Page 40 of Lone Star

“Come,” he said, surer now. He grinned. “I could use someone to be the co-brain of this operation.”

“Co-brain,” she said flatly.

“You didn’t think it would be Albie, did you?”

~*~

“Texas,” Fox said. “Amarillo.”

That was where they were going. Reese had spent enough time with Fox at this point to know that he was someone who didn’t mince words, and who didn’t like to waste effort.

Reese appreciated that. He understood it. Mercy was like that, too – but Mercy was busy. He had a wife, and three children, and he liked to linger over lunch with Aidan, Tango, and Carter, laughing in that loud, bright, open way that Reese struggled to comprehend. He knew what laughterwas– but didn’t know what inspired it.

Fox laughed, some, but it didn’t strike Reese as the explosive, involuntary release of good humor like with Mercy. With Fox, it seemed performative; he laughed when he was supposed to, when it was socially appropriate; an effort to blend in with the others, though his eyes flashed darkly, and the way he bared his teeth didn’t speak to good cheer.

That Reese understood perfectly.

So he was fine with going to Texas. Was glad of an opportunity to put his skills to use, actually. Training was important, was necessary, but not a replacement for actual wet work. This was perhaps the longest he’d gone without performing an op, and he could feel himself growing complacent. Maggie’s rich cooking, and Aidan trying to explain the wonders of college football to him, and Tango explaining Instagram to him – a phenomenon for which he had yet to find a justification. Roman was courting Kristin, and Reese was keenly aware that he and his sister viewed the world very, very differently.

I’m happy, she’d told him.I want you to be happy, too.

He didn’t understand. Probably he never would.

So he would go to Texas, and he would work, and he would be useful.

But they were traveling via bike, Fox had told him, and Reese couldn’t take his usual arsenal.

It lay on top of his neatly-made bed, now, arranged in orderly rows, largest to smallest, all the guns clean and smelling of oil, all the knives gleaming in the soft glow of lamplight.

The sniper rifle he would have to leave behind, he decided; even broken-down, it would make for awkward carrying. He stared at it a moment, already missing it, then dismissed all thought of it. His regular shotgun wouldn’t work, either, but the sawed-off he thought he could manage, in its leather scabbard.

He would take the .45s, worn in their usual shoulder holster; there was a slim little sheath built into one of the straps that held his two-inch, double-edged emergency knife, so that would go, too.

He’d take the Glocks, and plenty of extra magazines, ammo for all the handguns. The bowie knife he’d leave, but take all the others, the slender stabbers and the serrated utility knives. A switchblade for each boot. All of that he could wear on his person, save the mags and ammo; those he’d pack in his knapsack, along with a bit of wire, some gauze pads, tape, eye drops, and a tin of grease paint.

“We’re going to Texas,” a scathing voice said from the doorway behind him, BBC British; a cultivated accent, carefully chosen for the weapon who would wield it. “Not Fallujah.”

Reese cinched the knapsack and carried it to the dresser to set beside his folded hoodie and Kevlar vest. Only then did he acknowledge Ten.

Fox’s brother lounged in the doorway, a shoulder braced against the jamb, arms folded, and hips cocked negligently. He had this way of melting and adhering to whatever wall or bit of furniture he was near. A kind of casual that he’d perfected, Reese knew, through long hours of practice, but which wasn’t natural. It was too perfect, too artless to have been anything like Evan’s unconscious sprawling across surfaces.

“Preparation is important,” Reese said, because that logic had been drilled into his head since his earliest memories. Tie your shoes, clean your plate, preparation is important.

Tenny rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is.” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. “Are you taking that?” He pointed to the broken-down rifle where it rested on the pillow.

Reese knew a sudden, intense urge to throw himself down on the bed and shield the gun from view. His things were his things, and he didn’t let others touch them. Didn’t share.

When he didn’t respond, stood there with his hands at his sides, open and loose from great effort, Ten took a few steps closer to the bed, and reached out.

“It’s clean,” Reese said, voice tight, and Ten’s hand paused, hovering in the air.

His head lifted, gaze sharp and assessing. “You don’t want me touching it.”

Reese swallowed. “The oils from your skin–”

“I know how to pick up a gun,” Ten said, faintly insulted. “But you don’twantme to touch it.” Probing now, the way he always seemed to.

When they’d arrived home from London, and Fox had introduced Ten to everyone, Ghost had said, “Shit, now there’s two of them.”

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