Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

Reggie gives him an encouraging smile. He wipes his face, and continues. “I have plenty jobs before. I work for police in France. I cut trees. I wash dishes. I smuggle gold. I work security for Barack.”

Sandra-May raises an eyebrow at this, but says nothing.

“But I think, ya, this is the best job I ever have,” says Africa. “It has the best people.”

“ This is the best job you ever had?” Annie says. “Damn, dude, you need to put yourself out more.”

“Hush,” Sandra-May says.

Reggie clears her throat. “I’m grateful we all survived the earthquake, when so many others didn’t. I’m grateful for the roof over our heads, and the people round this table.”

“Amen,” Annie’s mom murmurs.

“Thought you didn’t believe in God, Mrs Cruz,” I say.

“ Amen! ” She has to take a deep breath to say it, fighting through the wheezing, but there’s a huge grin on her face. More cheers, this time with Paul and Annie joining in.

“What about you, Teagan?” Reggie says.

“Hell no,” I say, laughing. “I’ll go after—”

Carlos .

I was about to say, I’ll go after Carlos .

Africa gives me a strange look. The table is silent, the others waiting for me to speak. I stare down at my empty plate, thinking hard.

What do I have to be thankful for?

I have a job. I have friends. I have a house – one that hasn’t been destroyed by fire, or the quake. My lungs aren’t fried like Sandra-May, and I have two legs to walk around on, unlike Reggie. I have Los Angeles. I have a past that doesn’t haunt me, because I know exactly who I am, and where I come from.

And yet, when I try to tell everyone that, nothing comes out.

If I’ve got so much to be thankful for, why am I trying to change it? Why do I want to go to chef school? Why am I fighting with Nic? Why can’t I get Carlos out of my head? If my life is so perfect; if I have so many good things; then why do I feel so… stuck?

After everything that happened with me being framed for murder, I’d convinced myself I had something good in China Shop. That these people were my friends. And they are… up to a point. A meal like tonight’s doesn’t happen every week, or even every month. During work hours, we’re friendly enough to each other, and I know they’ve got my back. But outside work, it’s different. Paul and Annie spend all their time with each other. Reggie prefers settling down with a book or a movie. I’m not exactly begging to hang out with Africa. The few other friends I have outside of work aren’t close enough to make a real difference, and as for Nic…

“I’m thankful for the food,” I say, still looking at my empty plate. “And for us. You know?”

Polite smiles. An encouraging nod from Paul, as if expecting me to go on.

“Hear hear,” Reggie murmurs, when it becomes clear that I’m done.

“Can we eat now, Mommie dearest?” Annie says sweetly.

“Why yes, sugar plum.” Sandra-May reaches for the mashed potatoes. “We can eat now. Paul, be a dear and pass me the gravy.”

Van Nuys Airport isn’t as busy as LAX, which is essentially a sprawling self-contained city that just happens to have runways attached. But it still gets plenty of traffic, and when we pull up to the security gate at 10:15 a.m. precisely, we have to wait behind a line of cars.

“Come on.” Paul cranes to look out the window. He’s more fidgety than normal, which is crazy annoying. The back of the China Shop van is cramped, with racks of equipment and tools that line one side. A thick sheet of metal sits propped against the rear door. The low bench on the other is just wide enough for Paul, Annie and myself to sit on, but if he doesn’t stop jumping up every five seconds, I’m going to brain him.

“Relax, babe.” Annie rolls her shoulders. “Schmidt got in right on schedule this morning. We got plenty of time.”

“That we know of. He’s flying private. That means he could take off whenever he wants.”

“Reggie says he hasn’t even left the hotel where he’s meeting the buyer.” She stifles a yawn.

“All the same…”

Africa jerks the van forward, fighting with the clutch. Paul thumps back down, his glasses knocking themselves askew.

I don’t know why Paul’s on edge. In theory, this should be an easy job. Schmidt might be meeting buyers, but he won’t be carrying the list of our deep-cover assets around with him. That would be very dumb. No, he’ll keep it locked in a safe, on his plane, surrounded by his guards, in an airport filled with trigger-happy TSA, until such a time as an exchange can be made. Reggie found out that Schmidt has booked the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Bel-Air to meet his buyer, which is fine by us. One of Annie’s Army was prepared to add our licence plate to the TSA’s Cleared list so we could get inside. Probably cost a shit-ton, but what the hell; Tanner can afford it.

We’re all dressed in Homeland Security uniforms. Dark blue short-sleeve shirts, open at the collar, and navy slacks. Also toolbelts that hold enough gadgets and gizmos to give Batman a hard-on. Plus mirror shades, and a hot, heavy bulletproof vest. Like wearing a turtle shell.

The uniforms are pretty cool, as uniforms go, but I’ve always found it kind of stupid that airport officials wear them. They dress like they’re about to breach a paramilitary compound in Columbia, when ninety-nine per cent of their job is asking jet-lagged tourists from Turkey how long they plan on staying in the United States and if they’re members of a terrorist organisation. At least I got to wear my black Air Jordans for this mission – with what I have to do, heavy boots would be a bad idea.

Africa finally clears the gate. “Everybody OK?” he says through the van partition. He sounds surprisingly nervous.

“You learn clutch control, I’d be better,” Annie mutters. Our van is manual – when Carlos was our driver, he insisted on it. Africa has learned quickly, I’ll give him that, but he still can’t pull away without jerking the car.

I’d rather not have Carlos intruding on my thoughts today. I’m feeling surprisingly good. Maybe it was the ginger ale Sandra-May served, which she jacked with bourbon, or her speech about gratitude actually penetrating my subconscious, because I slept surprisingly well. I only needed two coffees to get going this morning.

There was no time to talk to Reggie about chef school this morning – hardly surprising, as it’s always a little crazy before our jobs. But she wants a full debrief back at the Boutique later, and even taking that into account, there’ll be a couple of hours before she has to leave for her flight to Washington. If the job goes well, she’ll be in a good mood. Yesterday was… hard. But it looks like today might be a little better.

“Hangar 22, ya?” Africa asks.

“Yep. It was in the briefing,” I say.

Annie cackles. “You wanna be careful, Africa. When Teagan remembers stuff from the briefing that you can’t, you are way behind.”

“Bite me,” I tell her.

“No, no, no, I know, I know.” Africa shakes his head, like we’re the ones being ridiculous.

Paul leans into the partition window. “Remember: stay on this side of the solid yellow line. You can’t cross into the movement area without ATC permission.”

“Hey, Africa,” I say. “Can you put on some music?”

“ No , Teagan.” Paul gives me an irritated look. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Come on. It’ll be a while before we get there, and we already know what we have to do.”

“We should be focused. Like I’ve said before—”