by Jack McGlynn
What do you think that says about us, Sir? That we’re bred to accomplish but forbidden from relishing it?”
Rook smirked, tearing his gaze away from the front page spread of an articulated truck hoisted clean off its front wheels by the man now wallowing in self pity.
“I’m no philosophiser, Gil, certainly not when I’m trying to walk off a concussion. But I’ve not come to resent you your pride.
Hell, there’s not a single shoulder in this joint without a sizeable chip on it.”
“Presumably you include your own sloped pair in this sweeping generalisation?” Gil asked indifferently, sniffing the fragrance wafting up from the crystal carafe.
Rook’s smile grew wider, his eyes darker.
“You’ve come to ask me about Lancet.” The Lebanese warrior sighed, reaching, returning the decanter to his bed stand.
Hooking thumbs in his pockets, Rook settled in against the nearest wall, finding a space for himself among the assorted paraphernalia, “And I thought Ron was the telepat-“
“I’m not actually a cretin, Sir. I know my size invites a certain stereotype. And, by my own admission, my intellect is dwarfed by many in this very house. But rest assured, I am not so slow as to wonder why you, a man charged with this villain’s... disposal, would come seeking the one fool here who’s actually suffered an embarrassing, not to mention public defeat at his hands.”
Gil’s voice strained, as if Rook’s innocuous comment had somehow rocked the giant’s core. But, as their eyes locked, the former’s hot with suspicion, the latter’s cold and unyielding, Gil buried his head in immense hands and huffed.
Wiping his mouth, the Lebanese’s pained eyes puffed red as he whispered,
“You want to know about the bus, don’t you?”
Actually, Rook did not want to know about the bus. Not in the slightest.
He had certainly registered Gil’s reaction when the cause of Lancet’s second incarceration arose. But he also had an exceptionally dangerous job to do.
Normally, Rook was a dab hand at feigning sensitivity. But, unfortunately, letting the leviathan weep into his shoulder wasn’t going to help him survive the night.
“No, Gil, I don’t.” Rook surprised himself at how soft, how sincere his voice could sound when the need arose. He almost had himself fooled.
Almost.
“If you want to tell me your tale, then I’ll stand here silently, impartially and I will listen. And you won’t get a lick of judgement, not from me. Hypocrisy is a suit I’ve long since outgrown, you understand?”
Rook said this with a wry smile, a flick of his forehead. It was an unconscious invitation for the big man to relax, to settle, to befriend.
“What I was hoping to learn from you, Gil, was how someone like me is supposed to stand a chance when this mark took down someone like you.”
Ah, flattery. The great equalizer. Rook mused as his face slid, effortlessly, into a mask of dishonest admiration.
Responding, Gil’s features ran the usual gamut – suspicion boiled into entertainment before eventually cooling into agreement. To Gil’s credit, he spent longer on suspicion than most.
But surround arrogance in relics of its bygone stardom and it will eventually flourish, however wounded. After all, Gil used to be the best.
Well, top five maybe.
“Rook,” he began, composed once more, his voice rolled silk, “I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. The fact is he blind-sided me, even though I had him in my very sights!”
Gil stood. The room nearly rocked as he pushed on his knees. Maybe two inches shorter than Rook, Gil was twice as thick and almost four times his width. An impossibility of human motion, he crossed his living space in a single stride, resting dinner-plate-palms on Rook’s shoulders.
An indomitable force pressed down, sizing, gauging, judging.
Snorting his satisfaction, Gil retreated a stride, swiping his whiskey back from the dresser,
“He’s actually quite strong, you know. People forget that, because of his intellect. Now those prosthetics of his are scarcely a shadow of...” rolling-pin fingers brushed his own barrel chest, “this. But I’d say he might have you matched, son.
Unless, of course, you’re concealing something.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rook lied.
Gil scrutinized a moment longer, then continued,
“I am sorry, but I have so little knowledge of the man. He schemes incessantly, but you’ve probably already gathered that. Just know, anything you’re planning he’s probably already allowed for so-“
“Why don’t you just tell me the details of your fight?” Rook prodded, trying to keep the Lebanese on subject.
A harsh bellow rattled forth, bouncing off the room’s high walls,
“We didn’t fight. He hammered me! That’s the extent of it.
As for the details, well...
I arrived to see him put the finishing touches on a squad of C.A.M.L. goons. They had rifles. He had a scalpel. That’s how I know he’s strong. He cut them to pieces but had the sense to run at the sight of me. That’s how I know he’s smart.
So I chased him into these slums, lost him there. I must have searched and rooted and dug around for an hour, irate I had let this coward escape. I needed that collar. I really needed it.
Then a stroke of luck!
He put a bullet in my shoulder from a half mile away.”
“Um... How fortunate....”
“My shoulder, Rook! It barely reached the bone.
He had missed, he had flinched. This was unprecedented and I wasn’t going to let such opportunity just pass me by. So, like a fool, I sprinted straight at him, fast as I could.
I wasn’t thinking, obviously. I so desperately wanted the acclaim, to bring in Lancet. Global Rankings mean everything in the E.M.T.F. and I had been number 4 for eighteen months. Perhaps not the most professional of motivations but that’s the reality of the largest meta-human organisation on the face of the earth.
... It’s somewhat petty.”
Rook understood well the frustration. He never ranked beyond #12 himself. But he let Gil continue, uninterrupted,
“Oh, how I would cherish telling you I had this sinking feeling that I was running headlong into a trap. But this precious insight came only as the ground crumbled beneath my feet, as that smirking bastard’s subterranean charges turned the asphalt to sludge.
So there I lay, mouth full of dirt, maybe ten feet below street level. And this beeping cylinder plops right down beside me. I deduce it’s a Flash-Bang and have the audacity to think he’s made a second blunder.
You see Rook, my eyes, they’re as sturdy as the rest of me.
Again, the error in judgement was mine. The beeping dies and a hiss of green vapour clouds me, plays hockey with my senses.”
“Neurotoxin?” Rook asked inquisitively, riveted to the spot.
“Something along those lines, yes. The world swam about me. The derelict skyline swayed and dipped, froze and cracked - All things considered, it was a phenomenal buzz. I’m unsure why I never looked to see if it’s available for recreational use.”
“You seem none too short on recreation, Gil.” Rook pointedly observed, eying the rapidly emptying decanter swilling in his grip.
“Ah, that’s probably why,” Gil concluded, taking a long draught, “Anyway when this tower crane starts swaying, a giant yellow lattice painting the sky, I figure...” Gil choked on the memory, “I reason it is just the poison meddling with my head.
Needless to say it was not.
Some very noisy moments later and I am trapped beneath a few hundred tons of corrugated steel. Beaten. Impotent. Helpless to do aught but watch as.... as he...”
Gil’s eyes glazed. His breath cut short. Another long, desperate swig settled the trembling of his hands, his lips.
“My advice, Rook? Firstly, try to catch him off guard and then keep pressing. Do not give him the time to strategize. And finally, whatever you deci
de, never fight him on his own terms... Too many children paid for such egotism last time” he managed with a grim swallow, his jaw set.
Rook pushed off against the wall, brushing out the creases of a ruined t-shirt, “Well, two out of three. Not bad.”
To this, the Lebanese arched an inquisitive brow. Rook elaborated,
“I’ve come to the conclusion, if I am to make a lasting impression on this delightful chap, I’ll need to hit him where he lives.”
“Beat him at his own game, eh? Ambitious.” Gil approved, sinking back into his reinforced chair. The world rattled.
“No, I’m literally going to beat the crap out of him in his home.”
The giant considered this for a long moment, eyeballing the dregs of golden fluid at the bottom of his carafe. He needed to slow down.
“If you’re sure, Rook.”
An amused grunt,
“Christ no, I’m not sure! But this Lancet sounds intelligent and complex. I imagine a dose of simple, dumb violence may be just the medicine.”
Rook nodded his thanks, a measure of trust between them slowly building. He made for the door. He halted as Gill cleared his throat.
Like puffing gravel through a tuba.
“Well, if that is the extent of your ‘strategy’, perhaps I can offer a small, conciliatory piece of advice... While ambushing those riflemen from the Central American Meta-human League, strangely enough, he was topless. I noticed his torso, his body; it’s free of prosthetics.
Nothing but flesh and bone there, my friend.”
Rook understood.
“See Gil, you helped.” he waved, his smile appreciative, “And they told me you were just an overpriced bouncer!”
“What? Wait! Who said that?”
But Rook was already gone.
*
The hall was long. Wendy had just turned its corner as Rook growled, heaving the door shut. Her gait was unhurried and he made to meet her half way. But perception warped and suddenly the tall woman was inches from his nose, fingers wiggling an affable greeting.
Loathed to show genuine surprise, Rook acknowledged her speed with but a single, dimpled cheek.
“Result?” he asked, rubbing his temples. His head was marshalling another protest. Already?...
“Result.” She confirmed, yawning. As she stretched Rook stole a glance at her narrow frame. Slender limbs hinted at elasticity, not frailty.
“Get in! Right, we’ll head back, let the others know what I’m plan-“
“No need.” Wendy stated simply, signalling as an astral projection of Hinge’s stubbly face blinked into existence above her shoulder.
“Hi Rook!” the cyan visage squeaked.
“Hello Hinge.” Rook nodded, realizing he addressed the team in its entirety. His brain swam with possibilities, scenarios in which he might employ this ethereal connectivity to his advantage; chief among them the timely procurement of ice-cream.
“Well, hows about you lot tell me what you uncovered while I go climb into the freezer?”
“Right ho.” Wendy chimed, following, “First: Them two guards received their irregular payments from a launderette in Edinburgh.”
“Maybe the washing machines ate their socks?” Rook rumbled, a migraine flaring from nowhere. Eyes throbbing, he slowed, dragging himself up by the banisters. Wendy seemed too polite to draw attention to it.
“The launderette in question is a relatively obvious front for a small time crime operation. Its sole proprietor goes by the name ‘Big Phil’.”
“Imaginative bunch those Scots!”
“Don’t let the boss hear you say that!” Wendy giggled, “According to phone logs and email exchanges, Big Phil organized both guards be paid off. Presumably their only tasks were to see our man through the gate and enjoy some early retirement.”
“I suppose they are. Kind of.”
“Way too soon.” Wendy admonished. She rethought a playful slap to the back of his head, deemed it unwise.
They strode into the kitchen. Molly and TG sat inside, sipping tea. They whispered to each other, while studiously picking apart a set of confidential looking blueprints.
With a silver-plated glove, TG tapped a sketch in the plan’s top left corner. The crackle of static was audible from across the room. Tall, blonde and distractingly attractive, the former Canadian super-heroine tied her hair back while trying to emphasise the importance of some detail to her captain.
Obviously sensitive to his prying eyes, without looking up, TG extended the middle finger of her left hand.
Rook snorted, shook his head and continued inside, missing the smile glimmering across TG’s downturned face.
Flicking over the kettle, Wendy continued,
“From what we gathered, Big Phil also organised for a contact to meet our boy five miles south of Tartarus. We can’t determine his exact instructions but in our experience it’s usually along the lines of fresh clothes, supplies, maybe some cash or the keys to a safe house.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Rook exclaimed as he hauled open the freezer, his second meaning lost to all but himself.
His craggy hand dove into the sub-zero temperatures. Digits plunged, tearing through cardboard boxes, content with whatever they snared provided it met the criteria of being cold, unhealthy and coated in chocolate.
“We were able to track this mysterious contact’s e-trail. Just regular updates on his progress really. Real amateur stuff like Still waiting on that suit and I’ve now officially mud-stained my shoes.”
“That you deciphered their code astounds me, folks.” Rook droned, numbing his mouth with the first ice-cream he could find. He happily traded the hammering of his skull for the sting in his teeth.
“He was reporting back to one of the launderette’s inboxes quite consistently... up until two hours ago. We’re making the educated guess this sudden lull in conversation comes as a result of meeting up with Lancet.
And then, you know, getting eviscerated by Lancet.”
“Jesus, don’t sugar-coat it Wendy!”
She gave him a playful wink before plonking herself onto a nearby stool. Having imparted all the relevant information, she waited patiently as Rook worked through his snack and plan of action.
Propping himself up on the long freezer, legs dangling, Rook outlined his strategy, waving his mostly demolished dessert for emphasis. It dripped, spotting the kitchen floor in cream.
“Well, I don’t know about you lot but I feel it’s time to do our civic duty and inform...” he swallowed, “Big Phil of his clients somewhat extreme business practice.
Seeing us as the only chance to keep his innards from becoming outards, Big Phil will give up the location of this safe house. Then all we need do is get there before the target...”
The Kettle whistled. Wendy was suddenly across the kitchen, hands springing, brewing the speediest cuppa he’d ever seen.
“And what makes you think Large Philip will believe you?” she asked, tossing a teaspoon into the sink.
A blur of jeans and blouse and Wendy was back in her stool, mug cradled in her hands. Its steam warmed her glistening face. Rook suppressed an impressed grin and continued,
“You mean besides all the evidence? Well I was hoping I could borrow young Sabrina. Speed things along. She has that whole pheromone thing going on, correct?”
Deflated, Wendy slouched forward. Depositing her mug on an adjacent counter, she clasped her hands between her legs,
“She’ll be delighted to know her million euro secretion system is being referred to with such awe and reverence. Yes, you can have Sabs. Productivity will have to take a hit for the afternoon. Right Ron?”
The shimmering image of her captain’s approval winked out of existence with the same abruptness as it appeared.
“But to be honest, Rook, I was quite hoping.... you might consider...”
Inexplicably, Rook felt compelled to put the woman out of her misery. That almost never happened. In an instance of rare cha
rity, he reached out and patted her forearm,
“Don’t worry Wendy! You’ll get your chance to stretch those legs, rest assured. If anything, I’ll be depending on you and Hinge’s ubiquitous voodoo funk-”
“You flatter me, sir” Hinge chimed in, words etched in static. Rook continued,
“- to keep me alive. And hopefully, in one piece. But until we get to that fun stuff, I really need to find out where this ruddy safe house is.
Now can one of you downstairs please check the next train to Edinburgh?”
The kitchen fell into stunned silence. Even Molly and TG looked up from their studies, mouths agape. Rook got the distinct impression he’d missed a beat. A feeling so uncommon it lingered in the memory.
“Don’t tell me I can charge a taxi to the boss’ card!? Because I’ve been taking the train like a chump, ladies. A chump.”
TG broad shoulders heaved as she suppressed a snigger, cooing “Ah Bless!” Molly’s hand flew up, slapping a seal around a toothy smile. Wendy reached across for her tea, positively beaming.
Slurping, she enquired,
“Why don’t you just take the helicopter?”
Rook’s face slumped in a landslide of disbelief. Staggered, he sprayed vanilla across the kitchen floor,
“We have a chopper?!?!”
*
“We have a chopper?!?!”
Waking up on the floor that morning, mouth dry, temples screeching, Rook hadn’t for a second entertained the notion his afternoon might be spent encased in reinforced glass, skimming the waters of Brittan’s east coast.
Their transport amounted to little more than a pair of enormous turbines tethered to a half dozen chairs. Gyrating propellers, encased in articulate, plated superstructures, pivoted on twin axes for uncommon manoeuvrability. The turbines flanked a transparent, cylindrical canopy of toughened glass. The spacious cockpit could easily ferry six.
Or Gil and two others.
“That one still not sinking in, eh?”
Molly’s was a voice long acclimatised to such extravagance. The aircraft’s low hum contrasted the breaking waves beneath.
