Chapter Two

D ULCE DIDN'T OFTEN let Brittany drive, but this morning was different. They'd taken the red-eye over from Salt Lake City and gone straight from LaGuardia to arguing with the FBI downtown before finally getting permission to use the fake ambulance they now drove. Dulce wanted to catch a little sleep, and she wanted to ignore as much as she could of the city she'd dreamed to call home. It hurt to see it, and to feel the dreams of the life she thought she'd have, considering all that had been stolen from her.

Brittany, on the other hand, was having a ball. Still dark, she refrained from using the sirens and waking people up, but she seemed to look for excuses to turn on the lights, zipping through intersections without slowing, splitting lanes, even going the wrong way up one-way streets. The ever-present taxis moved out of her way obediently, and she made record time from the FBI building near City Hall up to Harlem.

She took the corner from Columbus Avenue onto 135th a bit hard, and the ambulance rolled up onto two wheels, the rubber shrieking against the asphalt.

A suitable wake-up call for Dulce.

"What the fuck, Britt?" Dulce shouted, bracing herself against the window and the windshield.

"Sorry," Britt said, completely not sorry. She grinned from ear to ear.

"Slow down," Dulce snapped.

Brittany hit the brakes, sending Dulce shooting forward against her seat belt.

"Funny," Dulce said, and then hit Brittany. "Dick."

Their target was the Pump House, a castle-like structure turned theater. Cars were parked all around it, and a police cruiser sat directly out front.

"Park behind the cops," Dulce said.

"I'm driving," Brittany snapped. "I'll park where I damn well please."

Dulce scowled at the smaller woman.

But Britt parked exactly where Dulce said.

They got out of the ambulance and walked around to the back. Britt pulled the double doors open and hopped inside. The back of the ambulance wasn't typical — it had been outfitted for an FBI assault. Cages held various guns: assault rifles, shotguns, even cattle prods. In one cage, there was a multi-shot grenade launcher and several cases of grenades that ranged from less-than-lethal to substantially-over-lethal.

Brittany pulled a leather bag out of a cage and slid it along the floor to Dulce.

Dulce opened up the bag and started pulling items out. Wards, metal symbols hung on chains, small charms, a pigeon's foot, a rabbit's foot, other mummified and preserved animal parts — not exactly like anything else in the van. And at the bottom, a heavy leather-bound tome.

Brittany, on the other hand, pulled off her shirt off, revealing a muscled torso and an overflowing, over-tight sports bra.

"Can you even breathe in that thing?" Dulce snapped.

"Yes," Brittany lied.

"When are you going to start wearing bras that fit?" Dulce snapped.

"Uh, whenever we get a day off so I can finally go shopping," Brittany replied, taking a bulletproof vest out of a cage.

"Still can't believe you got those."

Brittany gave Dulce a big smile and a little shimmy. Then she unfolded the kevlar and stuck her tongue out it at. "Why is everything too big?"

"Because you're basically a midget."

"I'm not a midget."

"You're like, child-sized."

"Just because I don't knock shit over with my ass—"

"Hurry and get kitted up already."

Brittany turned her tongue to Dulce and blew a raspberry, but complied, going through the equipment with more purpose. Finally, she picked out a vest and pulled it over her chest.

"Who was here?" she asked Dulce.

"Three," Dulce replied, fiddling with her Blackberry.

"Three?"

"Goldman brought someone else out."

"For this?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"I know. Joseph thought we couldn't get here in time."

"Double fuck," Brittany replied, pulling a Remington 870 shotgun from the cage. She took another leather valise out and popped it open. While it contained many of the same esoteric items as Dulce's, there was a decidedly more violent theme happening inside, with plenty of bullets, shotgun shells, knives and the like. Brittany sorted through boxes of shells until she found one she liked. She popped it open and loaded the gun.

Dulce had her phone out and up to her ear.

"Hello?" the voice said on the other end, more than a little groggy.

"Sorry to wake you, Robert," Dulce said, "but we're at the site. No sign of Team three."

"Ugh," Robert replied, "too early."

"Wake up already," Dulce sneered into the phone.

"I'm awake."

"We're here, no sign of Mackenzie or Rose."

"Team three is down, copy."

"Potentially down," Dulce corrected. "We're prepped for recon."

Brittany hopped down from the ambulance and shut the doors behind her.

The sky was lightening from the east, turning from mottled black to a diffuse grey. But a storm was coming in from the west. The air was heavy with humidity; the storm would be bad.

"Noted," Robert said. "Go for recon. Please stay alive."

"Yeah, thanks," Dulce said, and hung up.

"Robert say anything?" Brittany asked.

"We're go," Dulce said.

Brittany smiled, popped a piece of gum into her mouth, and winked.

Leading with the 870, Britt darted across the open ground, only stopping once her back was against the stone wall of the Pump House. She peered around the edge carefully, looking at the glass doors leading into the lobby.

"Doesn't look good," Brittany said.

Dulce stood in front of the doors, not at all trying to hide behind a wall. She frowned.

"Doesn't look like anything," Dulce said.

Brittany scowled, irritated. Dulce was no fun. Britt came around the wall and walked up to the door. She let the shotgun drop along its sling, and pulled a Taurus Judge from a lower back holster. She wasn't a huge fan of the hand cannon, but she needed something that could manage shotgun shells, and there weren't a ton of options at the handheld level.

With one hand on the Taurus, Britt reached out to try the door.

Locked.

A second wiggle, but it yielded nothing.

Dulce pushed Brittany out of the way with her ample behind and kneeled in front of the door. Dulce set her book on the ground and pulled a small leather pouch from her inner jacket pocket. Lock picks.

As she set the first pick into the door, a tall black man with a huge scar running down the side of his face walked around the corner inside and pushed the door open.

"Help you?" he asked.