“Nobody here likes me, Rogan,” she said, her voice soft and broken. “Your people don’t like me.”
“They don’t have to like you,” he said. “They will, however, protect you and your children with their lives.”
“I feel like an invader.”
“You’re not an invader. You’re here at my invitation.”
She hugged herself. “Can I talk to you? Privately.”
He invited her to the patio with a sweep of his hand. She walked into the sunshine, and he followed. They strode to the edge, Rynda saying something, an urgent look on her face.
“I can tell you what she’s saying,” Bug said.
“Thanks, but no.”
“It would just take a second. Two keys.” He raised his laptop and waved it at me. “It’s not rocket surgery.”
“No.”
Bug heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t you want to know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. I trust Rogan.”
I closed my eyes and let the magic flow into me.
“Nevada?” Rogan’s voice pulled me out of the deep well of magic inside the circle.
I opened my eyes. He was crouched by me. He wore an army combat uniform, but instead of the familiar camouflage pattern or the darker woodland/jungle variant, his uniform was black and grey. A black tactical vest hugged his chest. A sophisticated communication set curved around his neck in a collar-like shield, with the thin filament of the mic stretching to his lips. Another man stood next to him, about my mother’s age, probably Japanese, broad-shouldered, but not bulky. Greying hair, trimmed so short he was almost bald, a short neat beard and mustache, and piercing dark eyes. He wore the regular urban camo ACU and he held himself like he’d spent the best part of his life in some sort of uniform.
“We got the Verona Exception,” Rogan said. “Are you ready?”
Magic coursed through me, strong and potent. I felt tighter, more focused. I would’ve liked another couple of hours, but it would have to do. I got up.
Bug held up a stack of clothes for me: socks, boots, the same uniform as Rogan, but instead of black, my ACU was patterned in shades of grey and beige. The urban variant. Also a helmet.
“Are we going to war?”
“As close to war as we’re allowed,” Rogan said.
“I have my own clothes.”
“If you wear this, you’ll blend in with the rest of my people and lower the probability of you being singled out as a target.”
I eyed his black uniform. “You don’t mind being singled out.”
“I don’t. I’m wearing this so they will key on me. I’ll have a personal aegis.”
I could stand there and argue about the uniform, or I could just put the ACU on and stop holding everyone up. I took the stack. The older man watched me carefully.
Rogan offered me my phone. “Also, your mother has called several times.”
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, but it sounded urgent.”
Great. I took my phone and escaped into his office to get dressed and to call Mom.
She answered on the first ring. “What’s going on?”
“Rogan is going to attack House Harcourt.”
“He has two modified armored personnel carriers up front. I’m watching his people load them. He’s packing enough firepower to start a small war.”
“That’s the plan. Harcourts are summoners. There will be a lot of otherworldly creatures.”
“Are you going with him?”
I braced myself for an argument. “Yes.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Mom?”
“You heard me.”
She hung up.
I finished getting dressed, tightened my ballistic vest, put my helmet on, and walked out.
“My mother will be joining us.”
Rogan didn’t miss a beat. “Glad to have her.”
We went downstairs. A group of Rogan’s people in combat gear waited by the two armored personnel carriers, some in urban ACUs, some in older style camo. I had a feeling they just wore whatever felt familiar. The third vehicle, a massive heavy expanded mobility tactical truck, idled behind the two transporters, its cargo in the long, reinforced bed hidden by a green tarp.
Rivera appeared by my side and handed me a rifle.
“Ruger AC 556. Three modes of fire: semi-auto, three-round burst, and fully automatic. Major thought you might like it.”
I took the weapon and checked it over on autopilot.
My mother exited the building, carrying her Light Fifty, a Barrett M82 Sniper Rifle. Leon trotted next to her, like an overeager puppy.
“He’s coming with me,” she said. “I need a spotter.”
“Thank you for coming with us,” Rogan said.
I remembered to pick my jaw up off the floor and climbed into a personnel carrier.
Riding in a personnel carrier was about as comfortable as riding in a tank. It felt like sitting on a bag of potatoes while it bucked and jumped over every tiny bump in the road. The carrier had two rows of seats along the walls, facing each other. I sat next to Rogan toward the front. My mother and Leon rode across from us. The older Japanese man sat quietly on the other side of me, watching Leon and my mother. Further on my left, within the depths of the carrier, uniformed bodies and helmeted heads filled the space. The hum of human voices hung in the air as Rogan’s people talked. Fragments of conversation floated up, interrupted by sudden peals of laughter.
An odd expression claimed my mother’s face. The corners of her mouth had turned up slightly. The frown wrinkle between her eyebrows that had been permanently there for the last three days smoothed out. She sat relaxed, calm, and perfectly at peace, as if she was riding to a picnic at the beach. There was something almost meditative about her gaze. Next to her, Leon could barely stay in the seat. If he could, he would’ve jumped up and bounced around the carrier.
The older man next to me touched his headset and said in a deep, calm voice, “All right.”
My helmet’s comm system channeled his voice into my ears.
All conversation stopped.
“This is for the new people and those of you who didn’t pay attention. House Harcourt occupies a fortified facility. It’s U-shaped, with left and right wings protruding. The entrance is located between them. There is only one approach, through the front door, through a corridor between the two wings. This is their killing field. When we enter it, the shooters from the two wings will fire. The front gate will open, and the Harcourts will release the MCM.”
“They don’t have to like you,” he said. “They will, however, protect you and your children with their lives.”
“I feel like an invader.”
“You’re not an invader. You’re here at my invitation.”
She hugged herself. “Can I talk to you? Privately.”
He invited her to the patio with a sweep of his hand. She walked into the sunshine, and he followed. They strode to the edge, Rynda saying something, an urgent look on her face.
“I can tell you what she’s saying,” Bug said.
“Thanks, but no.”
“It would just take a second. Two keys.” He raised his laptop and waved it at me. “It’s not rocket surgery.”
“No.”
Bug heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t you want to know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. I trust Rogan.”
I closed my eyes and let the magic flow into me.
“Nevada?” Rogan’s voice pulled me out of the deep well of magic inside the circle.
I opened my eyes. He was crouched by me. He wore an army combat uniform, but instead of the familiar camouflage pattern or the darker woodland/jungle variant, his uniform was black and grey. A black tactical vest hugged his chest. A sophisticated communication set curved around his neck in a collar-like shield, with the thin filament of the mic stretching to his lips. Another man stood next to him, about my mother’s age, probably Japanese, broad-shouldered, but not bulky. Greying hair, trimmed so short he was almost bald, a short neat beard and mustache, and piercing dark eyes. He wore the regular urban camo ACU and he held himself like he’d spent the best part of his life in some sort of uniform.
“We got the Verona Exception,” Rogan said. “Are you ready?”
Magic coursed through me, strong and potent. I felt tighter, more focused. I would’ve liked another couple of hours, but it would have to do. I got up.
Bug held up a stack of clothes for me: socks, boots, the same uniform as Rogan, but instead of black, my ACU was patterned in shades of grey and beige. The urban variant. Also a helmet.
“Are we going to war?”
“As close to war as we’re allowed,” Rogan said.
“I have my own clothes.”
“If you wear this, you’ll blend in with the rest of my people and lower the probability of you being singled out as a target.”
I eyed his black uniform. “You don’t mind being singled out.”
“I don’t. I’m wearing this so they will key on me. I’ll have a personal aegis.”
I could stand there and argue about the uniform, or I could just put the ACU on and stop holding everyone up. I took the stack. The older man watched me carefully.
Rogan offered me my phone. “Also, your mother has called several times.”
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, but it sounded urgent.”
Great. I took my phone and escaped into his office to get dressed and to call Mom.
She answered on the first ring. “What’s going on?”
“Rogan is going to attack House Harcourt.”
“He has two modified armored personnel carriers up front. I’m watching his people load them. He’s packing enough firepower to start a small war.”
“That’s the plan. Harcourts are summoners. There will be a lot of otherworldly creatures.”
“Are you going with him?”
I braced myself for an argument. “Yes.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Mom?”
“You heard me.”
She hung up.
I finished getting dressed, tightened my ballistic vest, put my helmet on, and walked out.
“My mother will be joining us.”
Rogan didn’t miss a beat. “Glad to have her.”
We went downstairs. A group of Rogan’s people in combat gear waited by the two armored personnel carriers, some in urban ACUs, some in older style camo. I had a feeling they just wore whatever felt familiar. The third vehicle, a massive heavy expanded mobility tactical truck, idled behind the two transporters, its cargo in the long, reinforced bed hidden by a green tarp.
Rivera appeared by my side and handed me a rifle.
“Ruger AC 556. Three modes of fire: semi-auto, three-round burst, and fully automatic. Major thought you might like it.”
I took the weapon and checked it over on autopilot.
My mother exited the building, carrying her Light Fifty, a Barrett M82 Sniper Rifle. Leon trotted next to her, like an overeager puppy.
“He’s coming with me,” she said. “I need a spotter.”
“Thank you for coming with us,” Rogan said.
I remembered to pick my jaw up off the floor and climbed into a personnel carrier.
Riding in a personnel carrier was about as comfortable as riding in a tank. It felt like sitting on a bag of potatoes while it bucked and jumped over every tiny bump in the road. The carrier had two rows of seats along the walls, facing each other. I sat next to Rogan toward the front. My mother and Leon rode across from us. The older Japanese man sat quietly on the other side of me, watching Leon and my mother. Further on my left, within the depths of the carrier, uniformed bodies and helmeted heads filled the space. The hum of human voices hung in the air as Rogan’s people talked. Fragments of conversation floated up, interrupted by sudden peals of laughter.
An odd expression claimed my mother’s face. The corners of her mouth had turned up slightly. The frown wrinkle between her eyebrows that had been permanently there for the last three days smoothed out. She sat relaxed, calm, and perfectly at peace, as if she was riding to a picnic at the beach. There was something almost meditative about her gaze. Next to her, Leon could barely stay in the seat. If he could, he would’ve jumped up and bounced around the carrier.
The older man next to me touched his headset and said in a deep, calm voice, “All right.”
My helmet’s comm system channeled his voice into my ears.
All conversation stopped.
“This is for the new people and those of you who didn’t pay attention. House Harcourt occupies a fortified facility. It’s U-shaped, with left and right wings protruding. The entrance is located between them. There is only one approach, through the front door, through a corridor between the two wings. This is their killing field. When we enter it, the shooters from the two wings will fire. The front gate will open, and the Harcourts will release the MCM.”
