Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

Tony always walked with a book open. Just like he ate reading and went to the bathroom reading and got dressed reading.

Stupid. Just stupid, because you missed so much if you weren't looking around.

Like this cool car they were coming up on. The windows were black and the body was black and it had a number for a license plate: 010. That was it; no letters. Joey glanced over at his little brother, and sure enough Tony hadn't noticed.

His loss.

The thing looked like one of those police-type jobbies.

As they came up to it, he nabbed his brother's collar and yanked him up short. Tony didn't question the stop--just turned another page. He probably thought they were at a curb.

Joey leaned in a little and tried to see inside, all the while braced for something in a uniform to get out and yell at them for being nosy. When he saw nothing and nothing happened, he cupped his hands and put them against the cold glass--

He jumped back. "I think there's someone in there."

"Is not," Tony said without lifting his head.

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Is too. And how would you know?"

"Is not."

Okay, Tony didn't know what he was talking about and this argument could go on forever. And then he and his little brother would be late for homeroom and he'd get grounded. Again.

But . . .

How coooooooooool if they found a dead body--right in front of the McCready Funeral Home!

Dropping his book bag, Joey moved his brother away from the car by picking him up and relocating his feet. "This is dangerous. I don't want you hurt."

That finally got Tony's eyes out of the book. "Is there really somebody inside?"

"You stay back."

It was the kind of thing his father would have said, and Joey felt all big-man about it--especially as Tony nodded and held his book to his chest. But this was how it was supposed to be. Joey was gonna be thirteen soon, and he was in charge when there was no one else around. And sometimes even when there were other folks in sight.

Recupping his hands, he resumed his position against the glass, and retried to see past the darkened--"It's a pirate!"

"You're lyin'."

"No, I'm not--"

A car slowed to a halt in front of them and a lady put down her window--it was Mrs. Alonzo from across the street. "What are you up to now, boys?"

Like all they did was get up to stuff.

Part of Joey wanted her to keep going and let him run this situation. But the other part wanted to show off. "There's a dead guy in here."

He felt very important as she got all white and nervy-lookin'. Man, if he'd known all this was going to happen, he would have been in more of a hurry leaving the house. This was way better than gym.

Except then Tony had to jump in. "It's a pirate!"

Abruptly, Mrs. Alonzo didn't look so grown-up scared. "A pirate."

His brother was such a pain--and Joey was not about to lose his audience. Pirates were a kid thing. Dead guy in a car? That was all grown-up, and that was where he wanted to be.

"See for yourself," he said.

Mrs. Alonzo pulled her Lexus in front of the black-on-black car and got out, her high heels making pony-clopping sounds on the road. "Okay, enough, boys. Get in and I'll drive you the rest of the way to school. You're going to be late." She held out her phone to Joey. "Call your mother and tell her I'm taking you in. Again."

This did happen a lot. Mrs. Alonzo was a business lady whose office was not far from school, and they were late a lot and she did drive them a lot. But this morning was different.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You have to look in the window."

"Joey--"

"Please." Another grown-up thing: the please-and-thank-you stuff.

"Fine. But get in my car."

Mrs. Alonzo marched over while grouching something about being a taxi service. And Tony, who always followed the rules, took his book into the front seat of her SUV--except he was still interested in what was happening because he didn't shut the door and Diary of a Wimpy Kid Dog Days remained against his chest.

Joey stayed put.

Normally, he would have gotten upset about Tony taking the better seat: older brothers rode in the front; younger babies went in the back. But there were things more important than that right now, so he stayed where he was on the sidewalk, the phone unused in his hand.

He was wondering what he'd seen--

Mrs. Alonzo leaped back so far, she nearly ended up in traffic, a minivan honking its horn as it barely missed her.

She ran over and snatched the phone as well as his arm. "Get in the car, Joey--"

"What is it? Is it a dead guy?" Jeez, what if it was a pirate--holy shit! Mrs. Alonzo put her phone to her ear as she dragged him to her Lexus. "Yes, this is an emergency. There's a man in a car in front of the McCready Funeral Home on St. Francis. I don't know if there's something wrong with him, but he's behind the wheel and he doesn't seem to be moving. . . . I have small children with me and I don't want to open the door--right. . . ."

Small children. God, he hated that small-children stuff. He was the one who'd found the guy, after all. How many grown-ups had tooled by on their way to work and not seen it? Biked by? Run by?

It was his dead guy.

"My name is Margarita Alonzo. Yes, I'll stay until the paramedics and police get here."

Okay. This was officially the best morning in the history of his life, Joey thought as he jumped into the backseat--which had the best view, as it turned out.

As Mrs. Alonzo got in and locked all the doors, he imagined the three of them being here until noon, one o'clock. Maybe they'd get a Happy Meal for lunch. He really hoped the police didn't rush--

The bummer of all bummers hit him when he heard Mrs. Alonzo say, "Sarah? I have your boys, and they're okay. But there's a little problem and I need you to come pick them up."

Joey put his head down on his arm.

Knowing his luck, his mother would zoom to the scene and get here before he found out about the dead pirate in the front seat of that car.

Ruined. Just ruined.

And they were probably going to get to school right in time for the assembly.

As Matthias slept behind the wheel of his car, he dreamed of the night Jim Heron had saved his life over and over again. The events that had led up to the bomb and the long, painful trek back to relative health played and replayed in an endless loop through his mind, as if the needle on his old-fashioned mental record player was stuck.

Matthias had lured Jim Heron to that abandoned, dusty hut as a witness because there was nobody else in the XOps community whose word held more weight and credibility. The idea had been for the soldier to leave the body parts in the sand and go home to tell the others there had been a terrible accident: If anyone else had filed a report like that, the assumption would have been that they had done the killing. Not in Jim's case, though--he was a straight shooter in a world full of curves, and he'd never had any problem copping to what he'd done, right or wrong.

Which was proof there was a little bit of good in Matthias, after all--at least he wasn't dumping his suicide on the head of another guy.

And yeah, of course he could have just blown his own head off in a bathroom somewhere, but although he was suicidal, he had his pride. Taking a self- administered lead injection was just too f**king weak--much better to spackle the crap out of a few stone walls and be mourned as the strong fighter he'd always been.

Pride, however, had had its costs: instead of leaving him in the sand, that cocksucker Heron had saved him--and figured out his little secret. The explosive device had been the tip-off. As Matthias had lain there bleeding like a stuck pig, Jim had found remnants of the bomb and recognized them for what they were. Namely, one of their own.

The SOB had taken the fragments, put them in his pocket, and slipped off his belt. Then he'd thrown a tourniquet on Matthias's leg, picked him up, and started hauling ass. He'd been royally pissed off, and his savior routine had clearly been part punishment, part leverage--and all consuming. The bastard had walked and walked and walked . . . until sometime later, Isaac Rothe had showed up among the dunes with a Land Rover.

Jim's demands had come weeks afterward, at a hospital in Germany. By that point, Matthias's head had been nothing but a huge hot-air balloon of agony, and he was having to get used to only one eye working. Heron had sat at the bedside and laid down his terms: Out. Free and clear. Or he took what was left of the bomb and all of the story to the only person who could have done anything about it.