would be standing.
From his seat near the head of the table, Connor could see Trick studying all the images closely. Trick looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You got a street view of that distance, too?”
“Hold on.” The projected image went dark, and Sherlock swiped and tapped at his tablet. As he worked he said, “You know there’s no clear shot from street level.”
“I know, Trick answered. “Not what I’m interested in.”
After a couple of minutes, the back wall lit up again, and Sherlock put several images up in a grid. “Best I can do—street view of the route between the points, and the view in all directions around the building.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted.” Trick leaned forward and studied the images. The rest of the Horde sat quietly and looked, too. Connor assumed they were doing what he was doing: trying to figure out what Trick was looking for.
Finally, shaking his head, Trick turned back to the table. “There are cameras everywhere. We’re being spied on every time we turn around, and people just let it happen. We should be burning the place down over shit like that.” Connor could sense the general eye-roll around the table as it seemed like Trick had a rant building, but he let his quiet outrage drop and looked at Sherlock, asking simply, “Can you do something about all those?”
Bart was the one who answered him. “To an extent. We can loop dead space into some and obscure others, but if we interfere with too many, that itself could raise a flag. It’s the financial district. Those fuckers are paranoid. Typical crooks, always sure everybody else is crooked. So we need to get you close before we start messing with the surveillance.”
“Which is where we hit our first snag,” Sherlock added.
Seeing the problem, Connor laughed. It was a real problem, but it was also funny as hell. When everybody turned to him, he explained, “It’s you, T. You stand the fuck out.”
And then everybody turned to Trick and took him in: long, thick, dark blond dreads and a bushy, wiry, dark blond beard. The tats that covered his arms and hands they could deal with, but they couldn’t exactly give him a head transplant. And it was July in Southern California—August at the time of the hit. He would stick out more in a ski mask than he did looking like fucking Medusa.
Hoosier cocked his head toward Trick. “How about a trip to the barber, brother?”
Every head swiveled back to Trick. That boy loved his hair. Had Connor not known Trick, he’d have expected that head of his to smell bad. It looked unwashed. But Trick was fastidious about his hair and hygiene. Sometimes it took the guy almost an hour to get himself ready in the morning. When he worked or rode, he wore his mop tied back with a piece of hemp, but otherwise, like now, he left it loose to drape down his back and over his shoulders. He was practically a girl about that hair.
Connor’s mental observation was reinforced when, reacting to Hoosier’s question, Trick did a protective sweep and flip over those thick snakes and looked, for a brief second, like the world’s ugliest princess.
But his eyes were wide with shock. He was distraught at the suggestion.
“Hair grows, T,” Connor said, trying to sound reassuring. “You can grow ‘em back.”
Trick turned hot eyes on him. “I haven’t cut my hair since I got kicked from the service. Ten years. It’s more than just hair. It means something. This…”—he turned to Hoosier—“are you shitting me?”
Connor’s father spoke calmly. “We don’t have another sniper, brother. I know what we’re asking. I get it. But there’s nobody else can do it, and you are easily identifiable. Our goal here is to get up and out and none the wiser.”
“We haven’t even voted on the fucking job yet!” Usually, Trick was calm and quiet, but this discussion had him agitated.
Still
From his seat near the head of the table, Connor could see Trick studying all the images closely. Trick looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You got a street view of that distance, too?”
“Hold on.” The projected image went dark, and Sherlock swiped and tapped at his tablet. As he worked he said, “You know there’s no clear shot from street level.”
“I know, Trick answered. “Not what I’m interested in.”
After a couple of minutes, the back wall lit up again, and Sherlock put several images up in a grid. “Best I can do—street view of the route between the points, and the view in all directions around the building.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted.” Trick leaned forward and studied the images. The rest of the Horde sat quietly and looked, too. Connor assumed they were doing what he was doing: trying to figure out what Trick was looking for.
Finally, shaking his head, Trick turned back to the table. “There are cameras everywhere. We’re being spied on every time we turn around, and people just let it happen. We should be burning the place down over shit like that.” Connor could sense the general eye-roll around the table as it seemed like Trick had a rant building, but he let his quiet outrage drop and looked at Sherlock, asking simply, “Can you do something about all those?”
Bart was the one who answered him. “To an extent. We can loop dead space into some and obscure others, but if we interfere with too many, that itself could raise a flag. It’s the financial district. Those fuckers are paranoid. Typical crooks, always sure everybody else is crooked. So we need to get you close before we start messing with the surveillance.”
“Which is where we hit our first snag,” Sherlock added.
Seeing the problem, Connor laughed. It was a real problem, but it was also funny as hell. When everybody turned to him, he explained, “It’s you, T. You stand the fuck out.”
And then everybody turned to Trick and took him in: long, thick, dark blond dreads and a bushy, wiry, dark blond beard. The tats that covered his arms and hands they could deal with, but they couldn’t exactly give him a head transplant. And it was July in Southern California—August at the time of the hit. He would stick out more in a ski mask than he did looking like fucking Medusa.
Hoosier cocked his head toward Trick. “How about a trip to the barber, brother?”
Every head swiveled back to Trick. That boy loved his hair. Had Connor not known Trick, he’d have expected that head of his to smell bad. It looked unwashed. But Trick was fastidious about his hair and hygiene. Sometimes it took the guy almost an hour to get himself ready in the morning. When he worked or rode, he wore his mop tied back with a piece of hemp, but otherwise, like now, he left it loose to drape down his back and over his shoulders. He was practically a girl about that hair.
Connor’s mental observation was reinforced when, reacting to Hoosier’s question, Trick did a protective sweep and flip over those thick snakes and looked, for a brief second, like the world’s ugliest princess.
But his eyes were wide with shock. He was distraught at the suggestion.
“Hair grows, T,” Connor said, trying to sound reassuring. “You can grow ‘em back.”
Trick turned hot eyes on him. “I haven’t cut my hair since I got kicked from the service. Ten years. It’s more than just hair. It means something. This…”—he turned to Hoosier—“are you shitting me?”
Connor’s father spoke calmly. “We don’t have another sniper, brother. I know what we’re asking. I get it. But there’s nobody else can do it, and you are easily identifiable. Our goal here is to get up and out and none the wiser.”
“We haven’t even voted on the fucking job yet!” Usually, Trick was calm and quiet, but this discussion had him agitated.
Still
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