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She took aim at the coyote picture.
She squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked in her hand.
The explosion was so much louder than it was on TV or in movies. It sounded like the whole world had blown up.
She walked forward, feeling a little shaky, to check the target. Nothing. She had missed. The FAYZ wall behind the target was unscathed, of course.
Lana took aim more carefully. She’d watched Edilio training his people. She knew the basics. She centered the front target in the middle of the rear target, made sure the top edge of front and back targets were level. Then she lowered the gun until the sights rested just beneath the coyote’s head.
She fired.
When she walked forward this time she found a hole in the target. Not precisely where she had aimed. But not too far off, either.
The hole in that paper filled her with pleasure.
“Looks like you have a boo-boo, Pack Leader.”
Lana fired two clips’ worth of ammunition at the target. She hit only half the time, but that was better than hitting not at all.
When she was done she could barely hear for the ringing in her ears. Her hands were sore and bruised. She could easily heal the bruising. But she kind of liked the feeling and what it represented.
Lana carefully reloaded both clips, slid one back into the gun, and put the gun in her backpack.
Come to me. I have need of you.
She slung the pack over her shoulder. The sun was going down, casting pale orange shadows against the gray of the FAYZ wall.
Tomorrow. She would be there soon.
SIXTEEN
22 HOURS, 41 MINUTES
SHE DIDN’T WANT to cut off her hair. She liked her hair long. But Diana took Caine’s threat seriously. She had to deliver Jack.
So she stood before the mirror and lifted the electric clippers she’d found in the bedroom closet of the former headmaster. There was no point in subtlety, no need to fool with scissors and mirror for
hours.
The clippers made a strangely pleasing buzz. They changed pitch each time she pushed the blade into a tuft of hair.
In less than fifteen minutes her dark hair was in the sink and spilling out onto the floor. Her head was covered in a half-inch-long black burr that made her look like Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta.
She scooped the hair into a trash can and rinsed the sink.
Next she began removing the last traces of makeup from her eyes. There was nothing much she could do about the sculpted eyebrows. However, there was plenty she could do about clothing. Laid out on her bed was a black World of Warcraft T-shirt two sizes too big, a gray hoodie, a pair of baggy boy’s jeans, and a pair of boy’s sneakers. She kept her own underthings. There was such a thing as getting too deep into the part, after all.
She dressed quickly and stood back to check the results in the full-length mirror that hung behind the closet door.
She was still obviously a girl. From a distance she might pass, but up close, no way.
She analyzed the problem. It wasn’t her body; that was covered effectively. The problem was that she simply had a girl’s face. The nose, the eyes, the lips, even the teeth.
“Not much I can do about my mouth,” she whispered to her reflection. “Except not smile.”
Then, as if arguing with her own reflection, she said, “You never smile, anyway.”
