Page 16 of Sigma
The guards on our island change every day, and I rarely see them—it’s that way on purpose, so no one gets familiar, so security doesn’t get lax through routine, and so we who live on the island are as unaware as possible that they’re even here, in order to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Or, at least as close to a semblance of normalcy as you can get when you’re living on a private island, that is.
By the time we reach the docks, I’ve gotten my panic and fury on lockdown—I’ve experienced enough to know those emotions will only hamper my judgment, so I simply cannot indulge in them. They’re there, simmering on the back burner, but I focus on the moment at hand, on getting everyone else to safety and figuring out a game plan.
Two guards precede us to the seaplane, Duke on one side of the small group comprised of Bryn, Killian, Layla, and me, with another guard on the other side of us and two more behind, each man with a full-size assault rifle, body armor, their heads swiveling constantly, faces impassive. This is a standard-issue twin-prop seaplane rather than an RTI special. Once Duke is in, one of the guards takes the pilot’s seat, his rifle hanging at his side, another sitting on the back of the boat, clipped by a harness to a ring in the boat so he can face aft.
Layla seated beside me, gestures at the sidearm holstered low on Duke’s thigh. “I need a piece,” she says. “If this shit goes sideway, no way in fuck-bananas am I going into it unarmed.”
Bryn and Killian stare at her.
“Did she just say...fuck-bananas?” Killian whispers to Bryn—they’re next to Layla, Bryn closest, then Killian.
“Yes, I did,” Layla answers, having heard him.
“More to the point,” Bryn says, not bothering to whisper, “since when do you know how to shoot, Mom? I haven’t seen you even hold a gun in my entire life.”
Duke laughs outright, a belly laugh. “Why shit, son, yo mama is a legit, true-blue badass, a certified ball-busting killer.”
Bryn and Killian laugh with him, but their laughter quickly fades when they cotton on 6to the fact that Duke isn’t joking.
“Wait, really?” Killian says.
Bryn just looks skeptical.
Duke laughs again. “Kid, you don’t know shit about the woman your mother really is. The loving mother, the doting wife? Yeah, that’s not the whole story.”
Layla huffs. “It’s been the story for the last twenty years, and I was pretty damn content for it to keep being the story. So, I’m feeling kinda salty at whichever dick-licker is ruining my peaceful mama vibes.”
Bryn claps her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Mom!”
Layla waves her off. “Oh hush, Bryn. You’ve heard me curse your whole lives.”
“Yeah, but this…a different side of you.”
Duke unbuckles and pulls a small black hard-plastic case from under his seat and retrieves a pistol, two magazines, and a holster with a shoulder harness. Layla unbuckles, sits forward on the seat, shrugging into the harness with practiced ease, clipping it and adjusting it, and then slotting the gun into the holster. She practices drawing the pistol, adjusting the position of the holster and harness at each draw, until it’s smooth and quick. Then, she disassembles the gun to its components, balancing each component on her thighs, sighting through the barrel to check the cleanliness of the weapon, and then reassembles it so smoothly it’s clear she could do it blindfolded.
“Mom can strip a pistol?” Killian mutters. “What next?”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out what your mom can actually do,” Layla says, half to herself. “I was very much hoping I was done killing people.”
Bryn’s eyes widen. “You’ve…killedpeople?”
Duke arches an eyebrow. “When I told you she was a badass killer, did you think I was joking?”
“Yeah, kinda.” Bryn shrugs, eying her mom as if seeing her for the first time. “I mean, she’s…Mom.”
Layla re-buckles, meeting Bryn’s eyes and then Killian’s. “Listen, kids. I’m really, really hoping this will all be solved without bloodshed, without you two being involved, or having to see anything gross. But if this is anything like the shit that went down before we had you two, it could very well get pretty gnarly.” She’s utterly serious, now, a rarity for Layla. “I just want you to hear it from me, now: I’m your mom. Nothing you may see me do changes who I am. I breastfed each of you, changed your diapers, taught you to walk, kissed your boo-boos, everything. I’m still and always your mama. But…I’m notjustyour mama.”
“Give ’em the marching orders on how to act if shit goes sideways,” Duke suggests.
Layla nods, and then points to Duke and herself. “If we tell you to drop, you hit your bellies and you put your face in the dirt and you don’t move a goddamn muscle until we say so. If we tell you to run, you run like the devil himself is on your six.”
“Six?” Bryn asks.
“Behind you,” Killian murmurs.
Bryn’s nose wrinkles. “Oh, okay.”
Layla continues. “You can’t freeze. You can’t decide you can’t handle it. You push through and you keep your shit together, and you fall apart when it’s over.” She taps their chests in turn. “You’re Harrises. You do what’s gotta get done and you deal with it.”