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“Because she wouldn’t fuck you?” Blu playfully interrupts as we turn to face him in tandem.
“She’s not my type.”
“Because she doesn’t spin around a pole covered in glitter?” I add to the jeering.
“Look, it’s not my fault I only have time to fuck strippers!”
“Yeah, man, that’sentirelyyour own fault,” my best friend argues between chuckles.
“My point is-”
“Oh good,” more snickers break free, “therewasa point to this shit.”
“Terrible taste in dudes, fuckingincredible tastein tech.” He displays a small black box in his open palm. “She created these new coms that not only allow for optimal communication between agents in remote locations but also give you the combined protection you’d get from using plugsandmuffs at the range.”
An intrigued hum doesn’t hesitate to leave me. “Impressive.”
“She is when she’s not trying to light you on fire or electrocute you.”
“Isthatreally why you changed branches?” Blu investigates during another laugh.
“Can we just um…” he flips open the item, “go over all this shit one more time?”
Blu retrieves the tactical tablet from under his seat, enters his passcode, and then props it on the dash for everyone to view. “It’s simple butstringent.We go in hot and quiet. Due to the really tight schedule Guggenheim’s security team keeps there’s no room for fuckups or hesitations.” Another swipe reveals the layout of the riverside property. “Our breech points are gonna be here.” He points to the area on the far left. “Here.” His digit moves to the opposite side. “And here.” It lands on the spot near the river opening. “One guard is stationed in each section, and they sound off every seven minutes that their area is clear. Then at the top of the hour – every hour – someone new comes out to take over their position.Thisis the optimal time to strike because we’re effectively killing two birds in the same minute, preventing them from calling into security for additional reinforcements for at least seven minutes. The one area we’renotbreeching will be the first to sound off, so we have to get inside and take out head of security before he has a chance to alert Guggenheim that there’s been a breach. If we don’t? If Guggenheim gets a chance to get to his saferoom and push his panic button, everything is over.”
“Because it’s impossible to break into his saferoom?” Reynolds instantly inquires.
“No, because if he pushes that button, it willliterallydrown his hard drives and servers in sulfuric acid, alcohol and water that could not only react violently with organic materials most likely causing a hazardous eruption that’ll kill us, but also produce a toxic gas that would do the same if for some reason we don’t die in the previously mentioned J.J. Abrams approved explosion.”
Horror overwhelms his face on a huff, “Fuck.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Blu brushes off and resumes his explanation. “I’m taking the left, Reynolds you’re to the right, and Wahl you’re taking the escape tunnel which is right here,” he makes a circular motion, “passing itself off as a set of rocks. The good news is it’s pretty much a straight shot from there to the set of stairs that lead directly into the backside of the saferoom.”
“The bad news being that it’s heavily patrolled, gunfire echoes, and my clearance time is the most crucial.”
He hits me with an amused grin. “Exactly.”
Honestly, this shit is nothing new for me.
And given my impressive track record, I’m not worried.
And I don’t have timetobe worried even if I wanted to be.
Worrying gets you killed.
Staying calm and focused significantly increases your chance of survival.
“Wiz is already looping the surrounding security footage giving us the all clear to approach the property undetected,” Blu informs, tucking the tablet back out of sight, “so we need to get moving.”
“And you’re fuckin’positivethis Wiz guy can get into Guggenheim’s shit?”
My best friend shoots me a good-natured wink. “They don’t call him Wiz for nothing.”
Reynolds needlessly interjects, “Maybe it’s because he really likes magic and that was the best magician’s name they could come up with.”
“Huh,” Blu grunts in amusement, “I think I’d go see a biker magician. He’d probably do some dope shit like cut a Harley in half.”
“Or make one disappear,” the other member of the team adds.
