by Alan Lee
“Yes,” she said. Her blue eyes were close to mine. “Sorry.”
I wanted to fight.
But I felt so serene and lethargic.
Mackenzie August. In big trouble.
Falling asleep.
On the stairs. On my wedding day.
2
There was no awareness of time or movement. No dreaming or struggling. Simply lights out.
I came to slowly as if from a dead sleep. Vision returned before comprehension.
My hands were in my lap. Great hands, really. I watched them. They twitched when requested. An enormous accomplishment and I grunted with pride.
Someone had fitted me with bracelets. Silver, thankfully. Gold aged me.
I was sitting in a chair. Or rather, after a second inspection, a restraining harness held me upright, pinned to a chair. My head lolled lazily on my chest, so I watched my hands some more.
Hey, I recognized some of the bracelets around my wrists—handcuffs. How about that.
The girl. In the stairwell. I remembered.
She was not a restaurant proprietor. She had lied.
I tilted my head up, degree by degree.
Oooouch.
I was in an airplane. A private jet, medium-sized, five windows to a side. The front hatch was swung open, letting in cold air and the unmistakable noise of engine whine. The plane sat on a tarmac at an unfamiliar terminal.
Across from me was a man. Tall, erect posture. Bearded, and pale enough that I could see some veins. He wore black boots, blue 5.11 tactical pants, and a black Rothco undercover vest over a henley shirt. Ballistic plates sewn into the vest, probably. I knew the outfit—commonly worn by guys in his line of work. He held a pistol in his right hand.
He leaned forward. “You can hear?”
“Sure,” I croaked.
“You know who I am?”
“Listen to me. Carefully,” I said. More of a whisper. I licked my dry lips. “I have to pee.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re going to.” I paused to take a deep breath and stretch my jaw. “In less than sixty seconds, my guess.”
“You know who I am?” he said.
“The bathroom attendant.”
“I am a bounty hunter.”
“Hunt me a bathroom,” I wheezed.
“You do not follow the orders? I shoot you,” he said with a strong German accent. Follow zee orders. “I get paid either way.”
“I’m going to pee either way,” I said with a strong American accent. Plus a hint of Cajun and anesthesia.
“Hold it.”
“No.”
The cute girl with short blonde hair appeared. “I’m taking him to the bathroom.”
“Could be a trick.”
“My patient, my rules. It’s inhumane otherwise. Everyone pees. Besides, urine stinks of ammonia and I don’t want to travel with it,” she said. “He’ll still be cuffed and have very little muscular control.”
She released my harness and I slumped forward onto the floor, unable to halt my fall. Face first on the carpet, I said, “I don’t feel dangerous.”
It took me a minute to climb to my feet. Another handful to get my bladder operational. Then still several more to fully void it.
Old age and I were going to have issues.
“Nice plane,” I said, shuffling back to my chair. My ankles were cuffed too, and the German bounty hunter kept his gun on me. I’d have shuffled even without the shackles, so feeble were my faculties. “But the other passengers ruin the ambiance.”
There were no passengers other than Ernst and the dastardly physician. I hoped he got my meaning—Germans have terrible senses of humor.
The physician strapped my harness back on, sort of a locking seatbelt around my torso and elbows. She brought me a cup of water and some pretzels.
“No,” said the German. “No pretzels.”
“Why not?”
“Because I say. No pretzels.”
“No pretzel for infidel,” I said, with a hint of German.
He hit me. An insouciant smack to the face.
“Hah. Can’t feel it. Anesthesia and all,” I said.
It was a lie. That smack hurt.
“Ernst, do not strike my guest,” said a new voice. Firm but soft. “I need him in peak condition. Plus, what are we, animals?”
It was Duane, one of the minor Kings. I’d met him at a poker game. Looked like Euro muscle but rich. Raspy voice, thick neck. His eyes and cheeks were puffy, like he used to fight. Or had a food allergy. His shirt was tailored intentionally tight and it shimmered green. He was followed by a guy in a navy jacket, tattoos on his neck. And Tattoo Neck was followed by a woman.
The jet had sixteen seats—a group of eight up front and a group of eight in the back, four on each side. Each group of four seats faced each other. I was strapped into the rear group, port side.
I was facing forward. The bounty hunter sat across, facing me, gun in his lap. Duane sat across the aisle, facing me. The woman sat beside him and Tattoo Neck sat in the forward group of eight, not part of our group. Poor guy.
Duane nodded. “Mackenzie August.”
“Duane Moneybags,” I replied.
“Chambers. My last name,” he said.
“Moneybags suits you better.”
He shrugged, partially raising one eyebrow. “Maybe. You know why you’re here?”
“I have many guesses.”
“Let’s hear’em,” he said.
“First guess, you’re mad I beat you at poker.”
“Beat me at poker. No.”
“Second guess,” I said. “I called you a few months ago about a thing in Virginia Beach, and it was late and I ruined your REM cycle.”
“No, it’s not because you called too late.”
“Because I killed Toby Moreno.”
He shook his head. A tiny movement.
Heavy hitters like Duane wasted no energy on exaggerated motion. In fact I wasn’t sure he even shook his head. More of an indication that he might, if he was a lesser man.
I said, “Because I killed Calvin Summers?”
“No.”
“You’re mad I busted up some of your prostitution racketeering.”
He shook his head again. “That’s not why you’re here. But that thing displeased me.”
“You’re mad because I killed Angelo the coyote.”
He took a deep breath, held it, slowly released it through his nose.
The woman beside him was a knockout. Her imperial eyebrow arched higher with each of my guesses.
I said, “You’re mad because while in Virginia Beach I talked to Sergio and—”
“Okay, Jesus Christ, shut the hell up. Only now remembering this. What a pain in my ass you are,” he said.
“That was all the past eighteen months too.”
The blonde physician stood beside me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “The medicine is still in his system, Mr. Chambers. He’s loopy.”
“You didn’t kill those people,” Duane told me.
“Calvin and Toby and Angelo? I helped. I was in the area. Maybe credit me with an assist.”
“This man.” Ernst the bounty hunter indicated me with the barrel of his pistol. “Talks too much.”
“Mackenzie August thinks he’s funny,” said Duane with a flat smile. “I’ll tell you why you’re here. You’re here because I respect you.”
“Well,” I said, tugging against the seat restraint. “That’s apparent.”
“That’s apparent,” repeated Duane. “A contract was put on your head. A hundred grand.”
“A hundred thousand? That’s it?”
“Hits are usually twenty-five. Maybe forty. You should be pleased.”
“A hundred is, like, two Mercedes SUVs. I’m worth more than that. Besides, everyone knows,” I told Ernst, “German cars suck.”
The beautiful woman beside Duane smiled. Realized she probably shouldn’t. So she covered it with her fingers.
> Duane shrugged and exhaled through his nose again. “Anyway. I intercepted the contract. Tacked on twenty-five more if you were brought back alive. So here you are.”
“Thanks, Duane. A real pal. Best buds.”
“Real pal,” he said. “You’re being farcical. But that’s why you’re alive, August. Because of some respect.”
“Where are we?”
“Ronald Reagan airport. Washington,” he said.
“Where we going? If it’s not Disney, I’m out.”
“We are flying to Naples.”
That was sobering.
Naples. How about that. On my wedding day.
I said, “Can I bring someone?”
The woman smiled again. Her eyes sparkled, matching her diamond princess necklace.
Duane looked at the blonde physician standing behind me. “Meg, get this man some water. Something to eat.”
“Ernst insists he doesn’t eat.”
“Ernst.” Duane said his name but didn’t look at the German bounty hunter. “Have I paid you for this man?”
“You paid me.”
“How much.”
“One hundred twenty-five,” said Ernst.
“He belongs to me now. We understand?”
“He is yours, Mr. Chambers,” said Ernst. “But still I’m waiting.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Duane snapped his fingers. Tattoo Neck materialized and placed a small metallic box in Duane’s outstretched hand.
I wondered what would happen if I snapped my fingers.
Duane used his thumbprint to unlock the box. The lid lifted on silent hinges. He took out a small cloth pouch, bright white. From it he extracted a diamond. Returned the pouch, closed the box, which beeped, and gave the box to Tattoo Neck.
I tried snapping my fingers but couldn’t. Oh well.
Duane placed the diamond on the bounty hunter’s outstretched palm. The diamond’s culet had been dyed a bright red. Only a pinprick of color but noticeable.
“You did good, Ernst.”
Ernst nodded his thanks. Dropped the diamond into a black leather pouch and zipped it in a vest pocket.
“Well,” I said. “He did well.”
No one cared about the lapse in grammar, the savages.
Duane said, “You stick around, Ernst. For the agreed handling fees. But I make the decisions. We understand?”
Ernst snapped a nod. “We do.”
Vee do.
“Meg.” Duane sighed, world-weary crime boss. “Now that’s done, food and water.”
Meg the physician acquiesced to playing the role of stewardess.
Someone else stepped onto the plane, blocking some of the engine’s noise.
My least favorite person—Darren Robbins. Big handsome guy, great hair. Once a quarterback, always a quarterback. He wore a black wool overcoat, a dark suit underneath, Ray-Bans, and leather Armani shoes.
He looked me over.
I looked him over. Deprecatorily.
Duane stood and shook his hand.
“I wanted this man dead,” said Darren Robbins. He hadn’t taken off his leather gloves.
“Yeah, well. I wanted him not dead.”
“You have the right to intercept the contract, Duane, I know the code. But this is a sensitive issue. The whole enterprise benefits if this rookie thug is gone.”
“He will be.” Duane shrugged, something he did with frequency. “It’ll happen. But first, maybe he buys us some credibility. Makes me some money. Who knows.”
“It’s important he doesn’t escape, Duane. You know this?”
“You scared of August?”
“I’m wary of any uncaged rabid dog.”
“He’s wearing the bracelet. Stop the fucking whining. What’s he gonna do? We’re good here. Go back to your desk and stamp stuff, huh? Tom, he’s in some shit, right? He needs his lawyer. Go help Tom.”
Darren removed his Ray-Bans and used them to point at me. “Does Marcus Morgan know? About this?”
“No, Marcus doesn’t know,” said Duane. “He’ll find out and it’ll be too late, and he’ll complain and it’ll be done. Okay?”
Darren walked farther into the plane. Sat on the seat across from mine. I leaned forward as far as I could. He inclined his head towards me. Raised his glasses and tapped me on the nose with them.
“I warned you, August,” he said softly. “Did I not? I told you there’s a world you couldn’t imagine. A reality beyond yours, and that you shouldn’t stick your nose into it. But you made an amateurish mistake. Punched out of your weight class. Tangled with what belongs to me, and now there are consequences. You cannot possibly imagine what’s about to happen to you.”
“You’re forcing me to attend a Justin Bieber concert?”
“I wish I could go to Naples. To watch realization dawn on your pug-like face. To witness your regret. But I can’t. I have a life, you see. Whereas yours? About to end.”
“Pug-like? Perhaps you confused canines.”
“What’s today, Monday? I’ll have Veronica Summers in my employ by Thursday. On her back, forcing a smile.”
“Hey. Enough,” said Duane. “I’m going to Naples and August is too. Get your ass off my plane, Robbins. Unless you wanna fly to Italy.”
“Yes. He does,” I said. “Untie me. We’ll sit together.”
Despite himself, Duane grinned.
“Look’it the bastard. Even tied up, he’s running his mouth. I like our chances.”
Darren Robbins stood. His eyes, an ugly brown mud color, locked onto Meg. “And you are?”
“In the employ of Mr. Chambers,” she said.
He slightly curled his lips inward and pinched them between his teeth. A subtle mannerism many humans do in deep thought. But Darren Robbins, doing it while inspecting Meg the cute blonde physician, made it look cheap and seedy.
She cleared her throat and looked away.
Still looking at her, he addressed Duane. “You paid the hitman?”
Duane nodded. “Ernst, yeah, I paid him.”
Robbins reached into his jacket pocket. Took out a leather folding envelope, like a wallet. Withdrew something sparkly. Another diamond, red dot at the base. He tossed it to Ernst, who caught it and put with the other.
“Ernst,” said Darren. “Make sure August doesn’t escape.”
Ernst nodded. “Yah. If the prisoner tries, I will kill him.”
If zee prisoner tries, I vill kill him.
“Move, kid,” said Duane. He nodded towards the door. “I wanna to take off. You hear me?”
Darren continued, talking over Duane’s shoulder. “I mean it, Ernst. August tries to escape, don’t attempt to recapture. Duane here, he’s a softy. You kill August. Bang, one to the temple.”
“Enough,” said Duane. “Go. Off my Gulfstream.”
Darren turned and left, quickly replaced by a beaming stewardess. She didn’t look surprised at my predicament. She closed the hatch, sealing off the noise, and started mixing cocktails.
The jet eased forward, moving to the runways.
“Layers upon layers,” I said to no one. “Of villainy.”
The beautiful brunette woman in the seat nearby crossed her legs and stared steadily at me.
3
The jet surged down the runway, tilted upwards, and banked east into the purpling dusk.
My head remained foggy but I felt confident my day didn’t seem to be going as planned. I wondered if I still had forthcoming matrimonial bliss.
Twenty minutes passed in silence as we shot farther over the Atlantic. Duane had mentioned a bracelet. Sure enough, I wore a thick black clunky band on my left wrist. It had a dark digital display and flashing green light.
Meg the physician was sitting across the aisle, running her finger on the screen of an iPad. Everyone else was forward.
I said, “Tell me about the bracelet.”
Without glancing up, she replied, “Don’t try to take it off.”
“That’s not an explanation. That�
��s a warning and an imperative.”
She smiled, still not looking at me. “It contains two transdermal patches. Essentially tiny needles capable of delivering medicine rapidly—a cocktail similar to B52. The patches can be activated by this iPad.” She raised the tablet and waved it. “And by a device on my keychain. Mr. Chambers has similar devices. A patch will trigger if you attempt to take the band off, or if you get too far away from the device on our keychains, or if the battery dies.”
“The patches will pump a sedative into my wrist,” I guessed.
“Bingo. It’s an ingenious device. Cost a fortune.”
“You’re not a physician.”
“I have the framed diploma to prove it,” she said. “Georgetown.”
“You skipped the day concerning the Hippocratic Oath, doctor.”
“Have I harmed you?”
“Profoundly,” I said.
“How?”
“It’s my wedding day.”
She winced. “Fair point. Don’t think about it that way, though. Instead, see that working for Ernst and Mr. Chambers has already paid off half my student loans.”
“That’s nice. Debt from education can be crushing.”
She nodded, frowning at her screen. “It totally is. Almost criminal. It’ll be gone soon, though. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the private jet lifestyle. Can you believe how decadent this is? I think the Kings own several.”
“Play your cards right, get hired on full time?”
She grinned. “Dare to dream.”
Ernst came back. He said, “You are hungry?”
“If you insist.”
He pulled his pistol from the holster. A black SIG P210. He pressed the barrel into the soft fleshy part under my jaw. “You do not move.”
You do not moof.
Even I, brave stalwart and fearless warrior, begin sweating with a gun shoved under my chin.
The stewardess bounced our way, beaming politely.
“Who’s hungry?” she cooed. “I have salmon!”
The pistol remained until she swiveled my tray into place, deposited the steaming plate of food, and retreated. Only then did Ernst remove the barrel.
“Unless the customer service improves,” I said, “our republic is doomed.”
“Eat.”
“Ja,” I said. “It’s German for yes.”
