by Brian Drake
Dane raised his head, waiting, his nerves an inferno of their own.
Minutes ticked by.
“Nina!”
“I’m okay!”
Dane wiped his face and scrambled from position, his clothes and hands covered in mud. He approached the site of the blast. Some of the foliage had caught fire and quietly burned.
Nina crunched through the undergrowth and stopped beside him. They found the Duchess first, her remains scattered across several feet but the bulk of her body recognizable.
Dane found the other ripped and charred body a few steps away. It lay on one side. Dane used a foot to roll McFadden onto his back. McFadden’s dying eyes found his. McFadden made a sound through puffy lips. Dane knelt down and leaned close.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” Dane said.
“No other way,” McFadden whispered. His words seemed to come from far away, a place Dane couldn’t reach. “Don’t let me die like this.”
“Okay.” Dane stood up and lifted his gun. McFadden’s eyes did not leave his. Dane squeezed the trigger.
The echo of the shot faded fast, but Dane stood there a long time looking at the dead man. Nina tugged on his arm. Time to go.
Dane and Nina, with Poppy’s body, took the boat back to the island.
Dane stood up front beside Nina, who steered the boat, her eyes set forward, her face still. Dane tried to ignore the rough bumps as the boat sped along.
He put a hand on Nina’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry about Alek.”
She touched his hand with her left. “I’m sorry about Sean.”
Dane kissed her cheek and moved to the back of the boat. He sat next to Poppy’s body. It bounced and flopped with every jolt. He’d never liked the girl, but she had deserved better. The cycle of life once again had interrupted with its own agenda. One day you were consumed with the circumstances and problems of the living; the next you joined the ranks of the dead. No ceremony and no good-bye and no time to process the transition. Back to the ashes from which you’d been made, your final act only to settle debts with your Creator. Who knew what happened after that? If there was life after death, Dane hoped Poppy August would reach a peaceful destination. But would she still be Poppy August when she arrived? If not, Dane didn’t want to know.
Nina held steady at the wheel and steered toward the mansion. Fires still burned, but as they drew closer, Dane no longer heard the crackles of combat.
Dane went to Nina’s side, holding her as she steered. She did not resist. They needed the rest she had talked about in Mexico, and Steve Dane vowed they would have it. Thankfully, they would have it together.
Nina docked and cut the motor. Dane lifted Poppy’s body over his shoulders.
They reached the courtyard, where a group of armed men in combat fatigues ordered them to stop and surrender.
“We’re the good guys!” Dane shouted. And then two men stepped forward, pulling off the balaclava masks that concealed their faces.
McConn and Lukavina.
“Lower your weapons,” Lukavina ordered. “They’re ours.”
Days later, in the quiet confines of a Helsinki hotel, Steve Dane sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the handset of the nightstand telephone.
He dialed a number from memory and waited for the connection. Bandages concealed by his clothes covered his body, but the injuries would heal quickly. The emotional scars, he knew, required more time. But he had the time. He intended to fully take advantage of it.
The other end of the line picked up.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Stephen! I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear your voice.”
“It’s been a long time, Mr. President.”
“Yes it has.”
“I suppose you heard about a certain recording.”
“Yes.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“Are you okay?”
“We’ll be fine. How are you?”
“Very well, Stephen.”
Silence. Dane listened to his own breathing and that of the other man.
The President said, “I light a candle for you every day.”
“I believe you.”
Dane closed his eyes. His pulse pounded in his head; the heartbeat in his chest felt like a jackhammer cutting through rock.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.”
“I know.”
“We can’t lose you.”
“I never left. Somehow I hope you understand that.”
“Where are you going next?”
“Home, probably.”
“Your home is here, Stephen.”
Dane shut his eyes tight. There was no use in talking any further.
“Good-bye, Peter.”
The other man did not hang up or say good-bye. Dane let the silence linger, the hum of the line the only connection between the two of them. Between a past Dane could not run from forever and the present. Someday there would be no choice. He would face the circumstances that had put him on his present course. But that day was not today. The ghosts of battles past would wait for him in his dreams; for now, that was the only place he wanted to see them.
Dane slowly cradled the receiver and sat for a long time, staring at the carpet.
After a while, he stepped out onto the balcony, where Nina and Todd waited. The loose ends were still being tied up. The Finnish had to be soothed. That was up to the diplomats. Dane had given Lukavina the location of the M5205, and his friend would get credit for its recovery. Other than that, Dane wasn’t concerned with the rest.
McConn handed him a drink, and Dane lit a cigar. The three of them looked out on the view of Helsinki, and nobody said a word. For now, the company of his friends was all that Dane required.
Nina exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body and head. She stopped short. Dane remained on the balcony, alone, staring into space. McConn had been gone about an hour, and she’d figured he’d come inside and watch television while she showered, but the way he stared communicated that something was on his mind that neither she nor McConn had been able to decipher.
Of course it wasn’t hard to figure out.
She traded the towel for a robe and tied the belt around her waist. The soft terrycloth felt wonderful against her naked skin.
He turned as she opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re wondering why I’m still standing out here.”
“What did you and Cross talk about?”
“Home.”
“And?”
“It’s not time to go back yet.”
“When will it be? You can’t run forever.”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re afraid,” she said.
“Of what?”
“That the rumors are true. That your father betrayed the United States. That he wasn’t framed, despite what you think. That the reason Cross couldn’t help when you worked for him at CIA as because there wasn’t anything he could do. There wasn’t somebody else responsible.”
Dane looked away. They heard a commotion a few balconies away. Laughter. A party.
“If my father hadn’t killed himself,” Dane said, “maybe we’d know more.”
Nina said, “There’s only one way to find out. You have to go back.”
“What if I really am afraid?” he said.
“Then we keep moving until you aren’t anymore.”
Finally, he looked at her, but his expression remained too stoic to read.
“Come to bed,” she said, tugging on his shirt.
The party sounds increased, only to be presently joined by a sound more dreadful than the wailing of souls from the seventh circle of Hell.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
Dane groaned.
“Did he follow us here?” she
said.
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”
The accordion player from Venice, the tune from his instrument as loud and obnoxious as ever, played to the party crowd, the terrible noise echoing into the night.
“What is it with this guy and polka?” Dane said.
“I’m not feeling amorous anymore,” Nina said. “What do you intend to do about this while I put on my flannel pajamas?”
“Well—”
“You promised you’d smash his skull. Did you lie to me in Mexico, Stephen?”
“Well—”
“Do I need to remind you—”
“All right, all right. Step aside please.”
She moved a step to the left, and he passed through the balcony door.
“What are you going to do?” she said.
“I’ll smack his other eye this time.”
Nina let out a delightful squeal. “I’m getting aroused again,” she said.
He reached the door and said, “Just be naked when I get back.”
Nina laughed.
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Another Way to Kill
Acknowledgments
First, thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed the adventures of Steve & Nina and will continue to join us for further adventures.
The problem with trying to thank everybody involved in the production and creation of this book is that one risks unintentionally leaving somebody out, especially since there were a few people involved whom I’ve never met or communicated with. Allow me a blanket “thank you”, in that case, to everybody at Liberty Island who gave their time and attention to my scribbles. You all worked very hard and went above and beyond, and your effort is much appreciated. Let’s do another one sometime.
Special thanks indeed to my friend at the CIA, whom I’ll refer to only a S7, for her insight into the reality, or at least the quasi-reality, of the real-world situations that inspired Skills to Kill. Every time I have an idea, I run it by S7. If she tells me, “That’s ridiculous,” I know I’m probably nowhere near the truth of a particular matter; but if she laughs and then says, “No way,” then I know I’m close to the truth. We haven’t yet come across a situation where she has to say, “If I tell you, then I have to kill you,” but maybe someday.
Finally, if you’ll indulge me in some cheekiness, there are several people to whom I have a special message, those that, instead of encouraging a young writer, did their very best to try and make me as miserable as them. To those people I say, now that the goal has been reached: “Neener neener neener.”
About the Author
Brian Drake has been a writer of mystery, crime and adventure fiction since his first publication at age 25. He is lifelong resident of California, and lives with his wife and two cats. In his spare time, Drake can be found racing through the San Francisco Bay Area in one of several bright red sports cars. More Drake titles may be found on his Amazon page.
Contact him via email at [email protected].
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