I wait in the van and take some Advil, something I should have done hours ago, while Rowan takes the kids into her boss' office. I don't ask how it went when she gets back. The Loop-based prerogative I feel to keep them safe takes a back seat.
It's a relief to foist the kids off on somebody else; I feel like I can finally focus on the violence ahead of me. Rowan, too, looks looser. I want to say she looks more confident but I think maybe it's just that she's more relaxed because she's got fewer things to worry about now. It reminds me somewhat of Lucy's unselfconscious confidence around the men she served, a certain kind of ease.
I keep looking at her as she drives.
"You in the Army or something before you joined the FBI?" I ask. She shakes her head no.
"But you were doing something before. I don't believe the FBI would have trained you in those hand signals and stuff just for what's basically an assistance role in this project."
She shrugs. I realize I can pretty much say anything and I don't have to listen to any denials or objections. I watch her body language, something I've been good at reading ever since I was a little kid.
"If not the military, then some well-structured illegal group. Arms, maybe."
She doesn't react. Or, rather, her reaction is utter stillness.
"Okay," I say, pretending I haven't noticed, "Maybe not; hard to get into arms smuggling if you weren't first in the military. So maybe not that."
I see the muscles around her eyes relax a little.
"Or maybe it was a family thing. Your dad was ex-military, started running guns, and you liked the thrill of being the bad-ass little girl who could get a weapon to the purchaser without anyone the wiser."
Rowan shakes her head but it's too late. I've already seen those little reactions: the shoulders rising slightly, the tension around her eyes, the way she leaned forward just a little. I'm not trying to make her uncomfortable, I'm just trying to figure out who it is I'm working with. I trust her, now I just need to know the extent of her capabilities.
"Lots of paramilitary training in the FBI, then?" I ask, partly to show I accept her nonverbal lie.
Her lips quirk a little, like she'd tell me all about the FBI's failures in its training program if she could, and she shakes her head.
"Police academy, maybe," I say, "and you were so good they put you on special training for SWAT."
She gives a brief, curt nod, and it's not a lie. So maybe arms smuggling then cop school then SWAT then FBI. Maybe her dad wanted her to go legit. Then Ben and kids and a quiet country life, sort of working with, sort of spying on, a CIA project. Background heavy on weapons and tactics, nominally in favor of doing things as legal as possible, but totally fine with breaking the law if she thinks it's worth it.
It pissed me off every time she used the Loop to pacify me but now, I think, requiring nonviolence from me also helped her choose nonviolence for herself.
"Well," I say, taking a deep breath and relaxing, "Now you get to use all that training and experience." I watch a smile slowly expand across her face, lighting up her whole face. I can't help but smile, too.
The horizon beyond Rowan's profile is a bloody Summer haze. We drive through McDonald's for dinner, fill up the gas tank, and wander past cornfields and cows while we wait for the sun to set.
The drugs finally kick in and that, together with some real, hot food, even if it's crap calories, makes me feel a little more hopeful. There's something romantic about the feeling that you're going in to do as much damage as you can before they kill you, but I much prefer the feeling that I'm going to kick ass and emerge victorious and alive.
An inky blackness finally settles all around us and the headlights become moth-catching tractor beams, drawing them in to die against the windshield. Rowan's unhurried, she's done a good job of circling the road the dairy is on so that we turn onto it only a few minutes after sunset.
Rowan slides on the headphones. She's got the speaker and iPhone out on the center console. The speaker's one of those little red cones, something that fits pretty nicely in the hand.
A calm settles over me when Rowan turns off the headlights and rolls down her window. I roll mine down, too, thinking I'll follow her lead. I feel we're both thinking clearly. We made our decision to attack and now we just follow through.
The adrenaline kicks in when Rowan cuts the engine and we coast into the dairy's driveway, towards the far end of the truck docks. A working dairy runs 24/7. Lights are on. One milk truck is in, I think the engine's running but of course I can't hear it. As we pass I see the driver in his seat, clipboard in hand, door open to let in the cooling evening air. In the back, a hose hooked up to the tank, filling it with milk.
There's no truck at the far end of the docks. But there are two guards at the door that leads to Reynolds, both wearing ear protection. They step forward at the sight of us, one of them lifting a walkie-talkie to his lips. Rowan takes him out with one shot with her left hand as we coast by, but misses the second guy, who turns and runs for the door.
Rowan hits the breaks, switches hands, and hits the second guy before he can open the door. Now's she's got plenty of time to get the phone primed to play the Loop.
The moment the car stops, I'm out. I wince up the few steps to the dock platform, verify the two downed men won't be getting up, then locate the CCTVs. I take out the two that I see while Rowan finds a swipe card on walkie-talkie guy and tries it on the door's pad. The light goes green. She opens the door, staying behind it, while I'm against the wall on the opposite side. I peer around. The stairway is clear and I don't see anyone in the guard room in my quick glimpse.
I take another, longer look, now that I know I'm not going to get shot at. It looks empty. I look at Rowan, whisper, "clear." She tucks her gun away and holds the phone in one hand, the speaker in the other. I'm guessing she doesn't want to start it 'till she's got someone to point the speaker at. She tilts her head toward the stairs so I start down, feeling exposed, going slow and favoring my leg.
I slow down at the guard booth, confirm there's no one there. I start with the janitor's closet, opening doors, confirming the rooms are empty. And they are empty, each and every one, just scrubbed walls and floors. Looks like Reynolds spent our few hours of down-time emptying the place out. I'm starting to feel pissed.
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