Recovering (13 page)

 
Our training montage is sad as fuck. In
the dark warehouse, The Gabettes’ motto becomes, “no matter how low the bar,
we’ll still find a way to trip over it.” I guess I should be grateful that they
at least know to hold the guns with the barrels pointing away from their faces.

 Over two
long hours we don’t have, my lovable team of losers works on stance, aim,
pulling back the safety trigger on the Glocks, and anticipating the recoil. I show
them how to fill the magazine with bullets (“Press harder! Harder! Wrong way
you igit.”), how to push the mag into the guns, and how to drop the mag once
it’s empty. We don’t shoot any live rounds. Who knows how far the sound will
carry, and honestly, I don’t trust these jokers not to accidentally shoot each
other.

Tarren,
for the love of Xenia’s tits, where are you?

 The
mannequin is an inspired find. Harley Quinn, as I dub her, stands a little
lopsided, has nubs for hands, and willingly offers her creepy, stoic face for
imaginary target practice. As I take the team through Mom’s drills, I can
almost hear her voice, “S
peed, speed, speed
.
Everything like
clockwork, so practiced you don’t even have to think about it. Your body just
knows what to do.”
We almost never have to shoot more than twice, but in
those few instances where we have, dropping a mag and slamming in another in a
fluid motion was critical. You drop the mag or jam it, and you’re dead.

 “You’re
dead!” I shout at Bird Brain and Bear and Chainy again and again when they are
too slow, when they forget to pull the safety trigger, when they hold the gun
too high, too low. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”

 “This isn’t
a game!” God, how many times did Mom say that to me and Tammy when we were
goofing off during practice or before a mission?
“It only takes one mistake,
just one!”
she’d say, her voice low and hard. I understood back then that
she was trying to save our lives, but my respect for her grows by leaps and
bounds during this piss poor training. With every passing minute, I feel more
responsible for the three guys in front of me as they fumble with their
weapons.

Chainy is the
swiftest, the most natural, but he keeps pulling the gun high and trying to
shoot with one hand like he’s some kind of movie hero.

 “Two hands
you dolt!” I tell him. “You won’t hit the broad side of a barn with one hand.”

 The other
two are awkward and unsure. Bear starts to get the hang of it, but his
movements are slow and mechanical, like he has to carefully remember each step.
I need fluid. I need muscle memory. If he has to think this hard in a quiet
dark warehouse with a silent enemy standing still, what’s going to happen when
we’re shooting live rounds, people are screaming, and arterial blood is
squirting in his eyes? And Bird Brain, Jesus H. Christ, the kid needs a
remedial gun class, the kind where they start with squirt guns.

 After two
hours, The Gabettes are exhausted and frustrated, and we’re out of time. Every
part of me wants to curl up in a corner and sleep for a week, but I can’t leave
Maya out there, not for a minute longer.

 “One last
thing guys,” I tell them trying to push through the hoarseness in my voice.
“When we get there, we’ll be shooting. All of us. It’s going to be loud. If you
think you know how loud a gunshot is, you don’t. Be ready for the noise. Stay
steady. And pull the trigger. Just pull the god-damned trigger.”

 Not exactly
a rousing speech for the troops, but no one’s ever called me Shakespeare.

 I lay out my
brilliant plan. The team is silent as I speak. Bear’s face seems to have
collected more worry lines, Bird Brain looks like he’s trying not to spew
chunks, and Chainy is all pent-up energy, ready to spray crazy at the first
opportunity. I think
Holy God, they actually trust me, and they’re probably
going to die for it.

 ***

I take lead
in the whining rust bucket as we drive through the darkness to the address
LuvDragon traced from my call with the lovely Heather. I shove a protein bar in
my mouth, hoping the calories will somehow infuse me with magical healing
energy. A lot of unhappy thoughts rattle in my head. What if Maya is already…
shit
.
What if there are dozens of angels? What if they surround us? What if one of
them unleashes a power I’ve never seen before, something I can’t prepare for?
What if this plan is so stupid that even General Custer would call me crazy,
reckless, and an ass hat of the first degree?

In the
passenger seat, Bird Brain looks straight out the window, and his lips move
silently. I wonder if he’s praying. Maybe I should pray too. I’m not really the
church going type, but I believe in God and Heaven. Have to. The thought of
never seeing Tammy again or Mom just isn’t even worth contemplating. And my dad
will be up there too. Even though I don’t remember him, I think a part of me is
empty, missing all the jokes and laughs and father bonding stuff we would have
shared.

 Okay, so
I’ll write my own Hallmark Channel made-for-TV movie later. It’s time to focus.
Be all commando and leader-like. I look at my passenger again and notice that
his hands tremble in his lap. Hell, he might have an aneurism before we even
get to any shooting. I hand him one of the remaining protein bars stuffed in
the cup holder between us. He takes it automatically.

 “You’re an
idiot,” I tell him.

 “Huh?” He
turns to look at me.

 “Your
superhero name can’t be Penguin. Penguin is a Batman villain.” I honestly can’t
believe I even have to explain this to him. 

 He shrugs.
“I know, but I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

 Is this guy serious?
Does he have any respect whatsoever for the vast and beautiful world of shit-tastic
comics?

 “Penguin is
a well-established villain in the D.C. universe. You don’t take someone else’s
villain name or superhero name. That’s crime fighting 101, Son.”

“But…”

  “And the
villain you chose is a total joke. Penguin is a fat diabetes factory, and I’m
pretty sure he has a very unnatural relationship with his penguin pets. For
God’s sake man, his weapon is an umbrella. Not a big deal my ass! As soon as we
finish this mission and rescue my sister, you’re getting a new name. Something
like…like…” I look him up and down, “Beanpole.”

“Beanpole?”
He looks at me aghast. “That’s not even an animal.”

“Beanpole,
hmmmm, has the power to be tall and gangly. Defeats his enemies by reaching up
to high storage shelves and dropping jumbo cans of tomato sauce from Costco on
their heads.”

 I actually
glance in the rearview mirror, ready to trade knowing smirks with Maya. My
heart pangs hard when I gaze at the empty back seat.

 “Not what
you expected, is it?” I ask Penguin, softening my voice so he knows I’ve let
the whole name fiasco slide for now.

 “None of it
is. Six months ago my sister was alive and I didn’t know any of this. Yesterday
I thought all of those things were evil and that no one was doing anything to
fight them. And now this. You. Buffy.”

 This is the
first time I’m hearing about the dead sister. I immediately feel like someone
put my heart in a clamp. I almost want to tell him about Tammy, about how her
death shredded me up so bad that the only thing keeping me from marrying a
bottle of gin was that Tarren was so much worse. I have to believe I salvaged
enough of him that the rest will come back when he’s ready.

“You should
eat that. Calories,” I tell Penguin, nodding to the unopened protein bar in his
hand.

He turns it
over in his hand, glances at the ingredient list, and then puts the bar back in
the cup holder. “Peanut allergy,” he says.

“Sucks man,”
I manage, but in my head, all I can think is,
We’re all so going to die.
 

When we’re a quarter
mile out from the address, I pull off to the side of the road and look around. We’ve
left the main city of Peoria behind and entered into a quiet, sleeping area of
vast lawns and giant houses that sit far back from the road. Some of them have
their own gates. Dawn is just starting to break over the horizon. I look around
and decide that this is as good a place to start as any other. No one should
notice the cars for at least a few hours, which will be more than enough time to
get Maya or get dead.

 When I climb
out of the Bug, Penguin reluctantly follows. I take a moment to breath in the
cold air and stare at the shapes of two lumpy snowmen on the lawn in front of
me. In the growing light, I can see that the taller snowman proudly shows off a
stick mohawk, four eyes, and a plastic sword tied to its branch hand. Pretty
cool. Makes me think of Mandy, probably tucked away in bed dreaming nice dreams.
I wonder if our tragic little snowman is still in front of her apartment
building with his fuzzy pink scarf and mismatched stick arms.

I hear steps
behind me. My team is gathering round. Bringing the Gabettes with me is
probably an epic mistake. I know Tarren would think so. Tammy would too. If I
were even at fifty percent, I’d go in alone and take my chances, but the truth
is, this quarter mile walk through the snow is going to take about every ounce
of energy I have left. Who the hell knows if I’ll even be able to hit anything?
These guys came to Peoria Fucking Illinois to fight, and I’m gonna give ‘em
one.

***

We trek
silently, my flashlight sweeping ahead as we walk single file along the side of
the road. The sniper rifle on my back thuds softly feeling like it weighs a
thousand pounds and then some. The horizon is smoky gray as the coming sun beats
back the night. I hear someone stumble. My money’s on Penguin, but I don’t look
back to check. If I stop for one moment, I’m pretty sure I’m going to lie down
in the snow and die.

 The
adrenaline comes slowly. There isn’t much, but I’ll take it. When we come to
the driveway of the huge mansion that matches my address, I stop. Time for a
big speech. Not going to lie, I’ve always dreamed of giving a rousing speech to
troops in the face of impossible odds, but I can’t exactly scream, “but they’ll
never take…OUR FREEDOM!” or “TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY!” without waking up every
angel within a fifteen block radius. Also, I don’t have a horse, which really
is a key part of rousing speeches.

 “Okay guys,
listen up,” I say. The Gabettes look at me, their faces expectant. “On the way
here I called Beanpole an idiot.” I nod towards Penguin. “Truth is, we’re all
idiots and most likely a little crazy. Normal people wouldn’t be out here
freezing their asses off, trying to take down an army of super humans. But
we’re here, and we’ve all got our reasons. We each had a choice to make, and we
chose crazy.” I swallow. Usually, words come as easily as breathing to me, but these
words are hard and sticky. “I am asking a lot of you tonight. I am asking you
to put your life on the line. I’m asking you to pull the trigger. I’m asking
you to kill someone if you have to. So, I guess, I just wanted to say thank you.
I’m going to do my best to keep you safe, but I won’t…can’t make any promises.
We could all die. You need to know that. If you want to walk away, then…”

“God, shut
up,” Chainy groans. “We all get it. We’re not leaving. Just tell us where to
go.”

 Not exactly
the roaring adulation I’d hoped for, but Chainy is right. It’s freezing out
here, and we’re going to get spotted if we just linger in front of the
driveway. I swallow the ball busting comment I have for Chainy and just nod.

“Alright,
Penguin and Bear, go around to the back of the house. Find something to hide
behind that still gives you a clear line of sight on the house. Make sure you
have at least two clear exits. Go, go.”

 Bear and Penguin
nod. I have to give Bear cred. He’s holding up better than I expected. Penguin
looks like he’s going to start hyperventilating, but he jogs behind Bear. I
watch their figures fade into the darkness

 “You hold
for my mark,” I tell Chainy. “No funny stuff. No heroics.”

Chainy glares
at me. “A Girl Scout could do this.”

 It was
probably a mistake giving him this assignment, but I’m not sure Bear would be
fast enough and I wouldn’t trust Penguin to care for a cactus, much less
instigate our attack. Chainy and I walk up the driveway together. The cobbles
are slick with ice, and I have to focus on each step. My achy hip reminds me of
the fall I took at the ice skating rank with Mandy. I glance sideways at Chainy.
He looks straight ahead, practically humming with energy. His right eye has
turned into a nice shiner over the last few hours.

 “You should
be more afraid,” I tell him.

 He is quiet
for a moment. “Is Tarren afraid?”

 The question
catches me off guard, not only for the randomness of injecting Tarren into the conversation,
but because Chainy’s voice is suddenly soft. Almost…reverent. Weird.

“Tarren’s an
even bigger idiot than I am,” I huff.

 Chainy
smiles. We both fall into silence. As we crest the driveway, I look at the huge
house sitting proudly in front of us. Lotta space for a lotta angels. Four cars
sit in the circular driveway – a sexy little Beamer, a black Exodus SUV, a
Chevy Tahoe, and a hideous Cadillac that looks like it accidentally showed up
to the wrong party.