Arvid smiled at him as he would a child. “I am? How so?”
“Kari said you’re our bookkeeper. Anyway, we all think of you as one of the team.”
Arvid’s smile widened, indulgent, and he nodded assent. “All right. Then I’m one of the team.”
Milo paused, cautious. I saw him consider whether he should vocalize something. “I’ve been thinking. The team should have a name.”
When I felt emotions, I would have teased him without mercy. “What name do you suggest?”
“How about …” He paused again and pretended like he hadn’t been thinking about it. “The New Untouchables. Or, since Arvid is one of us, the New Veterans.”
Arvid looked at me. This last was an insult to him and the men who had suffered through the ordeal he and his brothers in arms had experienced. I felt certain he was considering ripping off Milo’s head and shitting down his neck.
I tried to lighten the situation. “Remember the movie Fight Club?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Milo said, and his tone told me he wondered where I was going with this.
“The first rule of Fight Club was ‘Nobody talks about Fight Club.’ What if they hadn’t given Fight Club a name? It would have been really hard to talk about. The first rule of … is nobody talks about … Maybe we shouldn’t have a name, so no one can talk about us. To name a thing is to define it. If we have no name, in a sense, we don’t exist.”
It was the truth and he realized it as such. “You’re right, forget the name thing. It was a stupid idea.”
I glanced at Arvid. He was placated.
“Would everyone like to open their boxes, or should I just open one and show you everything?”
“Arvid, Sweetness, and you need to take them home,” I said. “Maybe it’s better if you just open mine.”
I checked the time. Four o’clock. Moreau wasn’t the kind of man who would be late. He was a spook. He was watching us from somewhere, waiting for us to finish so he wouldn’t intrude.
Milo took each item out, one by one, and gave us a running commentary on each as he did so. Our knives: “The Spyderco Delica Black Blade. Overall length, seven and one eighth inches. Closed, four and a quarter inches. Blade length, two and seven eighths inches. The Delica4 has a non-reflective VG-10 flat saber-ground blade coated with black titanium carbon nitride.”
He went on citing its virtues from memory, basically reciting the entire manual. He did the same with: night-vision goggles, Nomex coveralls, shoulder holsters, belt holsters, ankle holsters, gloves, Kevlar masks, zip-lock plastic handcuffs, bulletproof vests, utility belts, glass cutters, lock picks, electronic pick guns, key wax, ear protection, Maglites, saps that were extendable steel rods, Kevlar vests, Tasers, flash-bang stun grenades, double magazine pouches and spare magazines, Gemtech silencers that would render our weapons so quiet that we would only hear the clatter of our automatics’ slides recycling, and in discussing these he hinted at the weapons that we would receive to go with them. In his mind, setting us up, sitting us on pins and needles of anticipation.
Kate tried to escape to be with Anu, but he called her back. Milo had a small box for her containing a Taser and pepper spray, because it’s a dangerous world out there. The others were bored enough to cut their own throats with their Spyderco Delica Black Blades, but I was fascinated. Each item had been chosen with utmost care. I had never seen such a display, such an act of love. This team was the most important thing that had ever happened—and possibly ever would happen—to him.
Next came our weapons. First, we all got new .45 caliber 1911 Colts with three-inch barrels. Backup guns to be worn in ankle holsters.