An hour later, after a long meal, while being regaled by Woodstock’s stories, some of which are either exaggerated or totally fabricated—much to Lilly’s delight—I find myself on the second floor balcony, beneath the Crow’s Nest, with Collins and Maigo. Hands on the brick wall, I look out toward the darkening ocean. It’s eight o’clock, but the summer sun is still setting behind us, casting the long shadows and orange light out toward the water. The still-charred land provides a dark, but stunning contrast to the color.
“It’s beautiful,” Collins says, standing next to me, two of her fingers atop mine, our affection now reaching a more comfortable level. After returning from Oregon, bruised, singed and alive, she crushed me with a hug that might have caused more pain than nearly being fire-bombed did, but we’re pretty casual with our affection now, trying to stay professional. While the FC-P is now made up of three couples, two teenage girls and a foul-mouthed pilot, we still try to keep the mushy stuff for after hours.
When I don’t reply, Collins taps my head. “Where are you?”
Before I can answer, Maigo does. “He’s thinking about how to propose.”
My eyes widen so far it feels like they might peel off the whole top of my head. I turn around slowly, away from Collins, and glare at Maigo, whose hood of long black hair covers her face and conceals the smartphone she’s staring at. But I’m not just upset at her for revealing this private detail, I’m also wondering how the hell she knows what I was thinking.
Maigo reaches around and pulls the shade of hair away from her face to reveal apologetic eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Wait, what?” Collins says, and I suddenly realize I’ve just confirmed what Maigo said. “She was right?”
“Nevermind that,” I say, keeping my eyes well clear of Collins’s gaze. I sit down at the outdoor table, across from Maigo. “You’re still holding out on me.”
She looks up at me, but says nothing.
Collins sits down beside me. I can feel her staring at the side of my head, but I don’t look. To acknowledge her means to answer her question, and I’m not ready for that. It’s why I was thinking about it.
“Spill it,” I say to Maigo.
“Jon...” Collins says.
“Hey!” a voice shouts, making all of us flinch. It’s Watson, from the window above. “I did it! They’re working. I know where they are!”
I stare at Maigo for another moment, and then stand. “Saved by the chubby man with the future goggles.”
“That makes two of you,” Collins says, standing.
I acknowledge her for the first time, unable to stop my smile. “Yes. Yes it does.”
10
Watson is generally uncomfortable being the center of attention. He’d normally balk at having this many people standing around him, watching him, but he barely notices that the gang is all here. Me, Collins, Cooper, Woodstock, Hawkins, Joliet, Lilly and Maigo. We’re more like a weird dysfunctional family than a government agency, but my superiors don’t need to know that. With Joliet, Lilly and Maigo being off the books, and my relationship with Collins not public knowledge, only Cooper and Watson are under the DHS’s ever-bureaucratic microscope that says office relationships are a faux pas. Not that any of us have to worry. Since saving Washington D.C., and securing the current President’s unshakable trust, we’re becoming fairly autonomous.
“Once the circuitry dried out, it was pretty user friendly. You said a soldier was wearing it, so that’s probably why.”
“You sayin’ soldiers ain’t smart?” Woodstock, a long since retired Marine, says, stroking his white mustache. I told him mustaches were creepy without an accompanying beard, but he waved me off and said all the hipsters were doing it and that he was finally back in style.
“I’m saying they made the glasses easy to operate while in the field,” Watson says, with that ‘I had crap under my nails last night’ snip creeping back into his voice. “Which is probably important for when you’re getting shot at.”
“S’pose,” Woodstock says, which was as close to an apology as he’ll ever get.
“What do they do?” I ask.
Watson hands the goggles to me. They’re still open, with wires trailing down to his computer. “Put them on.”
I slide the goggles over my eyes. I see nothing unusual, just the people around me. “Am I supposed to be seeing something?”
“Button on the right,” Watson says.
I feel the right side of the goggles and find the small, flush button. I press it once. Words spring into my vision, quickly identifying Cooper and Collins, listing their full names and affiliations with the DHS. I turn to Woodstock and the words ‘Chief Warrant Officer 5, Richard Woodall, U.S. Marine Corps, Retired,’ slip into view beside his face, followed by his FC-P employment status. When I look at Hawkins, the name displayed is Dustin Dreyling. Wherever this information is coming from, it’s a government source, picking information from official records before delving into the DMV. But then new information appears, correctly identifying Dustin Dreyling as an alias for Mark Hawkins.