Leaping Read Free Page B

the
driveways of the huge houses around us. There also aren’t too many other cars
on the curb.
    “Too many witnesses in the house,”
Tarren adds. I think he’s just peeved, because Gabe’s plan doesn’t involving
staking out this Cartwright guy for three miserable days, covering every
possible contingency, and then finally clipping the guy’s wings in some tight
alleyway under the cover of a moonless night. Tarren’s plans might be nearly
fuck-up proof, but Jesus, they’re boring.
    “He’s got a bodyguard on him all
the time,” Gabe answers, “and a super advanced security system at home. This
party is our best chance to blend, get in, shoot him in the face, and then get
out. When else is an angel going to literally throw us a costume party so we
can kill ‘em nice and anonymously?”
    “We only clip his wings if we get a
safe opening,” Tarren says, his voice low as rolling thunder. “We can’t put
bystanders at risk or allow any witnesses. If we don’t get a shot tonight, we
wait and find another way.” His hard stare sweeps from Gabe to me, and we both
nod to make him feel better. Tarren has officially put himself in charge of The
Committee of Nothing Going Wrong Ever…which means Gabe and I are endless
sources of disappointment.
    “Silencers,” Tarren says.
    “Got it,” I say and bend over the
back seat. Gabe snickers, and I remember exactly how non-existent my skirt is.
    “Shut up,” I say, “and don’t look.”
    I hand out the silencers. Gabe pulls
up his research on Tucker Cartwright’s house on his iPad and gives us a rundown
of levels, windows, and doors. We used to do intensive pre-mission planning
sessions in off-the-grid motel rooms before suiting up for missions. Now that
ritual has shrunk down to a quick cram sesh in the car before throwing
ourselves into the fray. How did this happen? All of our careful protocols are
breaking down in the frantic chase to put down angels before more can pop up
like evil Whac-a-Moles. We’ve barely even discussed this mission on our drive
over from New Mexico as we each took turns dozing in the back to catch up on
sleep. Tarren must be freaking out in his utterly quiet, controlled way.
    Gabe turns around in the passenger
seat and pins me with a hard stare. “I am Batman!” he growls and then promptly
turns around.
    “You’re a dumbass.” I kick his
seat.
    Tarren sighs, and a wave of guilt
douses my levity. He doesn’t need to say anything out loud. That sigh says it
all. I watch his jaw set. In the pale light of the streetlamp I can’t help but
follow the raised, shiny flesh of the scar that travels along his jaw and
curves up his chin. I wonder if the beautiful people at Tucker’s party will
think Tarren’s scar is fake, that the hard glint in his blue-gray eyes is all
show. Will they think the muscles he’s built are just the necessary equipment
another hot actor wannabe needs to land a job in Hollywood? 
    Too bad for them if they learn the
truth.
    As soon as we exit the jeep, I realize
that I have a problem. My costume leaves absolutely no room for my Glock 19
alone, much less with a silencer attached. Shit. Even if I inched up a thigh
holster as high as it would go, the gun would still be plainly visible.
    Tarren glances over at me and
recognizes my dilemma immediately. “You need a different costume,” he says.
“Take one of the police uniforms from the back.”
    “Those aren’t slutty enough,” Gabe
responds. “She’d stick out like a sore thumb. Maya, can you uh, you know, put
the girls to use?” Gabe mimics putting the gun down the front of his costume.
    “Do these look like Double Ds to
you?” I touch my small breasts.
    Gabe grins.
    “Don’t answer that…and shut up. I’m
just going to be…going to be a nurse who survived the zombie apocalypse,” I say
as I grab two thigh holsters from the back and start strapping them on.
    “Vigilante Nurse, she’ll tend your
wounds…,” Gabe says in a deep announcer’s