Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air (The Frost Files)

by Jackson Ford

  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.”

  TWELVE

  Teagan

  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—”

  “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 ea
rpiece. “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’!”

  He shrugs. “It’s a good film.” He lets go of me, stepping carefully onto the roof.

  “Wait – Will Smith remake or Robin Williams original?”

  “Um…”

  “Animated or real life, dude?”

  “Oh. The first one.”

  “And I just gave you a magic carpet ride. You do know that makes you Jasmine in this situation, right?”

  I step off the plate – and my foot meets nothing but air.

  While I was talking, I let the steel plate drift a little too far from the edge. I wasn’t looking down at it, didn’t think.

  Paul moves faster than I’ve ever seen him. He grabs my wrist, the other hand going around my opposite forearm, leaping onto the roof and yanking me just far forward enough for my toes to catch the surface.

  For a horrible second, both of us teeter on the edge of the roof, fifty feet of nothing below us. I’ve still got hold of the sheet with my PK – it’s now drifting a good two feet away from the edge – but terror has wiped my mind clean.

  With a grunt, Paul hauls me all the way onto the roof. I end up collapsed on top of him, my rapid breath feeling like it’s going to tear a hole in my throat.

  “Christ.” Paul steadies me. “You OK?”

  I can’t answer just yet. I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m not about to die.

  “What were you thinking?” he says, helping me to my feet.

  I find my voice. “Shut up, Jasmine.”

  He’s right, though. I do need to focus. This mission has to go well – I don’t want to risk putting Reggie in a bad mood. Or, you know, letting the list of super-secret deep-cover assets fall into the wrong hands. That would also be bad.

  I rest the steel plate quietly on the roof, for our exit later. There’s not much to see from up here: the ugly sprawl of Northridge and Granada Hills, hunkering under the low-hanging clouds. A gust of wind plays with my hair, flicking strands into my face.

  “Hey,” I say to Paul. “Thanks.”

  He flashes me a half-smile. “Somebody’s got to look out for you. Come on.”

  In the blueprints Reggie dug up, there was an access hatch in the hangar roof. That’s where we head now, picking our way along the metal surface. Before we even reach it, I’ve popped the combination lock. It’s big and heavy, thick enough to defeat bolt-cutters. I open it in about four seconds. By now, Annie will have engaged Schmidt’s guards in conversation, giving them hell on
behalf of Homeland Security. She’ll be demanding that pilots and crew disembark, too, which means the cabin will be nice and empty.

  Paul gives me a nod. Very slowly, I ease the hatch up, wary for the creak of rusty hinges. They don’t come.

  Paul and I crouch by the hatch, peering into the hangar. The plane is just below us – a Bombardier Global 8000, if I remember Paul’s briefing. As expected, there are several security guards on the hangar floor below us. They’re all clustered in one spot: near the entrance, where a tiny figure in uniform is making pointed gestures.

  “You see it?” Paul points to the jet, and the emergency escape hatch above the cockpit. That’s the way in.

  Paul digs in his backpack, unloading rope and carabiners. Much as I’d love to magic-carpet my way down, it’s not a good idea. Not when a guard might get bored with Annie, and casually glance upwards. If I’m going to be caught, better it not happen right when I’m using my ability.

  “Remember: the safe should be in the master bedroom.” Paul climbs into a harness, passes one to me. “You don’t need to do anything on the way down – I’ll lower you. Copy?”

  “I’m not on the radio. I’m standing right in front of you. You don’t need to say copy.”

  “Do you understand this part of the plan or not?”

  “Yes, I get it. Let’s go.”

  Paul moves quickly, connecting up the rope to our harnesses and threading it through a complicated series of pulleys and carabiners. Annie is still talking, haranguing the pilot and crew about visas. At least, I think that what she’s doing. I don’t care if she starts singing them “Baa Baa Black Sheep”, as long as she keeps them distracted.

  Paul pulls on a pair of thick leather gloves. “Try not to move too much.”

  “Ooh yeah, baby, talk dirty to me.”

  He doesn’t deign to respond to that. I sit on the edge, then push myself off. The rope takes my weight immediately. No training needed – I just need to hold still while Paul lowers me down.

  The inside of the hangar is dark, thank fuck, especially up here – but all the same, I keep a close eye on Annie and her crowd. The pilot is to her right, a big man in uniform. Looks like there are two crew members with him.