Page 10 of Fixed Asset

“What?”

“Just surprised.”

Now I was getting annoyed. “That I know the difference between an RXM and PX4?”

Fallon’s eyebrow winged up.

“Fuck no. I’m just surprised you have shit taste like your boy in platforms. The RXM is a total Glock knockoff. I took you for someone who would appreciate a G-type decocker.”

“We got ten heavily armed men converging on us; maybe you two gun nerds should wait to debate striker fire versus hammers after we put them down,” Pete suggested.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

Mason was coming my way with two rifles slung over his shoulder, a vest in one hand, and the RXM in the other. Gone was his sexy-beach-bum persona as he morphed into untouchable warrior.

“Here. It’s gonna be big on you but it’s better than nothing. Mag pouches are full.” He held out the vest. I took it and quickly put it on.

I ran my hands over the pouches, getting a feel for where my reloads were. The vest was set up differently from how I normally kept mine, but there was no time to reorganize. I pulled the straps on the sides as far as I could, but it was still huge.

“This isn’t going to work. It’ll bounce around when I run.”

I was pulling back a Velcro strap when Jack’s hand knocked mine out of the way, and he refastened the cummerbund.

“It stays on.”

“Jack—”

Suddenly we were nose to nose.

“It . . . stays . . . on.”

The tiny pauses between each word with the added enunciation left no room for argument.

“Fine. But if a thirty-round mag busts my lips, I’m blaming you.”

“You bust your lip, I’ll kiss it better. You take a round to the chest without a plate, I’ll be pissed.”

“They breached the fence. Time to roll out,” Pete commanded.

Jack stepped back.

Mason handed me the RXM, shoved my arm through the tactical strap of the M4, and told me, “They’re both chambered.”

“Locked and loaded and ready to go,” Fallon called out.

As a team, the men made their way to the van with Pete leading the way. I was sandwiched between Fallon in front of me and Jack behind me.

Jack was helping me into the van when it dawned on me . . .

“Where’s your kit?”

“Guns are already in the van.”

“Where’s your vest?”

“You’re wearing it.”

With that, he slid the metal door closed in my face.