How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (White Trash Zombie 4)

??re complete,” Jane said.

Nicole seized her purse and stood so quickly she toppled her chair, but she didn’t even glance behind her at the clatter. “I’ll contact you in three hours.” Her jaw tightened. “You will get us that contract.”

“I will exert all possible influence,” Jane said, still seated and not looking at all intimidated by having to look up at Nicole. If anything she seemed more like a queen indulging some commoner. God, I loved this woman.

Nicole planted her hands on the table and leaned forward. “You’re a tougher woman than I expected, Jane Pennington, but I’m sure you understand that if we don’t get that contract, I’ll have little left to lose.” She straightened and began to stalk off but Jane’s voice stopped her before she reached the door.

“And I’m sure you understand, Nicole Saber,” Jane replied without looking toward her, “if I lose Pietro, I’ll see you burn in hell.”

Nicole slammed out the door with her men right behind her, and as soon as they were gone it was as if the entire building breathed a sigh of relief. Jane waited a moment, then stood gracefully and moved to the door. I scrambled to follow, then paused, looked at the maitre d’ as he righted the toppled chair.

“Can I get some of those breadsticks to go?”

Chapter 23

Jane returned me to Battery Park and promised she’d call as soon as she heard from Nicole. Philip sauntered up a few seconds after Jane’s car pulled away as if he’d been waiting there the entire time, then he and I proceeded to take a convoluted route back to the hotel, during which—using the miracle of conference calling—I gave the entire Krewe, along with Brian, a recap of the lunch discussion and the plan to see Pietro.

Naomi let out a low whistle when I finished. “Damn, Jane Pennington has giant, shiny brass balls.”

“She certainly does, and it’s an opportunity to be seized,” Brian agreed, a note of admiration in his voice. “That said, I don’t intend to go with you. I’m not comfortable leaving Dr. Nikas for that long, and it would be foolish to make it so easy for Saberton to grab all of us at once.”

“That makes perfect sense,” I said and heard murmurs of agreement from the others.

“Kyle and I will pick up a couple of things and meet Angel and Philip back at the hotel,” Naomi said, then disconnected.

“Angel, Dr. Nikas says he has a treatment made up for you and Philip,” Brian told me. “I’d like you to meet me at a place in SoHo—Betsy’s Bakes, on the corner of Grand and Greene, in six hours.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “We should be done by then, and I know how to get in touch with you if something goes wrong.”

“Don’t jinx yourself,” he chided, but his tone remained upbeat. “I’ll save a brownie for you.”

“Save two.”

“Deal.”

I stood perfectly still as Naomi rigged up the earpiece comm thing that would allow her to monitor and advise. And I only winced a little when Kyle made a thin slice on my side above my hip and slipped a tiny GPS tracker beneath the skin. If the worst happened, and I got captured again, I wanted the Krewe to be able to find my scrawny ass. The others each had one for the same reason. The zombies’ were beneath the skin, like mine, and Naomi’s . . . well, I didn’t really need to know where Naomi’s tracker was hidden.

Kyle held the incision shut as my parasite did its weird and tingly work to heal the wound and conceal the tracker. Philip handed me a cup, and I slurped down a thin slice of brain to help my parasite out and to stay as tanked. Craning my neck, I peered down at the cut. Nothing left but a faint red line, and after a few seconds even that was gone.

“Done,” Kyle murmured, straightening.

Philip tapped out something on a computer tablet then gave a nod. “It’s working.” He was dressed in dark grey fatigue pants and a close-fitting black crew neck shirt under a lightweight black zip-up jacket, which was as much for concealment of weapons as for warmth. My outfit was similar, though about ten thousand sizes smaller.

“You’ll need to present as strong an image as possible,” Naomi had said when she produced the clothing. “You need to look confident and capable, with a don’t fuck with me aura.”

I didn’t argue with her. I’d wear purple feathers in my hair if they could make up for the fact that I was a not-very-intimidating petite twenty-two year old. Naomi and Kyle were dressed in totally normal jeans and t-shirts and hoodies, but that was because they’d be staying outside to monitor and had more need to blend in. That said, I knew damn well each was still armed to the teeth.

Philip passed the tablet to Naomi, then retrieved a cloth bundle from a canvas bag and fixed his attention on me. “Marcus said you were getting to be a pretty good shot,” he said as he unfolded the cloth to reveal a small black pistol about the size of my hand. “This is a Glock 27. Forty caliber, holds nine rounds. It’s like the one Marcus let you practice with, but smaller.”

I stared at the gun in his hand for several seconds before I found my voice. “You want me to carry a gun?” I squeaked.

“Only if you want to,” Philip said. “There’s no wrong answer here, Angel. If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s fine as well.”

My thoughts tumbled crazily. They trust me with a gun. This shit is so damn illegal. We need to present as strong an image as possible. They trust ME with a gun? And then: I could kill someone with this.

The last thought quieted all the others. I could kill someone with this. I didn’t want to do that, but the truth was I had, in fact, killed before. Twice—each time when I’d felt there was no other choice. The gun was simply another way to do so.

Gulping softly, I gingerly took the gun, then—remembering what Marcus had drilled into me countless times—kept my finger clear of the trigger, pointed the muzzle at the floor, ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back to check for a round in the chamber to verify for myself it was unloaded.