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His “work” here was a sore subject, and now wasn’t the time to prod it. “Age difference?” I said. “How old
is she?” Rachel looked like she was in her twenties, but that didn’t mean a whole lot when it came to zombies.
“About seventy years old,” he said. “She was an army nurse during the Vietnam war. One day she was in a medivac chopper with two wounded men and a third soldier. The chopper got shot down, and Rachel was hurt pretty badly. So was the soldier. But then—”
“Ooh! This is Pierce, right? No, wait. He was Francis back then.”
He gave me a sour look. “You’re ruining my story.”
“It’s a little predictable,” I said. “The soldier was Francis-Pietro-Pierce, and he turned Rachel, and she’s been with him ever since.”
Marcus heaved a sigh. “You’re leaving out all the tension, and the horror when she sees him eat the brains of the dead pilot. But yes, he turned her yadda yadda.”
“Wait a sec. I thought Rachel hated Kyle because, back when he was a Saberton operative, he killed her father? How is that possible if she’s seventy-something years old? Did Kyle take out a ninety-year-old dude? He’s only been a zombie for a few years, so it’s not like he was working ops half a century ago.”
“She hates him. That’s for sure.” He sobered. “But the man Kyle killed was actually Rachel’s son, who was nine years old when her unit was deployed to Vietnam—and in his fifties when he died.”
“Ouch,” I said. “I can’t even imagine what it must be like to have your kid die—no matter how old they are. I guess I should get over my own dislike of her.”
“I think you’d like her, Angel,” Marcus said. “And I’m not just saying that. She’s a survivor. Like you.”
The unexpected compliment warmed me all the way through. “Thanks.”
“Speaking of surviving, I know you probably want to stay here with Nick, but I think you should go to NuQuesCor when we swap out security people.”
I started to protest then sighed. “You’re right. The best thing I can do is help Dr. Nikas.”
He chuckled. “That was easier than I thought it would be. I didn’t even have to point out that you’d get to ride in the helicopter.”
“Ooooooooooooooooooo!”
“Be out back in”—he checked his watch—“half an hour.”
“Will do!”
“Oh, and you might want to consider a change of clothes first. Maybe even a shower?”
I looked down at my raggedy crop-top shirt and bloody, ripped pants. “You make good sense.”
“I do try.”
Chapter 32
I took a super-quick shower to wash off blood and muck then changed into my last pair of clean jeans and a borrowed scrub top. Reno’s Double Dime Diner punch card—with the mystery letters and numbers—went into my jeans pocket, and the ruined fatigue pants got tossed into the trash.
My phone rang as I was shoving my toothbrush into its travel case. My house landline, which meant it was Kang. “Hey, dude. What’s up?”
“Just had a visitor.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Like, a knock-on-the-door kind of visitor? It’s not even six a.m.”
“Exactly like that,” he said. “An FBI agent who wanted to talk to both you and your dad.”
Fuck. “Lemme guess. Special Agent Sorsha Aberdeen?”
“That’s her. She flashed her ID when I opened the door.”
Double fuck. “What did you tell her?”
