My left hand rested naturally near my hip.
In my mind, the combat telemetry was instantaneous: his center of gravity was high and leaning forward over the rail; his left hand was preoccupied with his waistband; his radial nerve on the right wrist was completely unguarded; the distance between my lead boot and his carotid artery was four feet. I could crush his windpipe in 1.4 seconds before he could drop the beer can.
Maya laid her hand gently over my forearm.
Her touch was feather-light, carrying a coded sub-audible pressure: Hold. Reconnaissance first.
Maya looked at Brad, tilting her head with a soft, compliant smile that would have earned her an Oscar in any theater in the world.
“That’s a very… specific proposition, Brad,” Maya murmured, lowering her eyelashes. “Nine o’clock?”
Brad’s chest swelled like a puffed toad. He ran a thick thumb over his lower lip, confident that his brute size and the threat of the broken gate had brought the new arrivals to heel.
“Nine o’clock on the dot, girls,” Brad chuckled, turning back toward his screened porch. “And remember: wear something thin. I don’t like wasting time with buttons.”
He sauntered into his house, letting the aluminum screen door slam shut behind him.
Maya and I turned around and walked inside our home, pulling the heavy interior door shut.
The moment the lock engaged, the softness vanished from Maya’s eyes.
She walked across the bare hardwood floor to the master bedroom, where three olive-drab Pelican transport trunks sat bolted to the slab foundation. She spun the combination dials, releasing the pressurized air valves with a sharp, pneumatic hiss.
From the foam cutouts, Maya lifted two matching Glock 19 tactical sidearms with modular carbon-fiber suppressors.
I picked up four pairs of high-tensile Kevlar zip-cuffs, two pairs of thin tactile leather search gloves, and a set of specialized micro-transceiver earpieces.
