relieve the tension in the room, lighten the mood, and get the guys to like and respect her at the same time. It's impressive.
'So what's your name?' Brady asks.
'Kirby. But you can call me 'Killer,' if you want.' She flashes him a smile. 'All my friends do.'
'You have many friends?'
'Nope.'
He nods. 'Me neither. So explain what you meant by 'diversion.' '
'Sure thing. You and your macho killer commando squad hit the front, by the book. Bullhorns and 'Give up! Give up!' and all that stuff. While you're doing that, and he's distracted, Smoky and I will go in through the back.'
'Quiet, you mean?'
'Smooth as my inner thigh. And that's smoooooth, Mr. Brady, sir.'
'Uh-huh. And you don't think he'll be watching the back?'
'Maybe. But that's why you'll have to blow some stuff up.'
Brady raises an eyebrow. 'Come again?'
'Blow some stuff up. You know--'kaboom.' '
'How do you propose we do that?'
'Can't you drop a bomb on his lawn or something?'
Brady looks at Kirby, thinking. He nods his head.
'Okay, youngster. The concept's sound. But I think we can exe cute a little better and not have to--how'd you put it?--'blow some stuff up'?'
Kirby shrugs. 'Whatever. I thought you guys liked blowing stuff up.'
'Oh, we do,' he assures her. 'We just try to avoid it unless we have to. Makes the neighbors nervous.' He leans forward and spreads out the map of the estate. 'Here's what I propose. We're going to have a problem anyway with the size of the grounds if we come on foot. He'll see us from a mile away. Shit, he could have the place mined for all we know. We'll go in from the air, instead.'
'Chopper?' Alan asks.
'Yep.' He points to a position in front of the house. 'We'll hover up and at an angle. Makes it harder for him to get a shot. We'll have to hope he doesn't have a bazooka or some such nonsense. We'll lay out a field of fire. Real serious shit--I think I can get our hands on some fifty cals--along with some smoke grenades. Get his attention, make it sound like World War Three out front.'
'Okay,' Kirby says.
'Yeah. While all that's happening, you two will make your way to the back. Then on your mark, we'll fill the place with tear gas. You infiltrate and . . .' He spreads his hands.
'And hopefully we don't have to kill the poor guy,' Kirby finishes for him.
Brady looks at me. 'How's that sound?'
'Like a really bad idea,' I say, 'but the best under the circumstances.' I check my watch. 'It's four o'clock now. How soon can you be ready?'
'We can be airborne in a half hour. What about you? You'll need vests and masks.'
'No vest for me,' Kirby pipes up. 'Just slows me down. I'll take a mask, though.'
'Your funeral.' Brady shrugs.
She punches him on the arm. 'You don't know how many times I've heard that before.'
Just like Alan had a day earlier, Brady looks surprised and rubs his arm where she'd punched him. 'Ow.'
'That's what they all say,' she quips. 'So can we go shoot some stuff now?' She holds up the weapon she'd drawn earlier. 'New gun,'
she explains. 'I need to break it in.'
57
U N L I K E KIRBY, I WANTED A VEST. I UNDERSTAND WHY SHE doesn't like them, but I lack her predator's edge. Kirby was born to do this, to kick in back doors and enter houses filled with tear gas and flying bullets. Kirby doesn't have a Bonnie waiting for her. I do.
'This damn mask is going to give me the hat-hair from hell,' she observes, examining the thing.
We're crouched against the wall that surrounds the back of the estate. It's a privacy wall, about six feet high. We're not scaling it in any dramatic fashion. We each have a four-foot-high stepladder. We'd both been offered MP5 machine guns, and we'd both declined. 'Stick with what you know' is an old adage of the tactical situation. I know my handgun, my sleek black Beretta, as well as I know the color of my own eyes. Kirby had wisecracked about the MP5 clashing with her outfit, but I knew her reasons were the same: Travel light with the weapon of your choosing. Hers was a handgun as well.
'Ready to kick ass, over,' Kirby subvocalizes into her throat mike.
'Roger that,' Brady replies after a moment. 'Armageddon will commence in two minutes from my mark. One, two, three--mark.'
'Ooohh, synchronized watches,' Kirby whispers.
'Countdown's commenced, Kirby,' Brady says. 'You get that?'
'Yes, boss.' She looks at me and grins. 'Hey, Boone. Still think I'm not dangerous?'
'Negative on that, BB.' Boone's voice comes through, amused. BB stood for 'Beach Bunny.' 'You're bad news in a pretty package, that's the truth.'
Kirby checks her weapon as she continues the banter. I'm not interested in joining in. My stomach is fluttering and I'm so charged up I feel like I should be throwing off sparks.
At least your hands are dry, I think.
This has always been the case. No matter what the stakes, no matter how dangerous the scene, my hands never sweat in a gunfight, and they are always steady.
'Forty-five seconds until the nasty,' Brady says, sounding bored. I think about Gustavo Cabrera, inside that house. I wonder if he's clutching a weapon as he stares through his windows. Are his hands steady or shaking? What's he thinking of ?
'Thirty seconds,' Brady says.
'How are you over there?' Kirby asks me. Her voice is light, but her eyes are assessing me. Taking stock.
'Fifteen seconds to D-day.'
Kirby checks her own handgun again, humming. It takes me a moment to place the tune. 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' She catches me staring at her.
'I like the classics.' She shrugs.
'Ten seconds. Get ready.'
We position ourselves at the base of our respective ladders. My endorphin buddies are back and they've brought their friends.
'Five seconds. Get ready to open the gates of hell.'
'Bring it on, daddy-o,' Kirby says, full of good cheer even as her killer's eyes blaze.
The machine-gun fire, when it starts, is incredibly loud, even at this distance.
'That's our cue!' Kirby yells.
We clamber up the ladders, reach the top of the wall, and lift ourselves over. We turn around and go into a hanging position, like someone doing a chin-up, before dropping to the ground on the other side. No jumps and rolls in the real world; it's too easy to twist an ankle. The gunfire continues, and I see flashes as well, over the top of the house. I can hear the helicopter rotors and a series of loud noises that I assume to be flash-bangs going off. As I run, I hear another noise as well. It takes me a moment to place it. Return fire, from an automatic weapon.
Kirby and I race toward the back of the house at a dead run. She's moving faster than I am by a body-length or two, unencumbered by a flak vest or my extra years.
The house is smaller than I would have expected for the land its on. Per blueprints, it's just under 3200 square feet, all of which is laid out in a single story. There's a back door that leads through a small hall into the kitchen. We arrive at the door. I'm breathing hard and deep. Kirby appears unruffled.
