A chorus of low affirmatives rolled through the room.
I reached for the key at my throat again, thumb pressing into the metal hard enough to hurt. Itgrounded me.
“Then let’s go,” Blackjack said.
***
Gearing up is its own kind of ritual.
Back in the main room, the atmosphere had shifted. Less lounging. More loading. Men moved with purpose instead of killing time. Pistols checked and holstered. Shotguns racked. Extra mags slid into cuts when possible. The metallic clicks and snaps had a cadence I could’ve walked to with my eyes closed.
I headed for the side table where we’d started keeping shared gear. Jersey reached for the same box of extra mags at the same time I did.
Our fingers brushed.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything. I’d been covered in other people’s blood with this man. I’d bled with him. Cried into his shirt in a shower that felt like it belonged in somebody else’s life.
Still, something tightened low in my chest at the contact.
I pulled my hand back half an inch. He didn’t move away. Just held the box up so I could grab what I needed first, before him.
“Ready for a field trip?” he asked.
“You say that like we’re going to a museum,” I said.
“Maybe we are,” he said.
“Let’s make sure it doesn’t double as ourmausoleum.”
He studied my face for half a second. “We’ll walk out,” he said.
“Confident.”
“Stubborn,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Miami crutched past us toward the little room off the hallway where they’d set up a bigger monitor and Blackjack’s laptop for camera duty. Quinn stayed glued to his side, hand on his back.
“Miami,” I called.
He glanced back.
“Stay vigilant.”
“I will,” he said. “And stay breathing. Somebody’s got to make sure Jersey doesn’t get lost in the pretty lights.”
Jersey threw him a middle finger.
Miami smirked.
Quinn smacked his shoulder lightly. “Focus on the screens, idiot.”
He winked at her and disappeared into the camera room.
Snake Eyes and Spade were already at the door, helmets in hand. Turnpike rolled his shoulders, his new patch catching the light when he moved. Priest checked something in his med kit and snapped it closed.
We moved.
Outside, the air hit cool and salty. The yard lights threw harsh white circles across theconcrete. Bikes sat lined up like war horses, chrome dull under the weight of everything riding them.
