He stood looking at the little packet indecisively for a long moment before reaching for the pills and pouring them out into his hand. He plucked one from the pile, scooped the rest back up in the packet, and then pulled at the pill to try to break it in half. He cursed when he couldnt get the thing to snap in two like it was supposed to, and he pulled out another one and tried to snap it instead.
After trying each of the pills and failing to snap any of them on the line, he growled quietly and cursed. His fingers werent working like they were supposed to.
Instead of asking Zane to deal with it, he popped a whole pill into his mouth and swallowed with a wince at the bitter taste. One every six hours was the same as a half every three, right?
Not really, but it would do.
He continued to mumble to himself as he hurried to get ready for the game. After a few more minutes, he joined Zane downstairs. “Need any help?” Zane asked.
“You think you can find my cleats?” Ty requested as he buttoned the gray Feds jersey with fingers that felt too thick.
“Sure,” Zane said amiably, and he headed for the front door. Ty was still tucking the jersey in and adjusting the Under Armour shirt he wore beneath it when Zane brought his dirty cleats to him. Ty could feel that pill beginning to work already. Now he questioned the wisdom of taking it, and he wondered if it was too late to go throw it back up. They usually took longer to hit him.
Zane looked him up and down with a small smirk before gesturing with one finger for Ty to turn in a circle. “What?” Ty frowned at him suspiciously, but he held his hands out to his sides and turned in a slow circle as requested. When he completed the movement to face Zane again, he saw Zane watching him, biting his lower lip.
“Well, itll do for a ballgame,” Zane murmured as he stood. Ty huffed at him and inexplicably found himself blushing under the scrutiny. “Youre a dick, Garrett,” he muttered as he moved to grab his cleats.
“So says the ass in very tight pants,” Zane said, half laughing as he grabbed his wallet and keys. “Cmon. Food, then ball field.” T HE SUV idled near First Maryland Bank. Pierce checked his watch. The first game was set to start in ten minutes. If he had planned it right, and he had, the explosion would take out at least half of the crowd and players. He smiled. Most of them were cops, and any of the others— firefighters, EMTs, or regular spectators—were just collateral damage. It served them right for playing with the pigs or buying into that spectacle. Besides, the more deaths there were, the less likely it was anyone would pay attention to the bank robbery on the other side of town. He hoped someone stepped on the plate during the national anthem. Chaos, panic, disorder, all of the above.
It would be brilliant. He turned up the police band radio, waiting for the inevitable calls for ambulances, fire trucks, and bomb squads. He only wished he could be there to see it explode.
T HE number of vehicles clogging the parking lots, streets, and even browned grassy areas around the playing fields surprised Zane. Sure, it was a softball tournament on a Sunday afternoon, but wow. There were people everywhere, in various states of winter dress. It reminded him of a county fair with all the fund-raising vendors set up. He almost expected to smell barbecue, but that would have been Texas. Here in Baltimore it would be the sweet scent of fried crabcakes.
“Whered you leave the Bronco?” Zane asked. “In the far corner over there,” Ty answered immediately, pointing toward the edge of the lot where several large trees with spindly bare branches loomed over the cars parked on the crunchy dormant grass.
Zane tried to find a space near it but ended up going in the opposite direction to park closer to the field so Ty wouldnt have to walk so far. “Let me guess. Shes away from the foul balls.”
Ty looked across the lot at the Ford affectionately. Zane had never seen anything special about the old SUV except for the fact that Ty loved her, and Ty was adamant that the vehicle was a her. She was an 88 Ford Bronco, green with a tan underbelly, and every inch of her was lovingly cared for, if not pristine. From what Tys brother, Deuce, had told Zane, Tyd had the Bronco since he was in high school. Hed rescued it from a scrap yard and rebuilt it himself. The front windshield was scarred with the sticky remains of old entry decals, some of them retaining the shape of their former stickers from the Marine base at Camp Lejeune. Decals littered the edges of the back and side windows. Zane had never taken the time to stop and look at them all, but he guessed that there were dozens altogether.
There was one very prominent white sticker in the rear window that said “Semper Fidelis” beneath the USMC eagle, globe, and anchor. There were several smaller decals scattered around that commemorated certain stretches of the Appalachian Trail. A yellow square with a familiar curled snake and the words “Dont Tread On Me.” An old peeling sticker that had seen better days was what Zane had been told was a nautical star. There was a Smith & Wesson logo. In various places he could see a New Orleans Saints fleur de lis, an Atlanta Braves tomahawk, a faded Grateful Dead “steal your face” sticker, and a very old M with a circle over it that Zane knew stood for an Ironman Triathlon. A newer decal sported stylized Arabic writing that spelled out “Infidel” with an assault rifle used as the capital I. In direct contrast, on the opposite window, was the Om symbol. By itself in the center of one of the back windows was a black POW/MIA sticker.
The Bronco and its dressings told the tale of Tys life and offered glimpses into his heart and soul, whether Ty meant it to or not. Zane knew it had traveled with Ty nearly everywhere hed been, even serving as his home a few times when Ty was transitioning between lives.
“People have gotten to where they aim at her. Try to hit her with foul balls,” Ty complained.
It drew a smile out of Zane, and he chuckled. “Thats awful,” he commiserated. “I know!” Ty exclaimed with complete sincerity. He leaned forward in his seat, digging through the duffel bag in the floorboard, and pulled out his cleats, which hed refused to put on before getting into the car.
Zane shrugged, though he was amused by Tys utter seriousness. “If somebody threw a softball at the Valkyrie, Id have to clobber them.”
“Throwing is different. A foul ball has gravity on its side,” Ty explained as he popped open the passenger-side door and tried to swing his legs out before unbuckling his seatbelt. He grunted as the belt tightened, then reached behind him to fumble with the mechanism briefly before it released and he slid out of the truck in a tumble of shoes and equipment, disappearing from sight. “Im okay,” Zane heard him say.