by Jack McGlynn
“Hard to miss it, Sabs” Molly agreed, reminiscing fondly.
Ignoring them, Rook called out as he laced shin-length boots. He suspected Ron had fitted the aircraft with some manner of always-on communication.
“Wendy, we’re a few miles out. How’s it looking?”
Wendy had begun her sprint the instant Big Phil offered up the address. Mercifully the safe house was less than one hundred kilometres from headquarters, in the heart of Oxford. Wendy arrived thirty seven minutes later, her lithe, almost-elastic frame exhausted but proud.
“Surprisingly hospitable. There’s nothing here, Rook! Sure we found the staples; gun in the fridge, grenade under the sink, but nothing too diabolical.”
“This disquiets my calm, Wendy. You check under the bed for zombies?” Rook suggested helpfully.
“What am I, an amateur? That was the first place I look- Oh, hold on. Hinge just spotted a trip-wire, which leads to... about a pound of squidgy plastic, presumably of the explosive variety. Satisfied now?”
“Quieted, yes.” Rook sighed, grabbing the backs of his ankles, limbering up for the mission ahead. “Any chance you could disarm it without redecorating the walls with your innards?”
“We’ll have to tell you in a second.”
He watched the tiltrotors beyond the canopy. Slanted, almost vertical, the failing daylight distorted around their scything rotations.
“Good news” Wendy’s voice broke the static.
“You didn’t die in a fiery explosion?” the pilot enquired, banking left. The craft dipped, sloping with the course correction.
“Not that I noticed. The bomb’s disarmed, Rook. The place is clean.”
“Do you need us to lay some traps while we’re at it? We’re very good at traps.” Hinge’s disembodied request thrummed the back of his skull.
“No. Thank you, Hinge” Rook answered, ignoring Molly’s disapproving cluck, “Now, unless you’d care to be locked in a room with a mass murderer, feel free to vacate the premises.”
Wendy had cleared the first staircase before he finished speaking.
Though wrapped in the already notorious black and red for his first time, the uniform felt familiar. Hauntingly so. Synthetic fibres had gotten lighter and stronger over the years, but the sense of identity, of loyalty ever persevered.
And while most indeed meant ‘sense’, Rook definitely meant ‘illusion’.
Gripping the handrails above, Rook pulled himself to the cockpit’s fore. Deciding it would be appreciated, he clasped a palm on Sabrina’s shoulder. Eyes on the horizon, Molly dipped the pitch, slowing beginning her descent,
“Rook, for God’s sake, there’s a weapons cache in the back. Go and take something, anything, you need the upper hand. Bring a spork for all I care!”
“Honestly Mol, a spork? I was specifically told not to kill him, remember?!”
“Rook, this is insane!” Molly was openly furious now, her nose wrinkled in anger, “We know nothing about this chap, besides the fact he eats world class metas for breakfast. And you (amounting to little more than a toast triangle in this metaphor) are waltzing into his house, armed only with a t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants!”
Rook pretended to give this a moment’s grave consideration.
“So... you’re saying I should lose the pants?”
Sabs turned to stare out her window, anxiously stifling a titter. Molly failed to see the funny side.
“No-“
“I’m not going to fight him in just my knickers, Mol.”
“Rook-“
“That would be ridiculous.”
“Rook!”
“And what if he liked what he saw?”
“Stop it!”
“That’d make the subsequent beating awfully uncomfortable.”
“Stop.”
“For me that is. I imagine he’d rather enjoy it-”
“Ron.” Molly called, exacerbated, “Help.”
Ron’s face, tinged blue, blinked into existence above the dashboard. A pixelated grimace, rendered in disapproving 3D.
“Rook, by now he’s had ample opportunity to tweak his prosthetics. And intelligence suggests most of his major systems and organs boast some degree of meta-humanism.”
Rook winked at the hologram,
“Ron, if you’re in the business of trying to make me feel inadequate, I’m afraid Molly already has a corner on that market.
Guys, please try to relax? You think I’d be brazen enough to go in there without a plan?...
Hinge! You there? I trust my ice-cream is in place?”
A foreign buzzing crept up his spine,
“I am and it is” the voice plucked in their ears.
“See folks,” he grinned, reaching above his head, stretching out long stooped shoulders, groaning “I’m not totally unprepared.”
Feet dangling, Rook pulled himself level with the rails above him. Molly had begun a hard bank, rolling the craft away from the city’s lights and prying eyes. The chopper levelled, rotors resetting into their lateral hubs as Molly announced “two minutes.”
He peered through the windshield, picking out the shrinking people beyond, purposefully marching Oxford’s streets.
“Uh, does anyone know where our mark actually is? Do we have, I dunno, satellite images or something?”
“Yeah, or something” Molly chuckled, winking at her co-pilot as the whirr of the turbine’s oscillations fell to a low hum. Sabrina prodded a pass code onto the adjoining monitor and summoned a half dozen date stamped stills and feeds depicting Lancet strolling through Oxford in a three piece suit.
“You have about twenty minutes before he makes his way through the city centre. And another fifteen before he reaches the flat.” Sabrina calculated
“Balls! I didn’t bring a book.”
“Still plenty of time to reconsider your dubious ‘no weapons or armour’ policy, though” Molly tried again, this time as sweetly as she could physically muster.
The chopper set down smoothly: The mechanical drone of supporting struts and a sudden, albeit gentle, pressure on the knees the only indication of their landing. Rook lifted the handle, sliding open the glass canopy.
Wendy was always waiting.
“No comms, like you asked” she shivered, pushing past him and into the chopper’s warmth. Rubbing her bare arms, she took a seat behind Sabs, “Assuming you don’t die horribly, we’ll need this to go viral. So I installed a camera. Just the video, mind - no audio, no sound.”
“Spooky” Rook approved.
“Told you he’d dig it!” Wendy nodded to Ron’s floating head.
“Wendy. Thank you.”
Rook sounded like he meant it.
“Meh, it was fun. Now Molly, if you’d be so kind as to take me far, far away from that murdering psychopath.”
Rook flinched, before realising she was probably talking about his target.
“No communications!?!” Molly’s demeanour was far from its flippant, blasé norm. Rook imagined he might eventually reflect on it as endearing. That was assuming, in the interim, he could successfully convince her to back off.
“I was rather hoping you’d miss that one...” he spat through gritted teeth.
“Rook, seriously. That’s there as much for our protection as yours.”
“I’ll have my phone on if you get bored, Mol.” Brushing a hand through both his hair and irritation,
“Rook. I’m trying to be serious.”
“I can tell. And full disclosure; it’s baffling me.”
“Well it doesn’t take much!” Molly barked with a condemning finger, “This isn’t my rule, bud. It’s hers. We have to be able to contact you, to monitor you.”
“Ah-ha! So that’s why you wanted my pants off...”
Wendy peered over Sabs’ shoulder and shot the young woman a questioning look. Don’t ask was the shrugged response. Molly continued to push,
“What did I say about making me laugh behind the wheel?! Listen, you may as wel
l just bug the place. I’ll have Ron order Hinge to drop in on your little party if you refuse, so why not just do this small thing to make me happy.”
“I’ve never actually seen you happy, Mol.” Rook admitted, gaze wandering, thinking back over the week and a half they’d known one another.
“And lo, here is your chance.”
Rook folded his arms, scarlet hemming defining the bulge of his forearms as he tapped a contemplative fingertip off his chin,
“I didn’t think you did happy. Spitefully sarcastic, yes. But-“
“Oh lord. Hinge: Be a dear would you?”
The astral silhouette appeared in the windscreen, a grinning spectre of ectoplasm and contorted light. Hinge’s projection raised a motionless palm in greeting.
“Aaaand I’m back! This place is nice, by the way. There’s a painting of some dogs playing poker. Can we get a painting of some dogs playing poker?”
Skull officially shrieking, Rook buried his face in his hands. Chances are it was his condition, but he wasn’t willing to rule out ‘nagging concern’ as the cause just yet. He tried vocalizing to this effect,
“This blatant disregard for my explicit preferences is very welcoming, kids. It really is. I finally feel one of the team. But-”
“We’re just concerned for your safety, Rook.” Sabs pulled at his wrist, her face a well rehearsed mask of heart-breaking alarm.
“Yeah, sure, what Sabs said!” Molly agreed feebly, at this stage ready to leap upon any bandwagon that might yield results.
Outnumbered, losing time and in dire need of sugar, his index and middle fingers massaged a throbbing brain. He growled into the nearest console,
“Any chance I can have a hand here? This isn’t getting my ice-cream eaten. Or you know, my mission underway and all that.”
A moment’s static. And then the radio chimed with her voice,
“Molly.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Do what the stubborn man says.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Good lass, Molly. That’s why you’re my favourite.”
Rook marked his immediate departure with a single thumbs-up for the entire cabin to share. Given his frustration, they were lucky to get it. He disembarked, striding from the glass cockpit, adjusting the width of his belt. Unhooking her harness with a slap, Molly followed him down, pilot’s chair left swirling in her wake.
Catching up she tugged at his shoulder,
“Rook, listen...”
He listened, for a moment. Then two. Realising the silence wasn’t going to break itself,
“Why, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s almost ever said to me.”
Smiling, Molly slapped a fist into the man’s shoulder. Idly scratching the underside of her elbow, she opened,
“I don’t mean to step on your toes. It’s just, I’m normally the one handling these kinds of assignments. But the Boss obviously trusts you with this. So that’s more than enough for me. But I’m struggling to shake this feeling, I dunno, that something bad is going to happen.”
“Something bad is going to happen, Mol.” Rook assured her, cracking the knuckle of his left fist. Her expression sunk, drained of its usual mirth and assurance,
“That’s not as comforting as you might think...”
“We’re in the business of making bad things happen! We are not pleasant folk. The things we do are not pleasant things. And the outcomes of the unpleasant things done by unpleasant folk are rarely, if ever, pleasant.
Something bad is assuredly going to happen, Mol. But tonight, by either twisted fate or a decent plan from your Boss, it’s going to happen to the person who deserves it the most. That’ll have to do for now, okay?”
Molly held his gaze for a long moment. Rook liked to think some newfound affection, or attraction, was suddenly blossoming. But in truth he had no idea. As far as he knew, she could have been concocting some twisted punishment for his patronizing speech.
Her response did even less to clarify her emotions.
“Okay.”
That clears that up then!
When confronted with doubt, Rook typically resorted to joking. Or punching. But joking seemed more applicable here.
“Unless of course, I’m utterly outmatched and he ends up killing me.”
“A distinct possibility.” Molly nodded, thoughtfully.
“Or there’s the chance he’ll torture me for the HQ’s location...”
“I knew you looked shifty... Just be careful, alright?”
There seemed to be something inherently flawed about her suggestion.
“Eh, we’ve met right?” Rook queried, scanning his actions over the past two weeks for anything remotely resembling caution.
“Let me put it another way” she rephrased, turning to climb back aboard the chopper. She stopped at the canopy’s entrance, hoisting herself up via the overhanging rail, “You’re not getting back in my jet covered in blood!”
Rook smirked, waving a hand in farewell. The aircraft climbed twilight heights, engines whirring alongside the thin cabin like a giant, airborne percentage.
A thought occurred. He took out his phone and thumbed a text to the ascending pilot.
“What if it’s not my blood?”
*
Ascending the stairs, he relived the day’s activities. His escape was textbook. Or at least it would have been, had he ever gotten round to chronicling his numerous exploits for future generations. Oddly, the novice Big Phil sent into the Alps struggled more than expected. Ultimately this proved beneficial, shaking the rust from his limbs.
His hand slid up the steel banister as he climbed. Though the clack of piston and gear felt as natural as the antagonistic pull of muscle and sinew, he already plotted long overdue patches and upgrades to his arms.
A quick shower, costume change and the butt of a thin blade in his hands and it’d be straight off to Edinburgh to settle his account.
Approaching, he found the door ajar. A shaft of artificial light crept out from the frame, inviting. The clink of glass, slurp of liquid and gentle creak of floorboards enticed further.
Shrugging, he strode inside.
He paid little heed to the figure staring out his window, glass in hand. He was paid none in return. His jacket slipped from narrow shoulders and was hung upon a wall-hook. Rolling his sleeves, he made for the fridge, calling “Drink?”
The hunched mass of black and scarlet merely raised his glass, still eyeing the night sky.
“Your loss.”
Long fingers pried open the fridge’s tall door. Blasted with cold air, he reached in to retrieve the handgun from the veggie box. The chrome weapon raised. Its iron sights aligned with the intruder’s skull. The trigger depressed.
The hollow clap of an empty chamber betrayed the situation’s gravity.
“Felt a little light...” he huffed, casually tossing the worthless gun into the sink. Discovered and disarmed without his knowing, Lancet irritably snatched a glass from the adjacent cupboard.
Sighing, the visitor straightened, unveiling a back lashed with long muscle. Speaking at last, Rook’s voice was grave.
“We need to talk, Sean.”
Alarm pierced Lancet’s eyes. Thin lips and a clenched jaw stopped it from spreading through his remaining features.
Stalling, he poured malt scotch into a fat glass while his senses quested, gauging the danger. He heard nothing, smelt no gunpowder or chemical residue, felt no pulse of hidden heartbeats, saw no indication, no suggestion that the lone stranger looking out his window was anything other than just that.
Alone.
Like him.
Sean relaxed, sipping his whiskey, happy to indulge the intruder with some chit-chat before snapping his neck. Or opening his throat. Or stopping his heart. Sean hadn’t quite decided yet, but the night was relatively young.
“So we’ve met?” he opened, tilting his glass in a welcoming gesture.
“We have.”
“I can’t place
you” the criminal admitted, coolly making his way for the cutlery drawer.
“Well, you are getting on in years...” Rook teased as his mark was unable to find anything sharper than a wooden spoon “Besides, you’ve been busy.”
Smirking, Sean pushed the drawer home. He propped himself up on the kitchen counter. His feet dangled, heels bouncing off wooden cabinet.
“Well if I hadn’t, I’m guessing I’d be spared the house call? And its tedious small talk...”
Having fun, Rook slurped at his glass, wagging a finger at his perched target,
“Oh, come on! I think I’ve earned a few minute’s catch-up. Can you even remember the last time you were ambushed?” Rook didn’t really need to clarify what was happening. But he had a question in need of answering before the evening’s entertainment could begin in truth.
“Just about, though I don’t recall them ever being so... sedate. Go on then, jog an old man’s memory; where did we meet?”
Rook spooned some froth from the top of the glass, let the sweetness linger on his tongue. For the moment at least, his withdrawal was satiated. His head was clear, his limbs were relaxed and his heart rate was scarcely even elevated.
Rook reflected on such moments of serenity. And their inherent absurdity. He was as content now, moments away from a confrontation with the continent’s most capable killer, as he was decades past, in the rubble of a communist dystopia.
“Cuba.” he responded eventually.
Sean put his beverage down to better snort his derision.
“Listen, just because you’re naive enough to think coming into my house without back-up was a good idea, doesn’t mean I’m a gullible old crone.
I remember Cuba.
Wild times! Made a name for myself that day, you know? Put a scalpel through Cracker’s eye and kicked him off a building. Not that it killed him, mind... or slowed him down all that much. But, the world watched me do it. Worked wonders for the old reputation.
You wouldn’t recognize Havana now, young man. It’s nice, sterile, filthy rich. A different place. None of the smoke or rubble or toppled buildings. None of the screams...
I’m disappointed.
You went to the effort of learning my name. I doubt that was cheap. But if you wanted me rattled, the least you could do is pick an event I’m unlikely to remember. Yes, it’s been almost twenty five years, but I made my bones at Havana’s little street party.
