“My stuff?” she prompted Harrison again.

“All the gear’s in the trunk,” Tommy said.

“But you got my shoes out, right?” She dangled the high heels from their straps. Her look spoke volumes.

“Uh…” Tommy hesitated. His experience of women frustrated with painful shoes had taught him that he usually wanted to be far, far away. Women did best with cute shoes when they only wore them long enough take them off — or at least didn’t walk on them much.

“Sorry, darling. Forgot. I always find the grav belt a tad awkward.” Harrison looked like he really was sorry.

“You wouldn’t have had to wear them in the first place if you’d gone out the same way you went in,” Papa O’Neal grumped.

“I told you, Granpa, I flew the friggin’ thing way up to the top of the damned building, and I didn’t trust it not to give out then. No way was I gonna do it twice if I had a choice. What kind of moron thought it was a good idea to fly around hanging from some stupid belt?” She examined the shimmering pink nails of one hand. “Besides, you know I hate heights.”

“The only fatalities flying the belt have been either from sabotage or a direct hit in combat.” Her grandfather shrugged, apparently wise enough not to say anything more on the subject.

Cally regarded it as a mark of extreme dedication to her job that she’d let them talk her into this mission at all. Never again. And it was high time she thought about something, anything else.

“Excuse me, y’all. I’ve got to check in or Morgan and Sinda will pout at me.” She looked down at her PDA to dial, but the phone on the other end was already ringing, reminding her that she really needed to turn the buckley’s intelligence emulation level down before it crashed itself.