Page 66 of Night in a Waste Land

Her gaze narrowed. “Of Shubert, or his whole outfit?”

“As many of the bastards as we can take out.”

She studied him a moment, then nodded, and turned back to scan the map. “When?”

“We’ll spend a week preparing. Draw up a strategy, make sure we’ve got enough weapons.”

Another nod. “What about Morgan?”

“What about her?”

Rose looked at him again, scrutinizing. “You brought her up. I think we should at least ask her if she’d be willing to come along and help.”

“Bedlam won’t like that.”

“Bedlam’s willing to let us walk into a shitshow. If we want to take our own secret weapon, where does she get off telling us no?”

He couldn’t help a chuckle. “You know, sometimes I don’t think you understand how this whole being in the military thing works.”

She snorted, and glanced toward the wall, her shoulders settling; a subtle squaring-up that, even naked and rumpled, left her as regal as a queen. “There’s a difference between understanding and approving.”

He wanted to tuck her hair behind her ear – but didn’t. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

~*~

The Present

Tris slapped his hands down on the opposite side of the table, sending up a wave of dust and mold spores. His expression, when Lance met it, sparked with uncharacteristic aggression. “You understand this is fucking stupid, right? Or did you hit your head?”

Lance took a slow, measured breath, in and out. His nerves were already buzzing, and if he let it, Tris’s obvious, outwardly-projected anger would touch his own carefully-banked fury like a match to paper. “Look, I know it’s not ideal–”

“It’s fucking suicidal.”

“We agreed,” Lance snapped. “We took a vote before we ever left for Wales, and you, and Gallo, and Gavin all put your hands up and said you’d come along, and you’d help, and that you wanted to stay a part of this company, no matter what happened with Becket.”

A muscle in Tris’s jaw worked. “I didn’t think she’d actually be able to bring him back.”

“Well, she did, and he’s here, and we asked him for help, which means we’re not calling the shots anymore.I’mnot– I’m not in command.” His breath caught at the end, chest squeezing tight. Holy shit, he’d thrown away his own command, and for what? To make Rose happy?

No, he told himself. Because they were in over their heads and needed help, even winged, tailed, potentially demonic help who’d most definitely just had sex with his girlfriend.

“If you want out, then radio base,” Lance said, more harshly than intended – harshly enough that Tris’s face blanked. “But I’m staying here, and figuring out how to - to–” He gestured helplessly to the map he’d spread out. “Do something about all this. Fuck. I don’t know. Whatever.”

Tris straightened. His voice lowered – footsteps sounded outside the massive dining room, echoing in the broad hallways. “I know that you like her,” he said, “but don’t let that – some kinda jealous, dick-measuring shit get your head–”

“Donotlecture me about where my head is,” Lance said – ordered. “You haven’t been impartial where your own love life’s concerned, so don’t you dare tell me to be.”

Tris let out an unhappy breath, but didn’t respond.

The others entered the room, Gallo leading, rifle held at the ready across his body, goggles pushed up on top of his helmet. “All clear on the first floor. The stairs don’t look strong enough to hold anyone. We can get the grappling hooks out to check the upper floors.”

“No need.” Beck was bringing up the rear, wings trailing through the dust behind him like a cape, his tail crooked up in a loose hook at his hip. He’d smoothed his hair, and fixed his shirt buttons, his expression cool and removed. Calm and in control. “I’ll inspect them in a moment. Sergeant?” he prompted, arching a single brow and looking to Lance.

Lance allowed himself a darted glance toward Rose, equally composed, walking at Beck’s side. She had her knives and her sidearm, but not her rifle, nor even her helmet. They were no doubt sitting back in the meeting room they’d used at base, where she’d taken them off before seeking Beck out on the roof.

He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to focus on the task at hand. “I have a map, here.” He settled back in front of it, and Beck took up Tris’s place across the table – the long, once-polished dining table where Castor had hosted all his lavish dinner parties while the regular citizenry starved and shop-lifted scraps. “These are the places” – circled in white – “where heat signatures have indicated a concentration of conduit activity. Based on recon of the periphery of the city, heavensent production is at an all-time high, and probably a third of the city is taking it.

“We can confirm that there are two main factions of power feuding with each other, supported by smaller crime families and gangs. Timothy Shubert” – he touched the last-known headquarters of the kingpin, the infrared scan a blaze of bright light – “and Adam Lassiter.”

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