Page 48 of Silent Comrade
God help him, what was Britt thinking,sauntering down the street from her apartment to the MARTA stationat 10:07 PM with her roommate? Actually, Red knew precisely whatthey had planned, thanks to Stumpy’s hack of her phone and theentire apartment having more bugs than a CIA covert supplydepot.
Uber, MARTA, walking, a privatevehicle—every mode of transportation hadrisks. She’d selected MARTA. At least he could tail her but remaininconspicuous.
He relaxed his tight control. Sounds floodedhis auditory canals. Murmurs of the ladies’ conversation brushed byhim like melted butter on freshly baked bread. Behind their voices,an acrid sound of vehicle wheels on pavement turning at a nearbystoplight soured the sensory input. He scanned the city block andstructures, as much with his ears as his eyes. Nothing. Yet.
Had she ignored everything he had told herabout Lequire and danger? What the hell did Britt think she wasdoing?
She was attempting to live her normal lifeto its fullest. Something Red might want to try one day.
True, she looked edgy and sexy in ared-and-black miniskirt with crinkly material under it that made itpuff out. She wore a cropped black halter top with a high neck thathid her bruises. The backless garment hugged her trim frame. Only afew bruises marred the skin of her back. She’d been lucky in somany ways. Her purple-highlighted hair was half pulled up,highlighting her elven features and making the silver hoops on herface glint in the streetlight. The whole look created an angelicand punk aesthetic that made his mouth water.
Still.
When he discovered what she had planned by,well, spying on her, he had phoned. His stern advice to stay homewent over like a lead balloon. She had snarled about how he wantedto pick and choose when he provided backup, so she’d pick andchoose when she needed backup, whatever the hell that meant. Thenhe got the “it’s my life, I understand the danger, and I’m makingan informed decision and taking back some control” thrown in hisface.
Good God, she was pissed.
He couldn’t argue with her logic. Much. Heknew all about having no control over his life. CO Hunt wasn’t anasshole about the rules, but every team member knew the consequenceto everyone’s lives if those rules didn’t get followed.
Britt did agree to keep Red’s presence andmission a secret from Tachi. He would take any win he couldget.
She wanted to live her life on her ownterms. Roger that. However, there was a difference betweenindependence in safe situations versus dumb decisions in the faceof known threats. This woman stomping toward the train in metallicbooties had drawn a line in the sand. Britt McNeill had had enoughand was Going Out, by God, and there wasn’t a damn thing that Redcould legally do about it. At least he’d have backup.
Right on time, Rodeo made brief eye contactwith Red on the far end of the MARTA platform, appearing as if outof thin air. As the train approached, the whine of wheels brakingon rails sliced through Red’s mind. He panted, controlslipping.
To regulate his response, he catalogued allinfil and exfil points, including strengths and weaknesses of each.He confirmed the location of every weapon stashed on his person.Then Red took note of each person on the platform and on theapproaching train. Listened to the world around him. Filtered soundin an orderly fashion. He detected no clicks of a gun safety. Nomutters of people coordinating an ambush. No noises that didn’t fitin the auditory soup swirling around him.
Once the doors opened, Red and Rodeo enteredthree cars back from where the ladies rode and separately workedtheir way up to the car behind Britt and Tachi. He and Rodeo pickeddifferent seats with a clear line of sight in all directions. Lightpassenger traffic this evening—no sportsor major concerts downtown this evening.
Britt glanced back over her shoulder.
Red didn’t mind Britt knowing he waspresent. She would expect it. But he didn’t want to tip off theroommate. He also didn’t want anyone to know about Rodeo, hisproverbial ace up the sleeve for this mission.
His teammate sat, leaning against the wallof the train, a leg slung over two seats. He turned a small yo-yoover in his hand. The nonchalant posture didn’t fool Red. KnowingRodeo, the guy had identified every visible and theoretical dangerand then calculated angles necessary to achieve a single-tapheadshot to eliminate any threat. The guy wasn’t just a good shot.He was a disturbingly accurate shot, thanks to the virus enhancinghis already superior marksmanship.
At least he had ditched the ubiquitouscowboy hat, which would be as out of place in downtown Atlanta assubstituting Frosted Flakes for grits and thinking no one wouldnotice. Rodeo darted a smirk toward Red, one eyebrow quirking up,then returned to the guise of relaxing in broody solitude.
Despite Rodeo’s lack of his typical Westernattire tonight, there was fat chance of his teammate goingunnoticed. Without trying, Rodeo looked like the cover ofGQMagazinecome to life. Red only knew that because he hadflipped through that magazine recently as research for themission.
Yeah, speaking solely from his newfoundperspective as a fake fashion student, Red assessed that Rodeo hadgreat facial structure, perfect skin, and a mug that begged to bephotographed from any angle. Objectively model-esque. From theguy’s short leather lace-up boots that likely hid a weapon or two,to the indigo jeans, to a tight t-shirt that let his biceps do allthe talking, Rodeo knew he looked great. Smug bastard.
Shit, Red had become a fashion expert in thespace of a week. He could now venture guesses as to the brands oneach clothing item, and he’d be correct more often than not.
In a stunning turn of events, Red could nowmatch separates. Testimony to Gonzo’s and Stumpy’s prep materialsas well as Red’s ability to absorb information in a hurry. Which inturn was testimony to the Morpheus Virus. Speaking of which, hisshoulder blades twitched again under his too-warm combo of a tanbutton-down shirt topped by a denim jacket which containedcommunications and weaponry options.
Even Red’s relaxed-fit khaki’s bugged thecrap out of him. Every movement was a whiskey shotswishofcotton blend arrowing right into his eardrums. No way could it betime for another dose of antidote. Too soon. If the virus got firedup, Red would reach that tipping point again. He hadn’t planned torequire another shot for a day or two.
The quarter-full train rocked and rumbled asit pulled out of the station. His ears rang with the thickthrumming, squeaking noise. Should he use the earplugs? He slid ahand into his jacket pocket and patted the small pieces ofsilicone, craving the relief. Dreading the trade-off.
From his vantage point at the front of thecar, Red kept an eye on Britt and Tachi, as did Rodeo. The guymight be all fun and games, but when he had a mission to complete,Red knew better than to believe the guy’s devilish smile. Rodeo’sfocus was legendary. Throw in any excuse for him to shoot someonedead, and the grinning teammate transformed into one of the world’sscariest motherfuckers.
Even now, his teammate shifted in his seat,checking the gun at his back. Knowing Rodeo, he had another pistolon his leg and a bunch of knives stashed all over his person. Rodeowas scary with any weapon.
“It’s my life. I’m going out. If you’reinterested in your mission success, then make my life safe,”Britt had said.
That’s not how security worked, with Brittrunning all over town, exposed to Lequire and his goons.
Still, Red understood. Losing control ofone’s life sucked. Bouncing from foster family to family, rootlessand adrift, his only life choices were like picking which flavor ofdirt sandwich he wanted to eat for lunch. That asshole, Red’s lastfoster father, had made those choices painfully clear yearsago.
