Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“You mean you’ve never been tempted to play, like, the A-Team theme song in this thing? Not even once?”

Annie screws up her face. “What?”

“ The A-Team? Bunch of dudes in a van on secret missions? Big guy with biceps the size of tree trunks?”

“I know who the A-Team are, dumbass. I just think you’re weird.”

“I’ll show you weird.” I lower my voice. “In 2020, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Oh my God.” Annie rolls her eyes.

“These men – well, these men and these significantly badass women promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, they are used by the government as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire… the T-Team.”

“The T -Team?” Annie says.

“Well, I’m just saying—”

“It literally has an A in the name. If anything, we the Annie Team.”

“Could we please just—?” Paul’s words are cut off when the van fills with machine-gun fire. No – not guns. Drums. And then a voice much deeper than mine, also talking about crack commando units. It’s the actual theme song. Playing, right now.

Annie groans. Paul frantically bangs on the partition glass. All of which is drowned out by my shout of triumph. “Yes! Thank you, Africa!”

“I found it online! I use the Bluetooth!” he yells back, just as the main theme kicks in.

“Come on, Annie, sing it with me,” I say. “You too, Paul.”

“This is embarrassing,” Annie says. But there’s a sly smile on her face. Before long, even Paul has given up protesting, as Annie, Africa and I harmonise.

Yeah. I feel good. Scratch that – for the first time in a while, I feel fucking great .

A few minutes later, Africa pulls us to a stop in the shadow of a hangar.

I put a hand on the side door handle, only to be stopped by Paul. “Teagan, hold. Let’s do a comms check.”

“They work fine. They always do.”

“All the same.” He keys his earpiece. “Paul here, you hearing me?”

“From two places at once.” I point at him, then my own earpiece. “It’s my worst nightmare.”

Annie rolls her eyes, touches her ear. “Annie here.”

“Africa. I am here.”

“And this your friendly neighbourhood psychokinetic. Can we go already?”

“Wait.” Paul holds up a finger.

“What now?”

He ignores me, touching his black earpiece. “OK, copy that. Over.” He looks up at me. “Reggie’s taken care of the cameras. You’re good.”

Our comms system is short-range only – I don’t know the specifics, exactly, but we have group chat up to about half a mile. Paul also has a direct line to Reggie, which we can’t hear, so she can provide him with intel that he can then spread to us. I once told him it would be a lot more efficient to include Reggie on the group chat too, but he started talking about command and control and lines of communication and I blacked out from sheer boredom.

“Can I have some more music to hop out the van to?” I ask him.

In response, Annie reaches over and pops the door, shoving me through. It’s not exactly the exit I imagined – in my head, I had Africa playing Nipsey Hussle’s “Last Time That I Checc’d” while the rest of us jumped out the van in slow-motion, shades on, looking dangerous. Oh well. At least I get to wear a cool uniform while I do it. Even if the heavy bulletproof vest makes me stumble on the landing.

We’re parked at the back of Hangar 22, its rear wall looming above the van, a vast expanse of metal sheeting. The air is filled with the sound of planes landing and taking off, the beeping of reversing trucks and baggage carts. It’s not sunny – the clouds still hang low over the city – but it’s warmed up a little since yesterday. The rain is holding off, for now.

“All right,” Annie says. “See you in a sec.” She starts walking, heading towards the front of the hangar.

Another snag to my slow-mo-movie-exit stunt: Paul didn’t actually leave the van. He’s still inside, hefting the sheet of thick steel that was leaning up against the rear door. I help him with it, manoeuvring it out onto the concrete surface. In the distance, one of the weird little tug vehicles they use for moving planes to their parking spots is buzzing around the corner of a hangar.

Paul puts an arm on the open driver-side window. “Africa, you know what to do?”

“Ya ya.”

“Teagan?”

“I literally suggested this part of the plan. Yes, I know what to do.” I nudge the metal sheet with my sneaker. It’s around four feet square, and has a high weight tolerance. “All aboard.”

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna look pretty stupid. But it’s the quickest way to get up on the roof.”

He scowls, but steps onto the steel, which clanks under his weight. I join him.

“Annie,” I say. “How’re we doing?”

“You’re supposed to say over at the end of a transmission,” Paul grumbles.

“Hold.” Annie’s voice is crisp and sharp in my ear. “All right, I see Schmidt’s goons. They’re looking in my direction. Go.”

“Snuggle up.” I grab hold of Paul, then wrap my PK around the sheet.

When you’re psychokinetic, you don’t need ladders, or elevators. If you’re strong enough – and over the past few months, I’ve gotten plenty strong – you can float yourself up to wherever you’re going. It makes infiltration missions a cinch, and would also be super-handy if you lived in a second- or third-storey apartment. Who needs keys?

It’s also why we’re being sent on this mission, instead of a special forces unit with guns and terrible beards. When you can move things with your mind, it’s very easy to get in and out of a place without being seen. Why risk the chaos and potential lawsuits of knocking down the door when you can be quick and quiet? Also fabulously good-looking, if I do say so myself.

It’s about fifty feet to the roof of the hangar. Paul and I bend our knees for balance as my PK lifts the metal sheet. The weight might not be a problem, but keeping it steady is tricky. I was worried about incoming pilots spotting us – after all, they are literally right over our heads – but according to Paul, we’re far enough from the actual runways. They won’t see us.

Normally, Annie is point on our missions, with Paul handling comms and logistics. Not on this one. Annie’s scared of heights, and point-blank refused to join me on my amazing improvised lift. I believe her exact words were “The fuck I wanna do that for?” I can’t blame her – on the night I was framed for murder, I had to throw both of us out the window of a skyscraper. She’s never let me forget it, either.

While Paul and I get high, Annie’s going to be around the front, pretending to be an anal Homeland Security official, demanding to see the papers for Schmidt’s guards and pilot.

Paul and I ascend in silence, the sheet beneath us rocking slightly as it moves. Below us, Africa has his head tilted up out the window, shading his eyes, watching us with a kind of awe. I have to resist the urge to flip him a lazy salute.

I’m concentrating hard on keeping us airborne, so it takes me a few seconds to realise that Paul is doing something… kind of strange.

“Are you humming?” I say.

“No.” He doesn’t look at me.

“You so were. Wait…” My eyes go wide as I recognise the tune. “That’s from Aladdin. ”

“Well…”

“That was ‘A Whole New World’. You were humming ‘A Whole New World’!”