Leaping (2 page)

 “Maya, head down,” Tarren says as
we approach the guard booth. Like this is my first mission. Sometimes I think
Tarren needs to bark orders like an addict needs another hit of meth. I imagine
Tarren suffering through the shakes from severe ordering-people-around
withdrawal and smile as I look straight down at my shoes.

Tarren puts on his cowboy hat and
pulls it low, and Gabe is safe behind his Batman mask. I hear Tarren say the
name Tucker Cartwright and the code word, “Gopher,” that Gabe somehow managed
to obtain. The gates open for us.

We inch past huge, sprawling
estates, and I remember what Gabe told us yesterday. We’d been sitting at a
bench at a rest stop in New Mexico discussing which angel target to pursue
next. We’d all just cleaned ourselves up in the bathroom from the grit of
burying the last body, and now instead of heading to a motel for a few hours
rest, Gabe was laying out multiple options for our next set of wings to clip.

Tucker had been an easy choice. He
was within a day’s drive and, according to Gabe, a close associate of the angel
we’d just put in the ground, Mario Sanchez. That dirty bastard had a dozen
coyotes on his payroll. Any undocumented immigrants who couldn’t pay a surprise
“release fee” after they were smuggled into the U.S. became the property of
Sanchez who then farmed them out to a close network of angels for feeding.
Angels – the irony of that name still gets me. There is nothing angelic about
the genetically enhanced creatures my brothers have spent their entire lives
fighting. I’m a relatively new addition to the vigilante game, but I’m trying
to make up for my late start.

Sanchez’s system was as sick as it
was brilliant. Undocumented immigrants disappear in the desert all the time,
and their families are hardly likely to notify the police of a missing person. Tucker
Cartwright was only one of a dozen angels on Sanchez’s clientele list, and the
thought of it makes my stomach twist like a bendy straw. The angel population
is growing faster than we can put them down. Way, way faster. They’re getting more
brash, more out of control. How much longer before the world wakes up to this
new reality and all hell breaks loose?

“That’s it on the right,” Gabe says.
We all stare out the window as the jeep crawls past an impressive mansion
banging so loud with music I wonder how the whole building doesn’t slide off
its concrete foundation. Beneath a curtain of fog, orange and black lights glow
across the front lawn. A shrouded tunnel leads guests to the doorway, a
mini-haunted house before they get to the real party.

I’m not looking forward to walking
through that particular pit of humanity, but it seems we have little choice. 
We bypass the long line of posh vehicles waiting for valet parking and cruise
two blocks down the rest of the quiet, dark neighborhood. Leave it to an ass
like Tucker Cartwright to throw a Halloween party on October 1
^st
.

Tarren pulls up against a curb and
frowns. “Too conspicuous,” he says. He’s right. Our jeep is definitely missing
about $50,000 in net worth compared to the shiny vehicles sitting in the
driveways of the huge houses around us. There also aren’t too many other cars
on the curb.

“Too many witnesses in the house,”
Tarren adds. I think he’s just peeved, because Gabe’s plan doesn’t involving
staking out this Cartwright guy for three miserable days, covering every
possible contingency, and then finally clipping the guy’s wings in some tight
alleyway under the cover of a moonless night. Tarren’s plans might be nearly
fuck-up proof, but Jesus, they’re boring.

“He’s got a bodyguard on him all
the time,” Gabe answers, “and a super advanced security system at home. This
party is our best chance to blend, get in, shoot him in the face, and then get
out. When else is an angel going to literally throw us a costume party so we
can kill ‘em nice and anonymously?”

“We only clip his wings if we get a
safe opening,” Tarren says, his voice low as rolling thunder. “We can’t put
bystanders at risk or allow any witnesses. If we don’t get a shot tonight, we
wait and find another way.” His hard stare sweeps from Gabe to me, and we both
nod to make him feel better. Tarren has officially put himself in charge of The
Committee of Nothing Going Wrong Ever…which means Gabe and I are endless
sources of disappointment.

“Silencers,” Tarren says.

“Got it,” I say and bend over the
back seat. Gabe snickers, and I remember exactly how non-existent my skirt is.

“Shut up,” I say, “and don’t look.”

I hand out the silencers. Gabe pulls
up his research on Tucker Cartwright’s house on his iPad and gives us a rundown
of levels, windows, and doors. We used to do intensive pre-mission planning
sessions in off-the-grid motel rooms before suiting up for missions. Now that
ritual has shrunk down to a quick cram sesh in the car before throwing
ourselves into the fray. How did this happen? All of our careful protocols are
breaking down in the frantic chase to put down angels before more can pop up
like evil Whac-a-Moles. We’ve barely even discussed this mission on our drive
over from New Mexico as we each took turns dozing in the back to catch up on
sleep. Tarren must be freaking out in his utterly quiet, controlled way.

Gabe turns around in the passenger
seat and pins me with a hard stare. “I am Batman!” he growls and then promptly
turns around.

“You’re a dumbass.” I kick his
seat.

Tarren sighs, and a wave of guilt
douses my levity. He doesn’t need to say anything out loud. That sigh says it
all. I watch his jaw set. In the pale light of the streetlamp I can’t help but
follow the raised, shiny flesh of the scar that travels along his jaw and
curves up his chin. I wonder if the beautiful people at Tucker’s party will
think Tarren’s scar is fake, that the hard glint in his blue-gray eyes is all
show. Will they think the muscles he’s built are just the necessary equipment
another hot actor wannabe needs to land a job in Hollywood? 

Too bad for them if they learn the
truth.

As soon as we exit the jeep, I realize
that I have a problem. My costume leaves absolutely no room for my Glock 19
alone, much less with a silencer attached. Shit. Even if I inched up a thigh
holster as high as it would go, the gun would still be plainly visible.

Tarren glances over at me and
recognizes my dilemma immediately. “You need a different costume,” he says.
“Take one of the police uniforms from the back.”

“Those aren’t slutty enough,” Gabe
responds. “She’d stick out like a sore thumb. Maya, can you uh, you know, put
the girls to use?” Gabe mimics putting the gun down the front of his costume.

“Do these look like Double Ds to
you?” I touch my small breasts.

Gabe grins.

“Don’t answer that…and shut up. I’m
just going to be…going to be a nurse who survived the zombie apocalypse,” I say
as I grab two thigh holsters from the back and start strapping them on.

“Vigilante Nurse, she’ll tend your
wounds…,” Gabe says in a deep announcer’s voice, “unless you’ve been bitten.
Then the only cure she’ll dispense is a bullet to the brain.”

Tarren tucks a Glock and a tranq gun
into the holster at each hip, pushing to make them fit into his plastic belt.
Pearl handles would be more appropriate for his costume, but I guess none of us
is really sticking to character. Speaking of which…

“Batman doesn’t use guns,” I point
out to Gabe as I tuck a short dagger into the band of the thigh holster.

 “These are Bat Guns,” he
immediately replies, patting the Berettas on his hips. “Totally different from
normal guns. They shoot Bat Bullets.”

“Everyone ready?” Tarren asks,
letting his duster drop back around his body, hiding his guns.

“I am the night,” Gabe growls,
pulling his thin little cape around his face and squinting his eyes.

I reach into the back of the jeep
and snag a pair of full black leather gloves. I quickly peel off the fingerless
gloves that are a necessary permanent fashion accessory, switching them for the
full gloves.  I’d feel better taking in two guns, but I tuck my phone into the
second thigh holster on my left leg instead. I hook my Bluetooth earpiece
around my ear. “Ready.”

Tarren dials each of our phones,
and we jump into a conference. We each mute our end of the call.

“Maya, it’ll be crowded in there. Can
you…” Tarren begins. I watch a pale strand of amber light up in his aura.

“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I
took in plenty of sunlight this afternoon … and since I’m a post-apocalyptic
nurse…” I hold up my gloved hands. I feel strong. In control. The Prism, a
mirrored device Tarren created for me, has changed everything. I almost feel
like a person again, not the husk of hunger I had been after the change. I
raise my chin just a little, lock my eyes with Tarren, and try to show him my
strength. “I can handle it.”

A year ago I would have been told
to wait in the car. Today, Tarren nods once and starts moving toward the house.

“Lady Justice weeps for this
blighted city, but I must fight on,” Gabe growls at me and then falls into line
behind Tarren. I follow my brothers, letting my left hand trace the handle of
the dagger pressed against my thigh.

After we make it through the
seizure-inducing laser lights, rolling fog, and gruesome rubber zombies of the
“haunted house” on Tucker Cartwright’s front lawn, Gabe shouts three names to
the beefy guy with a crooked nose who guards the front door. He swipes a big thumb
down his iPad and checks us off.

As we push through ornate glass
double doors, Gabe turns back and gives us both a proud grin. Beneath his
Batman mask, his brown eyes shine with mischief. I wonder if he somehow managed
to snag invites for us in less than 24 hours or merely hacked the guest list.
His hacker skills are damn impressive, and his keyboard has opened just as many
doors for us as his lock pick kit.

I pull in a big breath as we enter
into a wide foyer lit by a huge overhead chandelier. A huge mass of humanity
slithers against itself. Voices beat against my sensitive ear drums, and the
smell of roasted meat assaults my nose.

The auras. They create a second
light show that only I can see. They are a great cloud of color throbbing with
energy. Calling to me. My hands begin to kindle with heat, and I feel the
drowsy monster inside of me stir.

A year ago this entire scene would
have fritzed out my brain and sent me tumbling into the abyss of hunger. The
monster would have roared so loud inside of me. I would have lost control. I
push away all those poison thoughts. We’d pulled into a nothing desert town
this afternoon, and while Tarren changed the oil in the jeep, I’d set up the
Prism and let it flood my body with energy, filling up the vast hole of my hunger.
My monster is swollen and full, just a minor demon I must keep my eye on. I
clench my jaw, steel my spine.

Tarren’s eyes are on my face, and I
know he’s searching for weakness. He reaches up and unmutes his earpiece. “We
split up and canvas,” he says as a drunk Cleopatra stumbles past, her ankles
wobbling in golden, strappy stilettos.

At a nearby bar, an aging Tinker
Bell with a smooth, frozen face sips a drink and gives Tarren an appreciative oggle.

“Check,” I confirm.

“Check,” Gabe says, his head
swiveling. “Whoa, yeah, that lady looks really suspicious over there.” His gaze
is trained on a gorgeous woman almost popping out of her Princess Lea costume
as she leans against the bar. “Yep, I’m definitely going to have to give her a
very thorough visual and physical assessment,” he says and plows into the
crowd.

“If you lay eyes on him do not
engage,” Tarren says. “We’ll regroup and find a way to isolate and strike.” His
eyes are a pale blue. I used to think those eyes were an endless winter tundra,
but now I know the wellspring of emotion they hide so well. What is it that I
see in his gaze now as he meets mine? Is it respect, acceptance, or am I
looking too hard, trying to see what I want to see?

“I’ll take the left wing of the
house. Gabe, you’re at the front. Maya, right wing and patio.” With his orders
given, Tarren turns away, his coat whirling with him. I watch his hat bob in
the crowd before disappearing into the mass of bodies.

Both of my brothers possess a
handheld thermal night vision imager, which can usually help them pinpoint the
low body heat that an angel registers, but I wonder how useful the heat sensing
cameras will be in this crowded party scene. Luckily, my own eyes serve as my
primary angel-hunting tool. I start toward my assigned area, noting immediately
that the crowds are thinner in this part of the home. Tarren must have seen
this too. I let my gaze roam around a sparsely populated lounge and then a more
crowded man cave where a cluster of men lounge around a huge television, game
controllers in hand. Each partygoer possesses a shining aural glow around them.
All human.  As soon as my enhanced eyes land on a person without an aura, I’ll
have my angel.

I make a quick circuit of a room
filled with signed guitars mounted on the wall. Two women make out with
impressive gusto in the corner, their hands groping without shame or pretense.
I pause momentarily, watching their auras flush with deep, wine-colored
purples. Lust. Their auras rage with it, dancing along their bodies like they
were both aflame with this single color.

I duck out of the room and take a
deep breath.

“Hello.”

I spin away from the arm attempting
to drape over me.

“Whoa, skittish, huh?”

I turn and look into the rock hard pecs
of a guy dressed as a Spartan who might have literally wandered off the movie
set of
300.

“Nice panties,” I huff, trying to shake
off the feel of his aura. Mr. Muscles is very human, very handsome, and very
drunk. I can tell by the way his blue-green aura sloshes within his aura.

“Thanks,” he grins at me. “Like my
cape?” He holds it out, nearly knocking the tiara off a skanky Cinderella.
“Hello,” he slurs to her as I slip away. I move back toward the center of the
house. Gabe chats up Princess Lea at the bar. When she throws her head back in
a pretty laugh, his eyes quickly scan the hands of everyone else at the bar. He
won’t find any telltale slits in palms. I see auras all around.

“There you are Nursey.” My Spartan
is back at my side in all his beefy glory.

Gabe spots me and gives me a big
thumbs up.

“You come with anyone?” the Spartan
asks. His boots squeak against the tiles as I move toward the patio doors. “I’m
not asking for myself. My roommate just broke up with his girlfriend, and I’ma
just trying to fix ‘em up.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I say
as I squeeze past a couple dressed as Woody and Buzz Lightyear.

“Yeah, I’m a great guy,” Spartan
says. “My friend is too. His name is Philip. He does accounting or somethin’
for like, lots of movie studios. Drives a Beamer.”

A gorgeous woman in a toga holds
out a tray of appetizers. “Salmon spinach cakes?” she offers.

“Uh, no thanks,” I murmur.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Mr. Muscles
says, reaching over me to grab two appetizers off the tray. The whiff of fish
tightens my stomach, and I have to make an effort to remind myself that I would
have once shoveled those little spinach cakes into my mouth like it was a
conveyor belt. Back when I was fully human. Normal.

 “You an actress?” my Spartan asks
as he pops both appetizers into his mouth. “I’m an actor. Ever hear of the
BoFlexion 4,000? I was a fitness model for the infomercial.”

“Wow, so cool.” I push open the
finely etched glass door to the patio. A gust of temperate air greets me was I
walk onto the lavish outdoor space. Clumps of people huddle around tables or
lean against a balcony.

“Yeah, yeah, watch this.” Mr.
Spartan sucks in a deep breath and says, “Just use the BoFlexion 4,000 for ten
minutes a day, and the fat will melt off your body.” As he speaks, the man
slowly lifts his arms up and down and twists side to side, a serious expression
plastered across his face. “See, that’s what I did, for the uh…uh…”

“Infomercial?”

“Hey, is that a gun?”

His eyes are on my holster, and I
quickly put a hand down to cover it. “I’m a nurse during the zombie apocalypse.”
I walk over to the balcony and turn, leaning my back against the railing. This
position allows me to gaze through the large glass windows back into the house.
It’s a good vantage point. I watch bodies move by, painted faces, wild hair,
shining costumes, bright auras.

“Oh yeah, I get that.” Beefcakes
chuckles as he leans against the balcony next to me. “So, are you interested
in, like, hooking up with my friend, ‘cause otherwise I gotta’ find another
girl. I have a boyfriend by the way, so I’m taken.”

“Aw shucks,” I say. He grins, and
damn, he is so hot I think I could fry an egg on his hairless, rock hard abs.
“Actually, I…I kind of have a boyfriend, too.” Why are my words suddenly soft
and hesitant? Rain’s face comes front and center in my brain, bringing back
floods of worry with it.

“But hey, look.” I point to a Miley
Cyrus lookalike huddled on a bench a few feet away. Her thin shoulders shake,
and the mascara roading down her cheeks would tell me she isn’t having a good
night even if I couldn’t see the rippling oranges of humiliation in her aura.
“She looks like she might need a picker-upper.”

Beefcakes follows my gaze and then
looks back at me with a grin. “Nice meetin’ you Nursey.”

“Your roommate is lucky.”

“Definitely.” He grabs up his drink
and starts toward weepy Miley on slightly unsteady steps.

I unmute my earpiece. “Nothing in
the right wing or on the patio.”

Clanging pots and hisses suddenly
sound. “Left wing is clean,” Tarren says. “Checking the kitchen now.”

 “Don’t see him…on the...dance
floor,” Gabe hollers over the blare of music.

I look up at the row of lighted
windows above. “Second floor,” Tarren and I say at the same time. Damn, that
little jinx show has been happening more and more often.

I give my Spartan a quick wave as I
stroll back into the zoo of people. After a little exploration, I find a
massive spiral staircase guarded by two hulking goons. Apparently hulking goons
are a real thing in Beverly Hills. Just to make the point, a stupid red velvet
rope hangs between two poles set in front of the lowest stair. I pull out my
phone, pretending to text as I lean against a pillar and watch them. Tarren and
then Gabe join me a minute later. I’m not even asking about all the glitter on
Gabe’s costume.

In three minutes of observation, we
watch the two trolls turn away a frantic Cher lookalike who begs for a bathroom
as well as a highly blitzed cheerleader who doesn’t seem to realize that she’s
not at her own house. They lift the red velvet rope for a refined vampire who
escorts a young, giggling pirate girl up with him.

“Angel,” I say, watching the girl’s
bright aura dance against the nothingness coming from the man’s trim body.

“Vampire?” Tarren asks.

I nod.

“That wasn’t Cartwright,” Gabe
says.

The three of us ponder.

Tarren’s expression is hard. “Too
many unknowns. Too many risks.”

Classic Tarren move – when the
situation changes, pull out and re-assess.

But Gabe doesn’t play by those
rules, not when innocent lives are on the line. On cue, he shakes his head.  “No
time. Angel-vamp is going to suck that girl dry if we don’t stop him. Who knows
how many other wings we’ve got up there? They could all be using this party as
their own personal buffet.”

The decision was made the moment an
innocent life was at stake. If Tarren was at this party alone, I have no doubt
he’s already be leaping over the velvet rope, storming the stairs with guns
blazing. But he’s got us to think about, and Tarren will always hesitate,
always tarry to keep us safe. We are his Achilles heel, which is why I have to
convince my brother what he already knows.

“We’ve got to go now, Tarren,” I
say, “or those lives are on us.”

Our eyes meet. He’s too good at
controlling his aura, keeping it tight around his tall frame without any
flickers of emotion. “We need to be careful,” is all he says to betray his
unease.

“Step one, distract the guards,” Gabe
says. “I can tell them a fight’s breaking out on the dance floor.”

“They’ll call it in,” Tarren
responds. He nods to the center room where other goons lurk in the crowd. “Four
roaming security personnel.”

“Okay, got another plan,” Gabe
responds.

“I’ve got a better one,” I tell
him.

Gabe scoffs. “My plans are the
best. Four out of five crime fighters prefer Gabe’s plans over the leading
competition.”

“You,” I stare at him, “bring the jeep
up. We’ll probably need a quick exit.” I look at Tarren. “You come with me. Act
drunk.”

Gabe gives me a sour face. “Batman
doesn’t drive the getaway car.”

I ignore him and pull my top lower
as I stumble out from behind the pillar and let out a high, squealing laugh.
Tarren walks beside me and tries to smile. “Let me do all the talking,” I
murmur, because, let’s be honest, a piece of plywood could give Tarren a run
for his money when it comes to acting. My brothers were homeschooled by our mother,
Diana, between her angel-killing missions, but if they’d gone to real school, I
have no doubt that sulky, miniature Tarren would have been assigned “tree,”
“bush,” or “guy on bus reading paper,” in every school play.

“Hey there, hellloooo!” I call to
the goons and hiccup. “Are you guys, dressed like…like…CIA agents, or something?
Cause it looks really good. Really good!”

Troll Number One’s mouth twitches
in a smile he quickly squelches.

“Sorry Miss, you’re not allowed up
here.”

“No, no, no.” I lean in close to
Troll Number One as if whispering a secret. “Some vampire guy, he told us to go
upstairs. That ah, Tucker, Tucker Cartwright, he like...wants to see me and
him.” I jerk my head toward Tarren. “We’re a, uh…brother and sister act, if you
know what I mean…at least we are for Tucker Cartwright.” I laugh again.

Troll Number Two brings his phone
up.

“Noooooooo.” I place my hand on his
arm. “It’s a surprise for Tucker. We’re a present. Right?” I hiccup and look at
Tarren.

“Yes, a surprise,” Tarren says
softly.

“And what about him?” Troll Number
One points a beefy finger behind us. I don’t even have to turn around. The feel
of Gabe’s aura is as distinct as every other part of him. “Mr. Cartwright has a
type.”

“That vampire dude paid me $500. Said
Mr. Cartwright likes it when people watch and he has a…” Gabe lowers his voice
and tilts between us, “…a certain childhood Batman fetish. It’s $500, so I’m
not arguing. Whatever he wants. I can watch. I can join in the fun. I can piss
on his face. You know, meet all his needs. Batman lives to serve the citizens
of Gotham.” He cracks a rueful smile.

“The guy said we’re not supposed to
keep Tucker waiting,” I say, putting on a worried voice.