The second guard shook his head, turned and started off. “This is between you and her. I didn’t see anything, and I was never here.”
“Thanks, Tony,” the first guard said. “Technically it’s…ill advised. But like I said, you being who you are and me being who I am, I’ll make an exception. Besides, it’s only for a day. And it’s not like I’m handing off a loaded weapon to my enemy or anything.”
Beatrice smiled, allowing her pearly whites to show. “Well, aren’t you just a doll. Got any spare mags?”
The guard nodded and removed two full magazines from a carrier on his belt. “These should get you by for a day. If not, come by and get more; we have plenty.”
Beatrice racked the slide, flabbergasted at the point of discovering an empty chamber. She conveyed her surprise inaudibly, her brows raised and pointed as if injected with Botox.
The guard grinned awkwardly. “Almost forgot to mention, it’s policy that we not carry locked and loaded in the cage. Kind of bizarre if you ask me, but policy’s policy, I guess.”
Beatrice agreed, but didn’t say she did. “Very well. I definitely appreciate this, never expected such special treatment, but I’m definitely glad I came to see you fellas today—I’m sorry, fella. Singular, not plural. Mr. Tony over there was never here.” She giggled like a schoolgirl dangling upside down on a swing. “Oh my, I almost forgot. There was something else I was meanin’ to ask you gents before I took off. Do either of you know anything on the topic of armament for the MQ-1C?”
Guard number one tilted his head slightly. “The…MQ…what?”
“Sorry, the unmanned aerial vehicle. I suppose it’s better known as the Predator, or ‘Pred’ for short; the drone we have in our arsenal. I’m preppin’ a sortie to set forth in the near future.”
The guard pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry to say I don’t know the first thing about it. We don’t keep anything beyond firearms and ammunition in the cage. Explosives, munitions and whatnot are housed elsewhere.”
Beatrice pouted again. “Well, drat. That bites the big one, doesn’t it? For me, anyway.” She reached for the pen, scribbled out the form for her Beretta, and slid it back to the guard. “Suppose I’ll keep looking around. I do, once again, want to thank you gentlemen for your free time and for being so gracious. If you do learn of anything, please let me know.”
As she went to turn away, the second guard returned to the front counter and leaned in closely. He scanned the room for onlookers, finding none. “I…might know how to go about getting what you need for that drone.”
“Say again, Tony?” Beatrice spun on a heel. “You might?”
He nodded. “That’s right. I might.”
“Well, what an absolute miracle. But wait a tick…are you playin’ tricks on me? I could’ve sworn you told me you weren’t here.”
Tony smirked again and leaned in even closer, pressing his forehead onto the cage’s enclosure mesh. “I did, and I’m still not. But I can help you find what you’re looking for…for a price.”
Beatrice slithered closer, almost licking her lips at the proposal. “Name your fee, Tony, who isn’t and was never here. Ask and ye shall receive. I am all ears.”
Chapter 14
Trout Run Valley
Saturday, March 5th
Amy and Peter Saunders had been working to revive some semblance of a normal routine, something along the lines of the one they’d had before Peter and youngest son, Liam, had fallen ill from poisoning in months previous. By means of well-timed doses of strong antibiotics and a fairly strict vegetarian diet consisting largely of homeopathic plant species foraged from their own yard, both father and son were well on their way to a full recovery.
Amy was busily taking inventory of her pantry, arranging and rearranging the dwindling assortment of foodstuffs supplied by the convoy that had brought their neighbors home. The mere sight of available food had been damn near exhilarating and had brought her solace knowing her family could, once again, enjoy nutritious, gratifying meals after rationing for so long, though it hadn’t lasted. Amy tried hard not to dwell on or worry over it, but the need to supplement their supplies was drawing near.
While she tended to kitchen chores and pondered what her family might need to do to survive the times to come, Peter sat feet away from her at the table, wrapped warmly in a wool blanket to chase occasional shivers away. A set of whetstones situated before him, he carefully sharpened and honed the edges of several of his favorite hunting and skinning knives while taking occasional sips from his coffee mug.
For the fourth time in a span of minutes, Amy glanced over her shoulder and spotted Peter eyeballing her in a suggestive manner. Each time he caught her stare, he turned away, switched his focus back to sharpening, and played it off with feigned apathy.
Deciding to test him, Amy whipped her head around, doing so only halfway, then rotated again an instant later, catching him in the act. “You must be feeling like your old self again, Pete,” she said, sending a snarky grin. “That’s the most I’ve caught you inspecting my ass in months.”
“What?” Peter huffed. “Please…I wasn’t inspecting your ass.”
“Like hell you weren’t.”
One of his brows shot up. “Why must you flatter yourself in such ways? I haven’t even chanced so much as a peep at your ass. I’m merely sharpening knives…fulfilling one of the many typical roles of provider, protector, and hunter-gatherer.”
“Oh really? Then what the hell were you gawking at each of the past five times I’ve caught you?”
Peter hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “I was trying to remember the last time you wore that shirt.”
Amy shook her head, back
