?” she asks, folding back the too-long sleeves on her borrowed jacket.
My jacket.
My heart beats harder as I look at her. I briefly lose focus again. There’s something about seeing her in my clothes—seeing her so comfortable in my clothes—that activates a deep and primal response in my body. She could probably ask me for anything right now. Fuck a jacket, I’d give her an organ. Any organ. She can pick the organ.
A single word is building inside of me, over and over, like a pulse in my throat.
