Chapter 7 #2
Taylor manipulates the keypad and Papa’s picture appears in thin air, accompanied by a holographic file card.
Luciano Genaro Piccolo. A man who, to me, is larger than life, whittled down until he’s shockingly ordinary.
Widower. Impulsive. The file hosts a load of information on his personality, his likes and dislikes.
Candid photos of him. I resist the urge to reach out and touch the holographic image.
My eyes drop to my name. Taylor wordlessly presses another button and a file card on me pops up.
My life in statistics: name, birthday, height, and weight. Places I go, music I listen to. My favorite color, a short dissertation on my relationship with my father, my mother, some acquaintances, even Derek. “You stalked Derek?”
“Who?” Taylor squints at the file. “Oh, your pilot boyfriend. I gathered information on him, yes. Like I said, extensive intelligence is key. The ball was the perfect opportunity for infiltration, but it also meant I may have had to talk my way into a private audience with Leader Piccolo. I needed to sound convincing and familiar. That is not my area of expertise. The…talking.”
I don’t recall her having a hard time talking to me. Maybe I’m easier to talk to. Maybe I’m an easier mark. Either way, here I am, and there’s something else that needs addressing. “Derek is not my boyfriend.”
Taylor’s eyebrows rise to new heights. “Oh.”
It’s impressive how much judgment and confusion she crammed into one syllable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I guess my intel was—” She pauses and searches the air for a word. “Wrong?”
“What part of your intel suggested we were dating?”
“You spent several hours inside his apartment at varying times of the day and night, often emerging in different clothes than when you entered,” she replies. “I extrapolated.”
“You assumed. Not that it matters, but Derek is just my friend.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times. “But you two had—”
“Yes.”
“But he is not—”
“No.”
“Oh.”
As Taylor puzzles through this information like it’s advanced physics, with an adorably furrowed brow, I swipe through the rather startling wealth of intelligence on me.
My eyebrow climbs. “Knowing my favorite color is cyan is pertinent?” I bite my lip again to pretend I’m suppressing a grin.
I’m not. I’m not even trying. “You are my stalker. How precious.”
“I am not a stalker.” Taylor gapes and crosses her arms. “And certainly not your stalker. This is my job, Miss Piccolo.” She slaps the cover down on the buttons and forces the file to dissipate.
“My duty is not only taking out leaders, it’s about understanding the complexion of the country so it can be led democratically. You are part of that complexion.”
“Sure. It’s important, I know. And an integral building block of democracy is that my favorite book is Their Eyes Were Watching God.
” By this point she’s caught on to my teasing and, by the firm set of her jaw, not finding it very funny.
I saunter around to her and clap my hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay. I’ll try to be a good role model for you, Tay. ”
She raises her eyebrow. “Tay?”
“What, you have a code name but not a nickname?”
I’m treated to some serious side-eye. “Hardly anyone knows my real name, Miss Piccolo.”
Taylor huffs and looks to Mason for support. “I call her Lil’ T sometimes,” he offers, and she glares at him for his betrayal. “Or just T.”
“Helpful.” Taylor sighs, exasperated. “Let’s get going.”
“Sure thing, kid.” I toss my arm around her shoulder. She grunts and shoves me away, skulking toward the door and yanking it open. Mason and I follow behind with wide grins on our faces.
Taylor spends the rest of the day in and out of meetings, while I take lunch in the kitchen with Claire, nap, and nibble on leftover grub inside the cabin, stifling the urge to inspect Taylor’s room. The temptation proves irresistible, but her door is locked. Bummer.
Once Taylor returns, she collects Mason and instructs us to pack, a directive which primarily involves me staying out of the way. They pack heavy; it would take less than a day to get to Detroit by car, I think, but Taylor’s packing like it’s going to be several weeks by covered wagon.
“Will we be gone a long time?”
Taylor nods. “We are going straight from Target Three, to Four, to Five.”
“Theodore Reed. Patricia Wolfshield.” She stuffs something else into the container. Mason enters the room behind her, scouring for a task. “What about me?”
Taylor looks up. “What about you? You come along and try not to do anything stupid or reckless.” Mason hefts the container from the ground, lifting it as if it doesn’t have several dozen pounds of ammunition in it.
“You are a soldier now, Miss Piccolo. You need only concern yourself with following my orders.”
She tosses a rather heavy duffel bag in my direction, which knocks the wind out of me as I catch it. “Sure thing, Blondie.”
“Bring that to the car, Miss Piccolo,” she says. “And stay there with Mason.”
I exaggeratedly tiptoe around her as she’s crouched, packing boxes of ammunition. “Okay, boss. I’ll get out of your way. Kiss Mommy goodbye for me.” Outside, Mason waits at the base of the stairs with the trunk, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. I grin. “What?”
“Man, at least this trip ain’t gonna be boring.”