boy
with the sleepy eyes has become so entrenched in my mind. Why I keep wondering
where he is and what he’s doing right now at this exact moment. Mostly, I
wonder if he’s trying to find me, trying to avenge his sister’s death. I build
up all these fantasies of Rain tromping through jungles, climbing mountains, or
beating up informants in a seedy pub trying to pick up the breadcrumbs of my
trail. His face is a handsome mask of determination. He won’t rest, won’t stop
until he has his vengeance.
The word vengeance sticks in my
head, and now I’m thinking of Grand. Mostly how I’m going to kill him. It’s an
easy way to pass the time.
It has to be slow, and Grand has to
know it’s me who’s snuffing out his life. There needs to be adequate time for
me to recite my memorized taunt as he gurgles his last blood-soaked breath.
Additional time for gloating and relishing his pain would also be appreciated.
I have no idea how I’m actually
going to accomplish this feat. My brothers never tire of lecturing me that
Grand is the most fearsome and powerful angel, that he is practically
invulnerable. Another slight hurdle is figuring out where the hell he even is.
But here, on this quiet rooftop, I can let my imagination frolic. My mental
frolics include pumping Grand full of bullets, twisting one of those cool,
curvy daggers into his chest, defeating him in bloody hand-to-hand combat, and
strapping him down onto a table and jolting him with high-powered Tasers. Stuff
like that.
By mid-afternoon the performers
begin to arrive in a variety of growling trucks that are anywhere from
unnecessarily huge to eats-Geo-Metros-for-breakfast-ginormous. There are
entrances on both sides of the arena, and the performers use both. I spend the
next two hours bounding across the roof, trying to catch sight of the men and
women. These people are not the beefcakes and busty Victoria Secrets models
you’d see on TV. Some of them are flabby and old. Others are skinny with
paunchy bellies. The women all seem to have thunder thighs. Very rinky dink
indeed.
Is there an angel hiding amidst
these ugly ducklings?
My adrenaline spikes each time a
car door opens, but every passenger and driver is swathed in a bright, aural
glow. No angel.
The sun is halfway down the other
side of the sky, and there are no more trucks coming when Tarren calls us back
to regroup. I meet him at the SUV a quarter mile outside of the arena. He
throws me two warm bottles of water from the trunk, and I eagerly twist off the
caps and drink.
“Not a whiff of radiation at their
hotel,” he says.
“Everyone on the outside was clean.
The workers, the wrestlers, all human.” I toss the first empty bottle back into
the trunk. Should’ve snacked on a pigeon while I was up on the roof all day.
The generous sunlight took the edge off my hunger, but not by much.
“Could you have missed anyone?” Tarren
keeps his expression neutral, but I know behind those pale eyes, doubts flit
through his mind.
“No, I checked everyone,” I insist.
His face doesn’t change, and he
looks over my shoulder. His energy flickers. “Where’s Gabe?”
“He’s right around the…”
“Hola,” Gabe jogs up next to me.
“You’re late. Was there a problem?”
Tarren demands.
“Yeah, someone spilled soda in one
of the men’s bathrooms. Total safety hazard. I had to get it cleaned up or
Janet would’ve killed me.”
I turn around and note that Gabe is
wearing a janitor’s uniform. Tarren and I are both silent as Gabe opens the
passenger door, rummages through the glove compartment, and pulls out a
chocolate and peanut butter Cliff’s Bar.
“No radiation inside the building,”
he says through a mouthful of food. “You?”
“No, and Maya says everyone’s
clean.”
“Everyone is clean,” I insist.
“Well then it’s probably a bust,”
Gabe shrugs.
“I never thought of you as a
Benito,” I tell him.
Gabe glances at his nametag and
grins. “Benny allowed me to
with the sleepy eyes has become so entrenched in my mind. Why I keep wondering
where he is and what he’s doing right now at this exact moment. Mostly, I
wonder if he’s trying to find me, trying to avenge his sister’s death. I build
up all these fantasies of Rain tromping through jungles, climbing mountains, or
beating up informants in a seedy pub trying to pick up the breadcrumbs of my
trail. His face is a handsome mask of determination. He won’t rest, won’t stop
until he has his vengeance.
The word vengeance sticks in my
head, and now I’m thinking of Grand. Mostly how I’m going to kill him. It’s an
easy way to pass the time.
It has to be slow, and Grand has to
know it’s me who’s snuffing out his life. There needs to be adequate time for
me to recite my memorized taunt as he gurgles his last blood-soaked breath.
Additional time for gloating and relishing his pain would also be appreciated.
I have no idea how I’m actually
going to accomplish this feat. My brothers never tire of lecturing me that
Grand is the most fearsome and powerful angel, that he is practically
invulnerable. Another slight hurdle is figuring out where the hell he even is.
But here, on this quiet rooftop, I can let my imagination frolic. My mental
frolics include pumping Grand full of bullets, twisting one of those cool,
curvy daggers into his chest, defeating him in bloody hand-to-hand combat, and
strapping him down onto a table and jolting him with high-powered Tasers. Stuff
like that.
By mid-afternoon the performers
begin to arrive in a variety of growling trucks that are anywhere from
unnecessarily huge to eats-Geo-Metros-for-breakfast-ginormous. There are
entrances on both sides of the arena, and the performers use both. I spend the
next two hours bounding across the roof, trying to catch sight of the men and
women. These people are not the beefcakes and busty Victoria Secrets models
you’d see on TV. Some of them are flabby and old. Others are skinny with
paunchy bellies. The women all seem to have thunder thighs. Very rinky dink
indeed.
Is there an angel hiding amidst
these ugly ducklings?
My adrenaline spikes each time a
car door opens, but every passenger and driver is swathed in a bright, aural
glow. No angel.
The sun is halfway down the other
side of the sky, and there are no more trucks coming when Tarren calls us back
to regroup. I meet him at the SUV a quarter mile outside of the arena. He
throws me two warm bottles of water from the trunk, and I eagerly twist off the
caps and drink.
“Not a whiff of radiation at their
hotel,” he says.
“Everyone on the outside was clean.
The workers, the wrestlers, all human.” I toss the first empty bottle back into
the trunk. Should’ve snacked on a pigeon while I was up on the roof all day.
The generous sunlight took the edge off my hunger, but not by much.
“Could you have missed anyone?” Tarren
keeps his expression neutral, but I know behind those pale eyes, doubts flit
through his mind.
“No, I checked everyone,” I insist.
His face doesn’t change, and he
looks over my shoulder. His energy flickers. “Where’s Gabe?”
“He’s right around the…”
“Hola,” Gabe jogs up next to me.
“You’re late. Was there a problem?”
Tarren demands.
“Yeah, someone spilled soda in one
of the men’s bathrooms. Total safety hazard. I had to get it cleaned up or
Janet would’ve killed me.”
I turn around and note that Gabe is
wearing a janitor’s uniform. Tarren and I are both silent as Gabe opens the
passenger door, rummages through the glove compartment, and pulls out a
chocolate and peanut butter Cliff’s Bar.
“No radiation inside the building,”
he says through a mouthful of food. “You?”
“No, and Maya says everyone’s
clean.”
“Everyone is clean,” I insist.
“Well then it’s probably a bust,”
Gabe shrugs.
“I never thought of you as a
Benito,” I tell him.
Gabe glances at his nametag and
grins. “Benny allowed me to
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