Turncoat by Megan Derr (the false prince series txt) 📕

that night, full of everything he could possibly need to get to the Mason Chip. Greg would be handling the initial infiltration, but once he got Dixie inside the show was his, from disabling the whole damn house to extracting the Mason Chip.

He fussed with everything, then did it all over again, and was about to go for round three when a plate of food was shoved under his nose. Dixie set the bag aside and took the plate, looked up to thank Leland, who smiled briefly and moved away to sit in his own corner. Dixie looked around, frowning. Normally they all sat in a cluster, joking and laughing to defray or hide nerves. Tonight, it was every man to his corner and they all seemed as downcast as he felt.

Hopefully the illegal proceedings portion of the evening went better than dinner.

Wolfing down his food before his lack of appetite got the better of him, Dixie cleaned up his dishes and then laid out his sleeping bag and stretched out.  He set a timer on his phone and escaped into a nap.

The sharp jarring of his alarm woke him a few hours later. He turned it off with a groan and hauled stiffly to his feet, stretching to work out the worst of it. Around him, the room was fairly dark, only one little solar lamp to cut the shadows. Byron was sitting in his chair lacing up his boots. In their respective corners, Greg and Leland were still asleep. "Going to be a fun night," Dixie muttered as he pulled out his clothes for the evening and began to pull them on. All black, the pants and jacket riddled with pockets full of all sorts of little goodies. He rubbed the back of his neck, shivered as his systems stirred to life and started to thrum. Yawning, he pulled a ski-cap down on his head, then wrapped a scarf around his neck.

"Here," Byron said quietly and held out a handgun. What kind, Dixie didn't know, only that Byron seemed to have a preference for the model—and the nasty little hollow points that filled it. The gun gave a muted beep as he gripped it, a small blue light activating. "Coded to you."

Dixie nodded and slid the gun into the holster he was already wearing. He hated firearms on a good day, but there was a time and a place for everything. "That storm gonna keep us from getting the hell out of here?"

"We'll be gone before the storm hits," Byron said. "Unless something goes wrong, but according to Minder, he can keep a blizzard from being a problem, at least for a little while." Dixie's brows rose at that. Byron shrugged. "He hasn't lied about his abilities yet."

"Except what level they really are," Dixie replied with a soft snort. "But I guess I'd prefer to be taken for a low-level if I were him, too." He pulled out his phone. "Run final checks." The phone chimed at him and set to work, running through a series of tests to make certain it would be able to sync with everyone else and handle all the little things Dixie might need to do.

Shoving it in his pocket, he sat down to pull on his boots. By the time they were both laced up, Greg and Leland had stirred and were well into their own prep work. A silent, gloomy bunch if ever he saw one, but he didn't exactly feel like cheering things up himself.

Still, this job could get them all killed if anything went wrong—or much, much worse. Wasn't the time to be avoiding each other and acting like strangers. "I don't know about the rest of you, but whenever I get to open a can of whoop ass on one of the Dogs, I'm usually pretty damn chipper about it. We ain't going to our own execution, lord almighty."

Opposite him, Greg looked up and smiled hesitantly. Dixie fucking hated it, would rather have the familiar grin he was half-gone on, but it was better than nothing. "Who the hell still says 'can of whoop ass'?"

"Me," Dixie retorted.

"Lame."

"Pretty sure you're all lame according to modern culture standards," Byron said. "It's a sad day when the alien is savvier than the natives."

Greg laughed as he went back to work on his boots. They laced all the way to his knee, seemed to fit him so well they must have been custom work. Standing, he packed up his own bag of goodies and slung the duffle over one shoulder, a ski-mask held loosely in his other hand. "Party time?"

"Just about," Byron said and pulled a dark blue ski-mask over his own head. "Leland and I will be on the north edge. Once Dixie has the systems down, we'll work on securing the landing pad and ordering in our chopper. The rest is up to the two of you."

Dixie glanced at Greg, who gave another hesitant smile that almost immediately collapsed. "We got it," Dixie said. "This is the easy part. The hard part comes later."

Byron frowned. "Dixie—"

"Let's get moving," Dixie cut in, hefting his own bag over his shoulder. "Sooner done, sooner finished. I don't know about ya'll, but I am really damned tired of this cold."

"A-fucking-men to that," Greg muttered.

Byron heaved a sigh, but didn't say anything, only signaled for them to follow him as he led the way out of their hole and down the tunnel to the lookout. Byron threw his bag in the snow, then hauled himself up and out. Dixie fell into step right behind him, followed by Leland and finally Greg.

The night air was sharp, cold enough to sting with every breath. Dixie rolled his cap down so the mask covered his face. He silently ordered his systems to scan, and his left eye flicked through several filters as it made absolutely certain nothing was out there that shouldn't be.

Nearby, Byron had pulled out a fancy set of binoculars to do the same. They looked