Night City
Monday 10th April, 2051
4.00 AM

It’s been four weeks of worrying and frantic planning since Able’s flashback episode and subsequent collapse in the Lazarus Group’s offices. Once the roots of his problems were identified by Candyman’s medical team and a possible solution found by Mac’s digital detective work, the team had to arrange a way to get to Britain. Candyman offered two options, both of which would take a couple of weeks to arrange through his network of contacts. The first was to fly into Britain on tourist visas under false identities, but the team wouldn’t be able to take any openly carried weapons, armor or much of their gear as such items are strictly controlled for tourist entry. The second was a covert insertion by smugglers onto the British coats, which would let the team take a lot more equipment but leave them as illegal aliens in a police state.

Electing for the first, this morning the team flew by commercial jet to the Night City International Airport on the edge of the sprawling metroplex, there to board a hyper-jet bound for London. As the team approach the gate for British Virgin Air, Flight 007 to London, they catch sight of a large scanner-gate and two imposing looking men in black combat leatherene armor with black armored trenchcoats worn over them – British DI5 police. A voice comes over the airport sound system, coupled with glowing green arrows suoerimposed by the airport A.I. on HUD systems. “Now conducting security checks for Flight 007 to London by sub-orbital hyper-jet. Departing 05.30 local time with an estimated arrival of 1.30PM GMT.”

Mac sighs. “So… you guys fly alot? I’ve never been out of the country. I’m more nervous than a fly on a horses ass. Did I bring enough books for the flight?” Pitbull, after hearing of Customs and their strict “No Weapons” policy, left his Reaper and his Urban Fox back at the Lazarus Office. He can’t seem to shake the hard feeling of paranoia and vulnerability from his ugly mug, so he stands looking both sullen and wide eyed. And chain-smoking, but that’s normal. “Just keep don’t bogart the armrests, and everything should be cool.” Pacoy answers.

“I hate flying. I hate going on submarines. After our trip to Omaha, I now hate driving. But most of all, I hate being unarmed. This flight is the least irritating thing on my list.” Pitbull growls, taking another hard drag off of his cigarette. Mac looks sidelong at Pitbull. “Is there anything you don’t hate, pal? That girly you were sweet on, or do you hate her too?”

Able steps up to the security line, his trenchcoat opened up to show a fancy-looking suit and tie that blends in well with that of some of the glitterati-type passengers. A pair of gloves hang from an open pocket, while his attache case is held tightly in his left hand. He looks, and feels, a little nervous, though he’s not sure why – he’s passed through dozens of security checks with even more to hide before, and it’s not like there’s much danger here in a simple airport. Must be the start of the enzymes breaking his brain down.

" I like Annebelle. I guess I’m more pissed that I made no prep for this. I spent the entirety of my time drinking that mission away. I was either drinking with you or I was wining and dining with her. Either way, I made no actual prep. I guess I’m gonna wing it." Pitbull growls to Mac in an exhale of gray smoke. Mac grins. “Do they allow you to smoke on these flights? I know they used to… those must have been the days. Since when do you prepare for anything?”

As Mac attempts to step through the portal, a buzzer sounds and one of the policemen gestures him to step aside. “Sir, are you carrying any explosives, firearms or drugs?” Mac doesn’t even hesitate. “No officer, not at all. Is something amiss?” The policeman looks grim as he continues from what is obviously a memorized script: “Are you carrying any cyberware or electronics illegal in the Republic of Britain? Are you now or have you ever been a member of a prescribed organisation under Section12 of the Public Safety Emergency Act of 2025?” Mac raises an eyebrow. “Not familiar with Section 12, I’m afraid, but I doubt it. I’m a registered Private Investigator in Night City. Not carrying or transporting anything illegal.” Mac clicks his teeth. “Oh, right, sorry – it’s probably set off because of one of my tools. Forgot I had it in my pocket.” He digs out his electronic lockpick. “Sorry pal. Been with me so long I could hardly remember I put it in my pocket this morning.”
While Mac is being questioned, Able steps through with only a cursory nod from the other guard. Able smiles at the guard, then turns back to watch Mac’s interaction with the guard.

The first guard takes the lockpick. “Thank you, sir. That would be the item, right enough.” He waves Mac past the portal. “This bloke checks out, Wilf!” he calls to his companion. Mac grins to himself as he picks up his attache case, filled with enough surveillance equipment to make Nixon roll over in his grave. He nods to Able as he pops it open and retrieves an old paperback, ‘The Knights of England’ and watches his companions.

“Just some tools and electronics going into checked baggage, Sir” Pacoy says pulling a small Samsonite Traveler, then taps the base of his skull, “and a few occupational upgrades, of course.” Pacoy too walks through the T-portal scanner without incident. The guard only glances at his datapad and lets out a gruff “Clear.” Mac barely suppresses a grin at Pacoy, mentioning as he approaches, “So, you excited? I’ve never been out of the country before.”

Pitbull smiles as he goes through the gate, his all clear only feasible through the jammer bracelet worn almost under his shoulder. Damn milspec cyberware. Ain’t nothing harder to explain away in an airport… “As long as the inflight movie isn’t that trashy Ad Astra biopic, Huh? Man, would that be Ironic!” Pacoy smiles back. Mac winces. “They show that on planes? Isn’t that really… insensitve? Scare-mongering?”

The team are urged by visual cues down a corrider to the boarding ramp, where a pretty young woman in a skintight blue and red uniform jumpsuit is ready to show them to their seats in Tourist Class. They’re among the first to board but the aircraft soon fills up. The team have adjacent seats on both sides of the narrow aisle in the needle-like fuselage. As everyone buckles in, screens on the seat backs in front of them start the pre-flight safety briefing.

“Or “Black Night: the Ad Astra Incident”. Y’know? The movie that didn’t deserve the award for it’s “based on a true story” bullshit?" Pitbull growls back to Pacoy, smiling as he grinds his cigarette out with his boot. Mac looks back and forth between Pitbull, Pacoy and Able, his mind cycling through footage at an increasingly alarming rate. Able twists in his seat, his sweaty palms making simple things like putting on his seatbelt a bit of an annoying challenge. “Hector Dahl looks nothing like any of the faces I’ve ever seen on Able, though!” Pacoy adds.

“Welcome to British Virgin Air,” says an anodyne artificial voice. “Your aircraft today is a Lift-Tech HP36 sub-orbital hyperjet, the vary latest in inter-continental speed and comfort. We will be ascending to a height of 120 miles, travelling at a speed of Mach 7.2, then tipping over in the outer atmosphere for a hyper-fast glide to London International Airport. Estimated flight time is one hour fifty-four minutes. In the event of cabin depressurisation…” The voice continues on with its spiel, although the team might notice there is nothing at all mentioned about emergency exits or emergency crash procedures.

Mac nervously flips through the digital copy of the saftey instructions, having memorized them on the first time through. He keeps scanning the pages as if there’s something he’s missed. “Guys… if something happens, aren’t there supposed to be life rafts, and exit rows with lots of leg room?” Pitbull snorts. “No emergency exits? That’s encouraging…” He growls as he fiddles with his carry-on bag. Able’s face betrays a deep frown. “These planes fly at hypersonic velocity through locations with minimal atmosphere, and they’re so fast they can’t land on normal runways. If something goes wrong, emergency exits won’t be much help.” Mac winces. “I figured it was something like that… but you didn’t have to phrase it that way! You could have been all, ‘Nothing to worry about! These things have a perfect safety record!’” “HA! What kinda wishful thinking made you think a raft or safety-window would save you from a sub-orbital crash?” Pacoy snorts.

After everyone is aboard the plane – including yet another of the unsmiling goons in black leather who takes his seat at the very back of the cabin – the anodyne voice announces. “Please ensure your seat harness is secured” and seats hum as they extent and erect to almost vertical. Mac slumps even further into his seat. “I’m kind of getting used to being around, and I don’t want to trust in dumb luck that I’d survive a crash on my own. Because I don’t expect you squishy meatbags would have much luck, and you’re all I’ve got going for me right now.” “From the people who sold you on “Duck and Cover” comes the latest in flimsy reassurance: Inflatable Reentry Rafts, conveniently located under the seats you’ve just soiled!” Pacoy continues.

There’s a rising roar, and a subliminally felt vibration through the chairs – which have become acceleration couched aligned with the direction of thrust…then a massive force pushes everyone back into your couches as the main engines accelerate the aircraft at almost 3 times the force of gravity. Mac’s face continues draining of color as his speech slurs before he switches to subvocal communication. “Didn’t they land a rover on mars going much faster? I read about that, a while ago, too. They haven’t got something much better by now?” Pitbull pulls and yanks at his harness as he stretches it around his barrel-chested frame. “I don’t think they made this with the thought of bigger dudes. Either that or I’m fuckin’ it up-” He grates as he is interrupted by the rush of gravity. “Fuuuuuck!” He roars as the aircraft rushes into the sky, completely unsympathetic to his protests.

The incredible force presses down for several minutes – then eases abruptly to be replaced by a nauseous feeling of floating. Everyone’s chairs rotate back to being normal seats and the screens on the seat-backs light again. “In case of 0-G nausea, there are vacumm tubes installed in your left armrests.” Mac looks around. “0-G Nausea? What’s that? Is that like motion sickness?” Pacoy take immediate advantage of the nearest vacuum tube.

Pitbull’s stomach does a very obnoxious back-flip, though he doesn’t lose the contents of it. Unlike Pacoy. “He Pac! Did you have an omelette and whiskey this morning too? I think I can smell it, bruh!” Mac rolls his eyes. “Breakfast of champions… at least he got to enjoy it for a little while. Twice, even.” “Hey! I wonder if they serve catering here! I could sure go for a BLT, minus the lettuce and tomato, and four times the bacon. Extra greesy. Yeeeeah…” Pitbull says loudly enough to where Pacoy can hear him.

At first, Able seems to be pretty unfazed by the flip-flopping gravitational pressure – no puking, no rumbling of his stomach, and he even looks to be oddly comfortable in the absence of gravity, with a strange smile on his face and a look of remembrance in his eyes. Mac starts laughing. “Damn, Pitbull, you’re crueler than a sorority girl at her high school reunion.” Mac glances over. “Say, what’s going on with Able? He seems to be taking this really well.”

And then everything just falls apart. A quiet ‘squeaking’ noise that’s pervaded this section of the aircraft for the past few moments is suddenly localized when Mac looks down at Able – the end of the seatrest Able set his hand on has completely crumpled under the pressure of his grip, his veins throbbing. As Mac looks closer, it becomes clear that Able’s eyes are just slightly twitching, the smile on his face a simple mask of the shear terror that he’s fealing in his heart.

Pacoy cleans his mouth and shrugs his shoulders “My stomach isn’t the problem, it’s all those other organs.” He begins a new quip, before noticing Able and stopping short. Mac’s book begins floating around as he releases it to go and tap Able’s shoulder. “Hey pal? You don’t look so good… is there a medic on this bird?” “Hahah! Yeah, just let it all out Pac- wait. Is Abe okay?” Pitbull yells, as he twists his head to look at Able.

Able’s heartbeat continues to skyrocket as his head begins to twitch one way and then another, all taking the space of a few seconds – and then it all stops as Able shouts, in a rasping voice, “Danny!” His breathing remains hard, but his grip on his armrests lessens, his eyes stop twitching – and he looks around the plane, a look of embarrassment on his face. Pacoy stretches in as far as his harness will allow him, trying to get a read on Able’s condition. Mac’s eyebrow cocks as he examines his friend, his finger hovering a milimetre above the ‘Call for assistance’ button on the touchscreen. “Pal, you look like you could stand for a stiff drink… you got a bad case of anxiety or something?” He sends a message to Able as he silently reviews his files on his friend. Dream about your son?

One of the skinsuited stewardesses rushes up, a cup in one hand and her other fist clenched around something. Behind her, the black-clad goon from Internal Security hovers, his right hand inside his leather trenchcoat. “Would Sir like a mild sedative?” the stewardess asks unctuously. “It’s not uncommon for a first weightless experience to trigger atavistic phobias, you shouldn’t be ashamed of any such weakness.” She smiles a plastic smile right out of a commercial, not reaching her eyes at all. Able holds up his hand, already showing a bit more control. “No, no. I think I’m good.” His voice, starting shaky, calms down as he continues talking. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Oooh. Bimbo knows big words.” Pitbull growls just loudly enough for her to hear, catching the insult that she pot-shot at Able. A grin slips across Mac’s face as he snatches his book from the air before it gets up to any mischief. He looks at the security thug. “My man is quite alright, thank you. Your services won’t be needed here, flattie.” The stewardess flashes an icy blue-eyed glare at Pittbul and Mac, delivers a curt “very well Sir, have a good flight,” to Able and bounced away in weightless flight down the aisle. the DI5 air marshall also retreats back to his seat, although he keeps a careful eye on Able for another minute or two.

“I’m pretty sure Able just had a neurotic break – probably an Ad Astra flashback,” Pacoy comms silently to Mac, “We need to keep an eye on him.”

All this time, gravity has been slowly re-asserting itself. Now its grip begins to rush back as the hyper-jet makes its re-entry plunge, then evens as the big aircraft begins its high velocity glide to London.

Mac smiles up at the ceiling as he holds onto his seat, sending back to Pacoy. “Of course. You guys mentioning Ad Astra right before we took off probably didn’t help much. I’m always keeping an eye on all of you guys.” He struggles to stow his book before the forces get to be too much. He sends back to Pacoy. “I figured this might happen – I’ve studied every aspect of the Ad Astra incident, and I imagined that Able wouldn’t have dealt with this well. There was as much chance that he made it through this flight without incident as a girl with a sweet tooth passing on a lolly… the odds just weren’t in our favor today.”

The rest of the flight is uneventful, and soon the team feel a hard jar through their backsides as the hyper-jet’s landing skis touch down on a long strip of Thames Estuary kept unnaturally smooth and wave-less by sonic emitters placed on buoys placed every ten yards along its two mile length. Within minutes, the plane is docked at London International, a vast floating airport hub in the middle of the flooded breadth of London’s great river. The passengers disembark in an orderly file into a departure lounge that looks like it could be anywhere in America except for the massive screen on one wall displaying a welcoming sign.

Mac points the sign out to his comrades. “My kind of place! They love cameras as much as I do!” Able’s first steps off the flight are a little shaky, and he leaves his armrest behind in a state of massive disrepair, but a few moments after getting something solid under him his gait steadies. Holding on to a banister while looking out a window at the city ahead of them, he slowly steadies his breathing. “A place like this looks like a killer market for bots. Set up a franchise, cushy government contracts, a little on the side to the freedom fighters…” PAcoy muses half to himself, only half joking.

Pitbull looks at the sign and grimaces. “I didn’t even see that shit back in Texas. And they cut all funding for public schooling, if that gives you any real idea on how terrible that place is.” Able dryly remarks to Pitbull, “Not that public schooling would have been of any help to you.” Mac laughs. “Looks like he’s feeling better, everyone!”

“Considering I got my education in their Marine Corp. I think you’re right, Abe.” Pitbull growls as the joke flies over his head like the blades of a ceiling fan. “Didn’t Texas schools teach that the Earth is only 6000 years old and Jesus invented guns to fight off the dinosaurs and Mexicans? Should have de-funded those loons AGES ago!” Pacoy nudges Pitt in the ribs as they walk. “Nah. A lot of the parents did though, after churches tried and failed to hold their own schools after public school funding was slashed out. So we have a fuck ton of holy rollers, doom-sayers, and snake oil healers in the towns. It’s crazy shit.” Pitbull laughs, as he lights himself the first cigarette he’s ever had in Britain.
Able, not engaging further in the banter, continues on towards baggage claim – it wouldn’t do to leave Pacoy’s robots to the tender mercies of the British police if they abandoned them there for too long.

Ahead is the immigration entrypoint. No gate this time, but a checkpoint with three goons, this time in blue coveralls and body armor, with holstered pistols. One hands out his hand as the team get near. “Papers, please.” He cursorily examines each of your fake ID cards then issues each of you with a small bar-shaped badge. “These are your tourist badges. Please wear them at all times. They entitle you to buy goods in a variety of fine shopping establishments and give you entry to all Tourist Zones in the City Of London, Cornwall, Devon and the Home Counties.The light railway connection to London Euston Station is down the hallway to your left.” He scans each badge with an rfid reader, makes a note on his pad, then waves the team through into the public areas of the airport to reclaim their bags.

Pitbull’s grimace turns to a look of consternation. “Wait, we can’t buy from just anywhere?” Mac walks towards baggage claim while staring at his badge, another image filed away for consideration. “This will make things interesting… I doubt that this will get us where we need to go… Any idea what makes it tick, Pac?” “Without looking, I’d gues a rfid chip,” Pacoy answers “Nothing a group of _ bright young lads_ need to worry too much about.”

Able walks side-by-side with Mac as they continue on. “They’re probably similar to what they have in Canada. Passive RFID chips that can be read by a surveillance swarm covering most of the public areas of the city, probably built into the roadway or something similar. Allows them to track our individual movements, and cheaper than facial recognition. I’m not sure if Britain has similar chips in all citizens or not; Canada includes them in the standard chaperone implant put into every child on their third birthday.” “Yeah, makes sense,” Pacoy nods “Three is when the trouble starts!”

Able’s question is quickly answered as the team approach the light rail terminal, by another big-screen poster.

Mac shudders. “Kind of glad my Mother wasn’t that controlling. We’ll have to sort that eventually. I hope they didn’t lose your bags between here and there, Pacoy.”

Able looks over the poster with a visage of mild surprise. “Huh. They don’t seem to use implants for that here, or at least not universally. Too bad – it’s worked pretty well for Canada, though they’ve got more money for universal implants than Britain does. Fewer do-nothing immigrants, too.” “Sounds like fascist bullshit. Libertarian for life, bitch.” Pitbull growls, as he drags off his cigarette.

Within thirty minutes the team have collected their baggage and have taken the rail link to Euston Station, vast and busy Victorian-era chamber filled with the noise of humanity, the smell of a dozen varieties of ethnic cooking from small franchises, and the ever-present eyes of TRANSPOLICE in their blue jumpsuits, this time toting sub-machine guns. Able retrieves a phone number from his memory, one given to him by Candyman before he left – a one-call secure redirected number that will introduce them to someone who can help, and looks for a public phone rather than using his own comms implant.

Able settles his eyes on a phone box. It’s a bit of a brighter blue than he prefers and is certainly conspicuous, but it’s about the only public phone in line of site. Approaching it, he opens the phone receptacle and comes face-to-face with a complete relic – a phone that actually utilizes a rotary dial! Mac goggles at the phone. “Guys, can we move to Britain? This is definitely my speed over here!” Able heaves a heavy sigh as he dials in the number he was given; when he hears the click on the other end, he speaks. “The sun sets to the west, and yet we stand here dry as bones.” His eyes unconsciously roll at the silly code-phrase Candyman gave him. Mac rolls his eyes too and turns to Pitbull. “THAT is the phrase? Ridiculous. A child could crack that!” “Hell, I would have said ‘The rats run from cats, but no fucks were given.’” Pitbull sniggers back to Mac.

A computer-disguised voice replies instantly, almost overwhelmed by the background whine of jamming technology. “Ditch your badges tomorrow, and go to the South Warf in Docklands, by bus or cab not train. There’ll be a boat there, name of ‘Long Tall Sally’” The phone goes dead.

Mac chuckles. “They probably would have taken that, too. What’s the scoop, Able? Are we getting shoe-phones now? I’ve always wanted a shoe-phone. Or is the phone going to self destruct in ten minutes?” Able hangs up the phone as he relays the message to the others by secure-comm. Pitbull tugs the jammer bracelet off of his arm and stuffs it into the inner pocket of his ballistic trenchcoat. “Damn, that thing chaffed…”

Perhaps its the paranoia engendered by the rigorous regime the team have seen already, or perhaps its just their battle-hones sixth senses, but everyone immediately looks around. Mac sees a man and a woman in the black leather of DI5 at a balcony over by the station administration offices, talking into their sleeves. Pitbull sees a van draw up by one of the station entrances and a squad of blue-clad transport police disembark, the others see the police already on duty stiffen as if listening to a voice in their ear then begin to look around suspiciously. None seem to have spotted the team or zeroed in on that particular phone box, but all are obviously more alert than they had been.

Mac whistles to himself idly. “So, we’ve got to get ourselves a place where you guys can catch some shut-eye. I think we have bigger concerns at the moment, though…” Pitbull growls and curses to himself. Before I can find a fucking firearm even…

Able sighs as the signs of heightened security begin to show themselves before he could even slip his PDW to Pitbull. “Let’s head to the hotel. I’m feeling a little beat from the flight.” “Abe, you know I hate beets. Nasty ass vegetables.” Pitbull grins, making his idea of a joke.

Mac punches Pitbull playfully in the shoulder, a slightly fake smile on his face. “We can’t split, guys. Someone point at a shop and we’ll all go in there and pretend to buy something. They’ve keened something off just happened, but can’t pinpoint it. If we cheese it now, they’ll know it’s us. Best hope is that some poor sucker gets tagged instead of us.” Pitbull shrugs and starts on his way to the Donny’s Diner in the corner of the station atrium. “I do every day!” Pacoy nods. Able shrugs. “Alright. Let’s see what British shopping is like, though I don’t hold out high hopes.” “Hopefully it’s better than their cuisine used to be!”

“Well I’m starving. We should go to Donny’s first. Wonder if they also use Gnox meat.” Pitbull growls, still stomping over to the restaurant. As he walks, an odd look comes over Mac’s face, and his eyes can be seen making microscopic darting movements in his field of view. He casually begins slowly orbiting as he walks, his mouth moving almost imperceptibly as he turns his head slowly, taking in his entire environment, paying special attention to the security in the area. Pitbull turns around and walks over to grab Mac by the arm, leading him to the restaurant as though Mac were his drunken date. This feels a little gay, but it ain’t so suspicious. Pacoy sullenly joins the walk to Donny’s, remembering his last visit. Able follows behind Pacoy, taking up the rear of the group, as he casually observes the security officers actions.

Pitbull stops short of the door, before a thought crosses his mind. “Let’s find a food stall. Ordering and waitin’ for the food will take forever.” He growls as he turns around, Mac’s arm still locked in his in a vice grip. Mac’s head swivels away from the restaurant as Pitbull yanks him away, not seeming to notice the redirection as calculations fly are made and remade in his head to adjust for thousands of variables at once.

Pitbull notices the path of the police’s movement, and proceeds to steer Mac instead to a NovaCaffe truck parked around the corner. As Pitbull calmly orders eight doughnuts and four coffees, he knows that they will have been thrown off the trail, straight into the Donny’s around the corner. “Got us doughnuts and coffee, hombres. We should be safe here for a few minutes. Just browse as inconspicuously as you can.” Pitbull H.U.D texts the team. As the message flashes across Mac’s H.U.D., he instantaneously sends a message back to the team. “Someone order me a double. Almost done – the smell is helping my concentration.” Pitbull turns around and orders another coffee for Mac, his fist still attached to Mac’s upper arm.

Around the team, security moves around purposefully scanning rfid badges but they don’t come closer than 30 feet from the stall just yet. Pitbull’s change of direction has found a gap in their sweep giving a few minutes grace.

As Able follows Pitbull’s advice and begins to mindlessly browse, a part of him pings on to his wireless receiver and attempts to access the broadcast frequency associate with the security radios. Able feeds the data he’s receiving to Mac as he begins recording it for future exploitation by a cryptography program. The data includes positioning codes from the searching police’s own ID badges, and that’s the last bit of the puzzle Mac needs!

Mac’s face immediately clears of it’s impassivity as he fits the missing pieces fed from Able into his puzzle, gaining an almost painful look of extreme focus. “Ears, now. They’re searching and sweeping this place. We’re pinched if they read our badges and connect us to that call. The flower girl from the shop next door is leaving in six seconds. Exit now, get behind the van – it’ll be caught up in the foot traffic, so it’ll move slow. Stay in the shadow, use it to eclipse our movement from security – fifty feet, no more, no less. Sharp right, behind the baggage carts. Sixteen seconds we hold and stay silent. Then, east by foot into the station exit, and nobody will even know we were here. Don’t argue, go.”

(Pitbull swiftly passes out the coffees and donuts as he himself is hamfistedly shoving a Bavarian Cream Bismark in his own mouth.)

Following Mac’s instructions, the team walks, turns and halts exactly as he says, as he ticks out seconds in their HUD displays. Swiftly, they find themselves exiting the station by a large gated portal that leads directly to a taxi rank – and a minute afterwards are free and clear, on their way to the Ashburn Hotel in Central London.

Able smiles at Mac as they ride away from the little net the police threw up. “Excellent work out there today. That was impressively done.” Pacoy nods, imprressed by the newly unlocked Mac. Pitbull considers all that he could have done in preparation almost considers swearing off boozing. Or at least boozing in the shitty dives that serve their whiskeys and beers with 70% water. Feeling naked without his weapons, he lets out a sigh of relief when it sinks into his thick skull that they really may have gotten away.
Like having a horseshoe up your ass, you may be lucky, but it hurts like hell and you never forget it’s there…

Mac cracks his head. “I didn’t look too odd when I did that, right? Sis said it made me look funny when I started figuring things out. So I’ll do you guys a favor and I’ll room with Pitbull. Not like I’m going to sleep anyway.” He thinks gladly on the book he will relish reading as Pitbull sleeps through the night, having nightmares about where to find weapons in Britain.