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“Dammit.” I leave the client behind and take off. My arms swing at my sides. My shirt flaps against my body.
Regan has her cell phone out and is pointing it at me.
What the hell is she doing?
I duck when something pings into the car near my head. A bullet bounces off the door and clatters to my feet. I flinch, but I don’t stop moving.
Throwing myself at my daughter, I roll her body into mine and land hard behind one of the company SUVs. It’s got bulletproof windows and reinforced doors. Not completely fail safe, a bullet could still skitter between the street and the bottom of the truck, but at least we’re not sitting ducks.
I grab my daughter’s shoulders. “Regan, what are you doing here? I told you to stay in the car!”
“You said you were going to save someone.”
“What?” My face crumbles in confusion.
“Uncle Cody didn’t believe me when I told him you were a superhero, so I wanted to take a picture and show him.”
My jaw drops. “You did all this… to prove I’m a superhero?”
“Mm-hm.” She bobs her head.
I stare at her, a mixture of horror and awe clogging my throat.
My daughter laughs and pushes to her feet, trying to see above the hood of the car. “Daddy, are you in a gun fight?”
My eyes bug. I remember what we’re doing and tug Regan down again. Activating my wiretap, I contact the team leader.
“End the simulation. Now,” I bark.
“What?” he complains. “They haven’t even gotten the client to the building yet. Besides, Hank just brought the popcorn. It’s got butter.”
“Now, Sherman.”
“Are you serious? We spent weeks planning this drill. Do you know how hard it was to get clearance from the city to block off a street so we could do this? They charged us like we’re a Hollywood production studio.”
“Do I have to repeat myself three times?”
He sighs. “No, boss.”
A moment later, the quiet ‘pops’ fade into nothing. I let out a breath and turn back to Regan.
“Is it over?” she asks. Eyes bright. Focused.
It shouldn’t surprise me that she’s unfazed by the violent scenario. After years of hearing stories of her mom’s rescue missions, she has a romanticized view of war. That, paired with her fearlessness, is a dangerous combination.
Why is she so much like you, Anya?
I press a relieved kiss to her forehead. “You had enough excitement for one day, sweet pea. Time to go home.”
“Okay.” Tongue out and nostrils flaring, she turns the camera on herself and snaps a photo.
I confiscate the tablet from her. “Give me that. You and I will have a serious talk about listening to orders later, young lady.”
“I did listen to orders,” she argues. “I stayed in the car.”
“You left the car,” I mutter, stepping over the ‘shells’ which are actually dummy rounds that can’t do much except sting if they land with enough force.
“You didn’t say howlongI should stay in the car for,” she points out.