Chapter 7 #3
Arizona, with the camera strap around her neck even inside, snapped a quick photo of the room and then another of me, like she was cataloging the moment for evidence.
India leaned in a doorway nearby with a paperback in hand, watching over the top edge. Her hair was in those Viking braids, and she had the look of a woman who collected stories as much as she did money.
Diamondback hopped up on the bar itself, feet planted on a barstool, arms resting on her knees. “So, Devil’s Aces,” she said. “You guys as scary as the stories say, or are you all just loud and shiny?”
“Depends on who’s telling the stories,” I said. “And whether they’re still alive to finish them.”
California raised her brows. “He has some bite,” she said.
“Relax,” Valkyrie said. “He’s not here to impress you. He’s here because Liberty says so.”
“Liberty say we can look?” Raven asked with a teasing lilt.
“Look all you want,” Valkyrie said. “Just don’t touch the bag.”
She said it lightly, but there was steel under it. Their eyes went to the backpack again, curiosity crackling like static in the air.
“Noted,” India said from the doorway. “Bag is lava. Lava is bad.”
The conversations started to splinter after that. Some of the Vipers drifted back to their tasks. Cobra argued with Medusa about music from a corner. Every time I looked at her, she stared me down, but she kept a distance. Arizona went to pin photos on a board. India went back to her book.
Valkyrie stayed.
She slid onto the stool beside mine, close enough that I could feel the heat off her arm.
“Liberty says you’re not leaving.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Until she hears what she wants from your VP and your Prez,” she replied. “Until she knows what exactly is in that bag and how likely it is to get us all killed. Until she decides whether you’re either a liability or an asset.”
“And if she decides I’m a liability?” I asked.
Valkyrie looked at me. Really looked. Then shrugged one shoulder.
“Then I wouldn’t advise you sleep too deep,” she said. “But I wouldn’t worry about it yet. You seem very attached to whatever you have. That means it’s important, and that makes you valuable. Valuable people live longer. Usually.”
“How comforting,” I said.
“You want comfort, you picked the wrong clubhouse,” she said.
She finished whatever she had in her glass and set it down with a soft click.
“Liberty wants me on you,” she added. “Her words. Part babysitter, part guard.”
“So, you’re my shadow now?” I questioned.
“Think of it like this,” she replied. “If anyone comes to take that bag off you, they’ll have to go through me first. I’m curious what kind of idiot looks at this mess and still decides they want a piece.”
The idea of her between me and a gun again did something irritatingly complicated in my chest.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I said.
She stood, close enough that her knee brushed mine. “Good,” she said. “Those are the worst kinds of jobs. I’ll consider you a particularly mouthy assignment instead.”
She started to walk away, then stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
“Oh,” she added. “And Jersey Boy?”
“Yeah?”
“That invisible string you keep pretending isn’t there,” she said. “Cut it. We’re on the same road for now, nothing more.”
I swallowed. My face didn’t give anything away, but something must have flickered, because her mouth quirked again.
“Like I said,” she murmured. “Loud.”
She walked back toward Liberty, who stood with Indigo and Rosé near the far wall, voices low, heads bowed together like generals over a map. They were probably figuring out how to plan the meeting with 8-Ball, where to draw some lines, and how to keep this explosion contained.
I sat at the bar, glass in my hand, weight on my back, girls with snakes on their cuts still all around me.
My worries lined up like cards.
Miami, in a hospital bed under sedation, with a hit already attempted and more probably queued.
Blackjack, pacing in his office with half the picture and a head full of bad possibilities, waiting on his Vice President to cross into someone else’s territory.
An unknown shooter with a wounded side and likely more friends.
A ledger that could burn cities.
And a woman who had dragged me out from under gunfire and now stood ten yards away, talking with her President about how much risk I was probably worth. I could feel an invisible line between us. Invisible, but not imaginary. One I wasn’t planning on cutting.
I took another swallow of whiskey and stared at the bottles, letting the reflections blur.
“I came here to protect a brother,” I thought. “Now I’m chained to a woman who could kill me or kiss me… and I don’t know which would hit harder.”
The music rolled on. The clubhouse breathed around me. Outside, somewhere beyond the fence, the world spun closer to a war it didn’t know was even coming.
Whoever was expecting to get what was strapped to me surely knows it’s out there. The hospital hit was proof of that. And as bad as it was, it felt more like a beginning just getting ready to explode.