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“We’ll make them burn, Star,” I vowed.
A soft chuckle sounded in my ear. “I like you, Glitter.”
“Don’t start, D, and don’t use that fucking name or I’ll call you Lucinda.”
“Children, less bickering,” Troy rumbled, but she sounded amused.
These women.
“They’re not going to blow us up yet. Not until they think they can get the answers they need,” Star mused.
“So we get to them first?” D questioned.
“We need a distraction,” I stated. “So that Troy can get down and can use the flame thrower without self-immolating in the process.”
This was turning into a game of Grand Theft Auto and I wasn’t happy about it.
“What kind of magic can you do for us, Conor?” D chirped.
As I riffled through the bag of tricks that was Troy’s security, I hummed. “Get ready for your ears to feel like they’re going to burst.”
Troy cackled so she knew where I was going with this, but she cursed with the rest of us as a high-pitched siren flooded the air, horrific enough to make ears bleed. The noise-canceling feature on our EarPods likely wouldn’t protect us for long though.
Into the melee, Star and Dead To Me fired rounds at the car, battering it until it looked like an oversized cheese grater. Into that chaos, I saw Troy climb down from her nest, a flame thrower in her hands.
Studying her position, I watched as she neared their vehicle, and then, and only then, did I disconnect the alarm.
And I watched her roast some Sparrows for dinner.
2
STAR
PLEASE DON’T SAY YOU LOVE ME - GABRIELLE ARLIN
I’d known we’d be able to pick them off quickly, but there was always a fear that something could go wrong—it had before—and there was always a fear when you had someone you loved in on the action that they could get hurt.
In this instance, not only was Conor on the ground with me, the only man I’d ever loved, but D was too. She was my BFF and the singular person in this world, until Conor, who accepted me—warts, verrucas, zits, and all.
Knowing we were safe for the moment, I sagged with relief against the wall where I was positioned beneath a window. But the relief was quickly replaced with amusement.
From this vantage point, as the men started rolling around on the ground, trying to put out the flames—seriously, only Troy—I watched them shriek as the fire tore them apart.
Was there a more satisfying sight than seeing men who’d wanted you dead burning alive?
Nope.
D cackled in my ear, clearly enjoying the show as much as I.
When we had two barbecued Sparrows in the front yard, I asked, “Conor? Visuals?”
“Both sets of gates are blown apart. There’s no way of securing them.”
“We need out of here then,” Troy grumbled. “Fucking serve your country and this is the thanks you goddamn get.”
Ignoring her mutterings, because, hell, each of us had served in our own way so she wasn’t the only person to have made sacrifices for Uncle Sam, I inquired, “No one else is incoming?”
“Nope. She’s got cameras along her perimeter and the only area that’s busy is the party out front.”
