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Pierce glowered as I nodded agreement. “Well, if that’s the only thing in season right now, we don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
“No, it’s all good,” I said. “Y’see, nuisance animals are legal to hunt year-round. And because of the floods last year, feral hogs are a huge problem. Coyotes, too. It’s totally plausible to be hunting those in the swamp, from a boat.”
Pierce’s glower vanished. “Okay. Good. That works.” He paused. “Thanks.”
I inclined my head in acknowledgement.
Marcus made notes on a pad. “Everyone needs current hunting licenses, in case we get stopped by Wildlife and Fisheries. We can buy them online and print out the E-licenses.”
“I have a lifetime license,” I said, hiding a smile at Marcus’s look of surprise. Back when Randy and I were dating, his dad had taken us deer hunting. I was eighteen and had never gone hunting for a darn thing in my life, but obediently froze my ass off in a deer stand and then insisted to Mr. Winger I’d had fun, because it was clear he’d really wanted me to enjoy it. Not long after that, he went ahead and spent the several hundred bucks on a lifetime permit for me, because he knew me and my dad couldn’t afford even the basic annual license. I went out several times more with him and Randy, and though I never developed a love for hunting, I found a respect for it. I even made sure to get a replacement license after I lost the original in the flood. Seemed wrong not to.
“I have one, too,” Naomi said then grinned. “Never know when a hunting license will come in handy during an op.”
Marcus laughed under his breath. “Well, the rest of us will have to settle for cheap and basic.” He jotted down the names of everyone who needed a license. “All right, that should do it. We’ll meet in the garage tomorrow at oh-four-thirty. And yes, Angel, that’s still in the morning.”
“Damn.”
Chapter 8
My alarm went off at 4 a.m., and when I finished cursing, I flipped on the lights. That sparked another round of cursing, but it kept me from falling asleep again. When my eyes finally adjusted, I found a pair of boots and a pile of neatly folded clothing on the chair by the bed. Kinda freaky to realize someone had crept into my room while I was sleeping, but hey, new threads!
Ten minutes later, I was clothed and booted in the camo hunting gear—xx-small that actually fit me. With teeth clean, bladder emptied, and hair shoved into a mostly neat ponytail, I took a detour to the kitchen for a ham and egg sandwich and still made it to the garage by quarter after.
The enormous garage. Large enough to hold a dozen vehicles with room to spare, and secured by a double set of heavy security doors. Halfway across the garage, Marcus and Pierce conferred near the back of a dark blue Chevy Tahoe. Not far away were Brian, Rosario, and Marla. I hustled over to them. At least Naomi wasn’t here yet, which meant I wasn’t last.
Rosario crouched to adjust Marla’s harness, black tactical pants stretching tight over his scrumptious ass. Yep, that right there was why I’d dubbed him “Tactical Pants Man” before I even knew his name. Sexist as hell, but damn. It was truly a work of art.
The door from the lab opened behind me, and I spun, ready to gloat at Naomi for beating her here. But my salty comment died away at the sight of the tall black woman striding in. Rachel Delancey, wearing camo pants and a black t-shirt. A jacket was draped over one arm, and her long braids had been pulled back into a tight knot.
Ugh. If Rachel was here, it meant Naomi was too sick to come. Which sucked. Naomi was fun and cool. Rachel hated my guts. And now it looked like I was going to be stuck in a boat with her for hours.
I summoned a bright smile. “Hi, Rachel. Is Naomi coming, too?” If the universe really loved me, Naomi would be totally recovered, and Rachel would simply be a last-minute addition. A girl could dream, right?
“Dr. Nikas scrubbed her from the op for medical reasons,” Rachel replied coolly then continued past without waiting for a reply.
Through sheer force of will, I managed to resist the urge to flip her off. She walked up to Marcus, and I braced myself for a sho
w of affection between the two. About a month ago, I’d discovered they were an item. Sure, Marcus and I had broken up quite some time ago, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get my back up if he decided to be with someone who disliked me so intensely.
Yet, to my surprise, the expected kiss didn’t happen. No clasped hands or lingering touch. Hell, not even a sultry look. It didn’t seem as if they were simply being professional, either. Nope, that flame was gone. Interesting.
“Is everyone ready?” Pierce asked.
I raised my hand. “What about food and lifejackets and stuff?”
“Food, weapons, brains, and other necessities have already been loaded up.” He gestured to the Tahoe. “Boats and lifejackets and special equipment will be waiting for us at the training ground. Any other questions? Good. Let’s roll out.”
• • •
The Tribe’s wetland property was only twenty minutes away as the crow flies, but when the crow instead had to navigate a series of remote highways and decrepit back roads, it took closer to forty minutes.
At long last we turned onto the dirt road that, in another two miles, would end where we trained in paintball tactical exercises—and where Judd had come after me for the second time. But after only half a mile, Pierce hung a left onto a deeply rutted lane that bounced us around for several more minutes before ending in a gravel lot.
A white pickup sat waiting, headlights casting stark shadows across scrub grass and slash pines and smooth water. Pierce didn’t seem surprised it was there, which told me it probably held the rest of the equipment we needed.
I climbed out of the Tahoe with the others, stretching after the less-than-gentle ride. Stars glimmered in a moonless sky, and a low breeze brought the scent of stagnant water. A damp chill came as well, and I hurried to pull my jacket on. Fortunately for me, mosquitoes weren’t attracted to zombie blood. Rosario wasn’t as lucky though, and moved quickly away to douse himself and Marla in repellent.
The driver of the pickup stepped out—a stocky, brown man of middle-eastern descent, smiling brightly despite the early hour.
