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I spend the night making silent vows to her and asking the Working to help me keep them.
Chapter 12
Doc
Battle of New Orleans
Inky night surroundsus as we speed east on I-10 in two MTVs—that’s medium tactical vehicles, to the uninitiated. Packed into the trucks are ten men, one woman, one crochety pelican, and a shitload of military-grade weapons. We’re basically a one-stop mercenary shop, except we’re moving at eighty miles per hour.
We’ve got RPGs, grenade launchers, canisters of tear-gas, automatic firearms for every man, and a close-range weapon Target invented. It’s basically a gun that shoots a projectile like a wad of chewing gum. Except if the gum hits you or anything near you, you have a grand total of three seconds to live, and then you explode into particles of mist, just like the watermelons we practiced on. Target calls it the vaporizer, and I’m the lucky bastard who gets to carry it tonight.
With a pat on old Vape’s stalk, I lean forward to look out the windshield for the chopper. Just as I suspected, I can’t see it. X-Ray and Target are flying dark. Somewhere high above us, they’re chauffeuring six armed missiles to Raptor’s doorstep.
Oh, yeah. We are about to fuck. Raptor. Up. This asshole is going to pay for taking Jud. He’s going to pay big.
A few hours ago, we crossed the Louisiana state line. Each of us was on alert for bird spies and the kind of equipment and engine failure the soldiers experienced last time they crossed into Raptor’s territory, but nothing happened. No flocks of birds swarmed us, and none of our tech jammed. Either the battle back home, including the chopper crash, put a significant dent in Raptor’s defenses or he’s rolling out the welcome mat for us. My money’s on a little bit of both.
I think Raptorwantsus to come onto his turf and try to get Jud back. But, like I told Cora the night before last, I think he’s hoping it’ll be a small group of us and that we’ll come in with sneakers on, not lug-soled Army boots that we plan on jamming up his ass. He’s hoping by taking Jud he’s divided us, weakened us. He thinks wrong.
After a stop in Baton Rouge, where we set up base and split into our prearranged teams, we’re currently blasting past a long stretch of swampland between what used to be the populated outskirts of Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Being from these parts, I’ve driven this stretch of highway more times than I can count. Never have I seen it this dark and this empty.
There are no streetlamps, no house or business lights, and no headlights from other vehicles on the road, all of which we would be seeing if we were making this trip before Week Zero. Instead, the only source of light is the waning moon overhead. We don’t even have our own headlights on. Instead, Sarge, who’s at the wheel beside me and Brawn, and Recon, who’s manning the wheel of the other truck, are navigating with night-vision goggles. It feels like we’re the only people in the world as we cut through the stillness without leaving a trace, like a scream in the night.
The radio Velcroed to my vest crackles to life. “ETA fifteen minutes.” It’s Recon, who rides in the MTV ahead of us.
“Roger that,” Stealth replies. I hear his voice in my earpiece and also behind me, since he and Grim are the bread of a Cora sandwich in the backseat. “I’ve got the trucks cloaked.”
“Copy that,” Recon says. “Chopper team, my tablet shows you over the north end of Lake Pontchartrain. We’ll need you ready with those missiles as soon as we breach the wall.”
“Roger that,” X-Ray says. “We’re ready as ready can be.”
I can’t get over how quiet his voice is. He doesn’t have to shout to be heard over the blades. Our new soldier friends are so badass that they actually had a stealth helicopter on hand for this mission, hangared at a small airport a twenty-minute jaunt from their ranch. While the bird won’t be completely invisible on radar, and while the rotors make plenty of sound, the radar and decibel signature is about half that of a normal military chopper. Makes the enemy think you’re on a sightseeing tour, not there to blow them off the planet.
Holding the radio to my mouth, I call out to the chopper team. “Beta truck to chopper. Any sign of birds up there?”
“Negative, beta team. Skies are clear.” X-Ray’s southern drawl holds no hint of the tension making my quads tight and my fists clench on ol’ Vape. He sounds as relaxed as a seasoned commercial pilot announcing the weather in the destination city to a jet full of passengers. Either he sounds relaxed no matter what he’s facing or he’s actually enjoying this mission.
Hell, all the soldiers seem to be enjoying themselves. I think they were itching for some heavy lifting to do, and we came along like an answer to prayer and gave it to them.
“Hear that, Doc?” Scrap says out over the comms. He’s in alpha truck with Recon, Rev, Steel and Shep. “No feathered friends in the sky. Guess we didn’t need to bring your sorry ass along to be the bird whisperer.”
“Shep’s the bird whisperer, pipsqueak,” I say with a grin. “I’m just the sonofabitch who can cut their ties to Raptor. And there’s no way I’d miss this.”
“Yeah, right,” Scrap quips. “We all know you’d rather be at home, knitting.”
“Hey!” Cora says from the backseat, not over the comms. “What’s wrong with knitting?” I turn to wink at her. It’s not easy with Brawn in his tactical gear taking up more than his share of the front seat between me and Sarge, but I manage. Cora is harnessed in, tiny and fragile-looking between the oversized Stealth and broad-shouldered Grim in all their tactical gear. Her eyes blaze with offense, and she’s the absolute cutest.
Stealth makes a low, rumbling chuckle and pats her knee with a big, gloved hand. “Sounds like Scrap’s jealous,” he says over the comms. “Maybe he wants your girl to teach him how to make tea cozies.”
Cora snorts.
I grin into the radio. “Hey, pipsqueak, I think you’ve offended our Heart.”
Scrap starts to make a comeback, but Sarge’s voice cuts over him. “Keep the chatter to a minimum. Eyes out. We’re almost there.” I lean to look around Brawn and see Sarge, one hand on the wheel, lowering the comm from his lips. He looks as tense as I feel.
The only sound in the wake of Sarge’s order is the growl of the MTV engine and theswishof heavy tires on pavement. It’s a comfort knowing that swish shouldn’t be audible to anyone outside the trucks, thanks to Stealth. When we barge into Raptor’s territory, it’ll be one hell of a surprise.
The radio crackles to life again. “Chopper team to MTVs.” It’s Target’s voice. He’s perched in the door of the chopper with his sniper rifle, harnessed in and ready to pave the way for us if needed. His Gift makes sure he hits anything he aims at, no matter what weapon he uses. Having him in the skies above us brings a level of security I wish my team had back in Desert Storm. But those are memories I’m content to leave buried in the sand where they belong. “We’ve got a swarm of heat signatures rising up over the wall. Looks like a shit-ton of good-sized birds heading our way.”
