"I take it you're on food detail with me?" Marlene said with a smirk, glancing at Inez's back.
"You know it," Inez said with a chuckle. "If folks are cleaning up-gotta feed 'em and fix some grub before they wanna start trying to order in Philly cheese steaks."
"Baby . . . dang-that is so cold," Mike muttered. "Guess I'm on first perimeter watch then, because I can't fall asleep till I eat."
"Good man," Carlos said with a weary smile, landing a hand on Big Mike's shoulder as he passed him. "Just like old times."
"Do you think we could ever have something like this?" Jasmine said quietly, making the entire team stop moving about to look at her. She glanced around, her eyes large and sad. "Imean, a place where kids can run and play in the street and you have neighbors and can walk around the corner to the store?"
"Would be nice," Tara murmured, touching the sheer tie-dyed yellow-and-white curtains at the window. "To me, strange as it may sound, this is nicer than what we had in San Diego . . . environmentally. This reminds me of home-how I grew up. San Diego was such a fantasy . . . but this . . ."
"I know what you mean," Juanita said softly, glancing at Jose before her gaze sought the floor.
"Maybe if the local Guardians figured out how to do such a thing, we could?" Val said, hope weighting each word. "Do we dare pray for something like this?"
"Walking up the ave," Shabazz said in a faraway tone, "kicking it in the corner bar. Going to the barbershop up the street . . . all that regular stuff is something for normal people-a gift, that as a Neteru team, we don't have the luxury to even fantasizeabout. Because, in the end, folks, when it's all said and done, we're like the plague . . . anywhere we stay for too long gets blown up. We've gotta keep moving to keep civilians from being caught in the crossfire between good and evil."
"Yeah, but isn't humanity in the crossfire of all that anyway?" Krissy said in a tear-thickened murmur. Moisture glistened in her big blue eyes as she stared at Shabazz and challenged him. "Even the Neteru team has to have hope, has to have a prayer, 'Bazz . . . otherwise, how can we, as humans, go on?"
"I, for one, can't go on without the hope that one day this will all be over," Juanita said, closing her eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears."Even if I'm just temporarily lying to myself."
Jasmine nodded. "Then, tonight, I'm going to lie to myself and just go take a shower."
Marjorie slung an arm over her daughter-in-law's shoulder. "Good idea, Jas . . . then for a little while, let's not think about any of this."
Eerie silence filled the kitchen, pain and trauma laden in the air.
Dan raked his fingers through his hair and let out a hard breath of frustration. "Carlos, man . . . do you think you can bring in those duds they gave us up at the Shrine in Detroit? We'd all picked out sizes and everything, and they'd packed them in individual bags, but we left the whole lot of it when we had that immediate call to arms. Might be nice to walk the streets tomorrow looking like a normal person rather than a soldier, know what I mean? Then we can go to those stores we saw on Germantown Avenue, maybe, and get some regular gear-like jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers, and whatever."
The team remained very still waiting on Carlos to respond; Dan's eyes held a silent plea as he stared at Carlos. "I know you're probably energy-tapped to the max, but if you think it's safe to drag in some fresh clothes, I think all the ladies could use 'em."
"Hell," Berkfield said, folding his arms and releasing a weary sigh. "All of us could use getting out of these damned demon-gook-splattered fatigues and into some casual cultural gear. Woulda been nice to just do something normal like go to the jazz fest . . . butnooo , it never works like that."
"Yeah," Carlos said quietly, his gaze seeking the window. "That's a good idea. Pick your rooms, I'll drop your bags, and people can get cleaned up, eat, and crash. Tomorrow is another day; we can hit the street and buy whatever. Two days from tomorrow will be the funeral-and I've gotta get a dark suit, anyway."
Damali watched the team's collective body language seem to instantly remember the loss of Father Pat. She knew they'd meant no harm. It was just that the things affecting their survival had come so fast and so furiously that even the death of a beloved team member had temporarily taken a backseat to the immediacy of security. Logistics were always paramount-where to go, how to hide, how to secure the new location, how to camouflage themselves amid civilians, how to get in clean food, water, supplies, and more artillery, how to steal a necessary few moments of regenerative sleep . . . all of that took precedence so they could live to fight another day. All of that was wearing. Living under constantly traumatic conditions didn't even begin to describe it.
Further demoralized by the renewed awareness that Father Pat hadn't made it through the siege, shoulders slumped, heads lowered, and bodies thudded against the walls, appliances, and countertop edges. Her hand sought Carlos's back, but he didn't move or look at her for a moment, just stiffened against her touch.
"All right, let's move out," Carlos said flatly, not looking at any one Guardian in particular. "Everybody knows the drill and has picked their watch. Those of you who are gonna take the first shift of showers and shut-eye, do it. Whoever's hungry, I suggest you bust a grub now, before some more bullshit jumps off. This house has been cleared."
No one said a word as Carlos walked out of the kitchen. All eyes sought his back and then Damali. The team listened as his footfalls crossed the floor and then went up the stairs to the second floor. No one had to tell her to go to him. She just silently left the room and followed the sounds of his movements through the house.
She found him in a room down the long west end of the hallway. The door was open, he was sprawled in a chair, head back against the wall with his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Two mud cloth satchels of clothing from the Shrine in Detroit sat on the floor beside him, evidence that he'd already dragged in each team member's previously abandoned gear. Carlos's pain was indeed her pain as she watched him fight against fatigue, trauma, heartbreak, and defeat.
Damali glanced around the pleasantly minimalist space before she shut the door behind her. She understood why Carlos had taken to the chair-besides just being utterly done, the pristine white cotton linens on the queen-sized bed would have been ruined by battle grime and the heavy, carved mahogany bureau and dresser from the motherland had the clean scent of lemon oil on it that defied one to sully it with dirty hands.
The poor man didn't appear to have the energy to move a limb, much less do more than pass out in a chair. It was as though he'd confined himself to a single place in the room where his grubby condition wouldn't leave as bad of a trail. Even the walls were white and the windows were flanked by ivory sheers. Just looking at the glistening floors she knew that the team should have removed their boots before entering the sacred enclosures, but it was too late for that now. They probably would have initially balked about doing that, anyway; they were all still wired.
Kneeling between Carlos's legs, she began working on his bootlaces, speaking in a gentle tone. "I'll cover you while you're in the bathroom. You take first shower and shut-eye this time."
He shook his head, but his body didn't resist as she began to slide off his grime-encrusted boots. "Uh-uh, I'm cool. You go ahead . . . you're the one who needs the rest and recovery."
She laid her cheek against his dirty pants leg for a moment. "No, baby . . . this time you give yourself a break. I'm all right." She pushed herself to stand before he could argue, bent to kiss the crown of his head, and then deftly unbuttoned his SWAT fatigue shirt. When he didn't resist, she slipped it off his shoulders, and then tugged at his T-shirt until it gave way, sliding it up his torso and over his head. She stopped his protest with a thumb pressed softly against his lips the moment she felt him inhale to release an objection. "Just do it for me, then, if you don't need the break," she murmured, cupping his cheek. She took him by the hand and made him stand, then unhooked his pants and unzipped them. "Get in the shower. I'll bring you a towel."
Extracting a 9mm from the back waistband of her jeans where she'd stashed it, Damali carefully set the gun on the dresser, her gaze holding Carlos's. Without a word she went back to him and slid off his pants and boxers, and made him step out of them.
"Let me find you a towel," she said in a gentle tone, hugging him for a moment. She laid her head on his shoulder, trying to send waves of empathy into his body through her touch, through her palms, through her soft nuzzle.