Grenade scowls, but he does abide by my wishes and sheathes his blade.
Blackbird’s pitiful moaning and groaning begins to intensify.
Still leaning against the wall and looking like he’s about to pass out, Lance groggily says, “We should probably tie him up or something before he becomes fully conscious.”
“No need,” Grenade grunts. He kneels beside Blackbird and holds his cyborg arm in front of his face. A miniature metallic nodule pops out of his wrist and ejects a greenish-gray cloud that envelopes Blackbird’s entire face. Blackbird’s eyelids flutter and he coughs a few times before his head lolls to the side. A few seconds later he starts snoring up a storm.
Grenade grins at me and points at the nodule on his wrist. “Knock-out gas. Potent stuff. Should keep him out of commission until we get back to Washington.”
I notice Blackbird’s leg is bleeding pretty badly, so I retrieve a bandage from the medicine cabinet and go to work wrapping it up.
“Why do you give a shit about Blackbird’s wound?” Lance asks as he plops down in a chair and guzzles down yet another beer.
I frown at Lance’s choice of beverage and curtly reply, “Because it would be pretty damn stupid of us to go through hell and high water to get Blackbird and then allow him to bleed to death on the flight home.”
Lance pulls his booze away from his lips long enough to say, “Good point.”
While I’m tending to Blackbird, Grenade goes to work treating his own wound. I watch out of my peripheral vision as Grenade uses tweezers to pull out the bullet fragments imbedded into his good arm. He groans a few times while doing it, but other than that he keeps pretty quiet. Grenade then grabs a bottle of vodka and pours some if it onto the bullet hole. His groans increase, but he doesn’t scream and holler like I surely would if I poured alcohol all over a gunshot wound. There may be a lot about Grenade that horrifies me (like his propensity for violence and the wholescale slaughter of human beings he doesn’t like), but I can’t help but admire the man’s guts and toughness. He makes Dagger look like a wimp (and let me tell you, Dagger was no wimp).
Grenade looks up in the middle of wrapping a bandage around his arm and catches me staring at him. I start to turn away, but then I realize how foolish that would appear. So I instead ask, “You alright?”
Grenade shrugs and replies, “The bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. While I would rather not get shot, if I am going to bite the proverbial bullet, then this is as good an outcome as one could hope for.”
Grenade cocks his head and his eerie eyes glow ever-brighter. It’s almost like he’s trying to see into my brain… read my thoughts. I don’t think he realizes how creepy I find his luminescent eyeballs. Or hell, maybe he does and he just likes fucking with me.
I finally have enough and snap, “Will you please quit staring at me like that?”
Grenade chuckles and his eyes dim. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget how unsettling my cyborg eyes can be. I just…”
Grenade sighs and lights up a cigar before continuing. Spewing smoke into the air, he says, “Look kid, I know how traumatized you are about what went down on Blackbird’s ship. I didn’t go in there planning on taking out all those people, but I did what I thought was best for us. I did what I thought was necessary to keep us alive. You, me, Lance, Krystal, and yes, even that sack of shit in the red thong.”
Grenade jabs his lit cigar in Blackbird’s direction. I don’t look over at him, as I’m rather repulsed by the sight of his half-naked, jiggly body.
I let out a little sigh of my own and reply, “I know you did what you thought was necessary. And in all honesty, I appreciate you coming along and helping us. Lance, Krystal and I have been alone for so long, it’s almost… reassuring… to have a father figure looking out for us.”
Grenade smiles at the ‘father figure’ comment. He seems genuinely touched, which is a rare feat.
“I just hope this mission was worth all the death and destruction,” I say quietly.
Grenade nods lugubriously and responds, “If Blackbird leads us to Klaxton, then it will have been.”
After a few seconds of awkward silence interrupted only by the sounds of Blackbird and Lance snoring in synchrony (Lance has nodded off in his chair), I finally say, “Yes. If we manage to find Klaxton… if we somehow stop this stand-off between America and China… then all the deaths we caused tonight will be well worth the prospect of a lasting peace.”
Grenade grabs two beers from the fridge and hands one to me. I’m not a big drinker, but I grab the frosty alcoholic beverage without a second thought.
Grenade pops open his bottle and holds it in the air.
“To world peace.”
I open my bottle and clink it against his.
“To world peace.”
Grenade goes to work downing his entire bottle in one gulp. I merely take a few sips.
As I watch Grenade grab another bottle, an unnerving chill ripples down my spine. It’s a familiar feeling… one I’ve had many times before.
It’s the sinking feeling that I’m deluding myself… that we all are. My gut is telling me that peace will not be as easy to acquire as simply turning Blackbird over to the United States Government. My instincts are telling me that, even with Blackbird’s assistance, the mission to apprehend the most wanted woman in world history will not be an easy one. Angela Klaxton will not go down without a fight… she will not go willingly into the night. We are still in for a long, long fight. And despite me wishing it were not so, I realize this will be our reality soon enough.
My instincts have never steered me wrong before.
Chapter Four: Lance
After a long-ass, tediously boring 15-hour flight (where Grenade and I passed the time by playing cards and chugging back beers while Boom Boom nagged me to death about my ‘excessive drinking’ and Krystal watched 30-straight episodes of one of her trashy reality TV shows at the loudest volume possible) we finally land in an Alaskan airport just outside Washington, D. C. a little after 9:00pm that evening. (Still Christmas Day, for those keeping track.) Since the airport is so close to the White House, and since the U.S. Government is on a hair-trigger alert now that China is constantly threatening to transform our entire country into a nuclear crater, we called ahead to let airport officials know we were on our way. As Krystal so eloquently put it after Boom Boom made the call, “It would suck major donkey balls if, after all the bullshit we put up with to get Blackbird’s fat ass, we got blasted out of the sky for flying too close to the motherfucking White House.” Amen, sister. Amen.
But just because we called ahead doesn’t mean government officials aren’t going to take extra precaution. That point is proven when dozens of heavily armed and armored secret service agents surround our jet as soon as it lands on the freeway.
Pointing his gleaming black machine gun at our cracked and crumbling front windshield, the lead agent barks through a microphone earpiece, “Get out of the jet with your hands over your hands,
now!!”
“People in Washington are always so fucking friendly,” Krystal growls, climbing out of the cockpit and following us over to the hatch door (which we have yet to open).
“Make sure you guys leave your weapons on the plane,” Boom Boom says, unbuckling her utility belt and removing all the small handguns and jagged blades strapped to her arms and legs. “We don’t want to give these guys a reason to blow our brains out.”
“All of our weapons?” Krystal cries incredulously.
“Yes, all of them, sweetheart,” Grenade growls, removing all of his remaining blinking explosives and placing them in a crate in the back. While he doesn’t seem particularly pleased at the prospect of being completely unarmed, he’s been around long enough to realize this is a necessity. After all, we are about to be granted a private meeting with the President of the United States. We can’t very well expect to be allowed to have grenades strapped to our chests and machine guns slung over our shoulders while we’re talking
to the leader of the free world, especially when half the planet wants her dead.
After we’ve removed our weapons, Grenade goes to open the hatch door. Before he does, however, Boom Boom grabs his arm and asks, “What about him?”
We all turn to stare at Blackbird, who is still passed out on the ground, snoring like a ginormous mutant baby.
“He ain’t going anywhere,” Grenade says in his raspy voice, opening the hatch door. “Let secret service drag his fat ass out of here.”
As soon as the hatch door slides open, we’re greeted by the warm, friendly sight of dozens of gun barrels aimed directly at our foreheads.
“Get out of the plane, now!” barks the lead agent.
“Alright, alright, keep your panties on,” Grenade growls as he thunders down the ramp. Several agents grab him by his arms and drag him off to the side of the plane. Other agents proceed to grab Boom Boom, Krystal, and yours truly.
“Ouch, you don’t have to be so rough,” I snap as two firm hands wrap tightly around my bruised and battered arms.
“Shut up, blondie,” one of the agents growls before slamming me face-first against the jet.
I grit my teeth and fantasize about gutting these secret service bastards with a dagger while they pat me down and feel all up on my crotch. (Like seriously, am I really going to hide a grenade under my balls?) Like most of the country, I’m none too thrilled with the secret service. They’re just a bunch of thugs on a power-trip. It started when Klaxton was in office and she granted them immunity over all other law enforcement agencies. They’re not held accountable to anyone but the president. Klaxton was able to keep them on a tight leash because she was a cold-hearted bitch who genuinely struck terror in the hearts of even the most calloused, blood-thirsty lunatics. But Klaxton’s replacement, Cindy LeBeau, doesn’t instill that same amount of fear. In fact, she probably wouldn’t intimidate a child. She portrays weakness. The secret service sees that, and so does China. That’s why they’ve been sinking a bunch of our ships and threatening an invasion if we don’t hand over Klaxton. The Chinese know what the rest of us know: LeBeau doesn’t have the stomach for another world war, and she will do whatever it takes to appease her Chinese aggressors. As much as I hate and despise Klaxton, at least the Chinese feared and respected her. No one fears or respects LeBeau. But she is the president and she is in charge (at least theoretically) so Boom Boom and I try to afford her at least some respect during our interactions. Krystal, not so much; but Krystal doesn’t respect anyone, so she doesn’t really count.
The jackasses patting me down finally finish up and let me go. I make my way over to Boom Boom and Krystal, who were released a few seconds before I was. Both of them are rubbing their arms and muttering to each other about how the secret service are a bunch of assholes.
“You guys alright?” I ask, patting Boom Boom on her shoulder.
“We just hand-delivered these jackasses one of the most wanted fugitives on the planet, and they’re treating us like we’re the bad guys,” Boom Boom growls, her cheeks flushed red with anger. “If I knew they wouldn’t execute me down for doing it, I’d run up and kick every last one of them in their balls.”
“Not all of them have balls, you know,” I say, gesturing toward one of the rare female secret service agents.
The female agent glares at me and barks, “I got bigger balls than you, bitch. Now shut your fucking mouth!”
Krystal busts out laughing. “Ohh, she got you good, Lance! High five, sister!”
Krystal raises her hand in the female agent’s face. The female agent responds by thrusting her machine gun in Krystal’s face.
“Step back, bitch!” she shrieks.
Krystal gives the agent the finger, but she does step back a few feet. Even she’s not crazy enough to mess with the secret service.
“I’d like to rearrange her slutty face,” Krystal mutters under her breath, making sure the violent female agent doesn’t hear her.
“Wait, where’s Grenade?” I ask, whipping my neck back in forth in a frantic attempt to find him.
“He’s still being patted down,” Boom Boom says, pointing back over to the plane.
I gaze in that direction and, sure enough, Grenade still has his hands up on the side of the jet while three agents pull handguns, knives, and flashing grenades from hidden compartments inside his Kevlar vest.
“Hey, I need that!” Grenade shouts when one of the agents pulls out a blue grenade with flashing red lights.
“This is a thermal grenade capable of detonating an entire city block,” the agent snaps. “What the hell do you need that for?”
“How big is the city block you live on, chump?” Grenade says with a wicked grin.
The agent growls and thrusts his machine gun against Grenade’s forehead.
“What did you just say, asshole?”
Boom Boom runs over and says, “Whoa, calm down, he’s just jerking your chain.”
The agent spins around and points the gun at Boom Boom. I leap in front of her.
The agent presses the barrel of his gun against my forehead and says, “So you wanna be a hero, huh? Heroes end up dead, you know.”
I smile back at the agent and calmly reply, “Go ahead and shoot me, moron. I’m sure the American people wouldn’t lynch you where you stand for assassinating one of the bounty hunters responsible for averting a nuclear holocaust.”
The agent scowls, but he doesn’t pull the trigger. The female agent rushes over and yanks him back.
“Don’t be stupid, Bruce,” she whispers.
“Yeah Bruce, you little bitch,” I taunt. “Listen to your girlfriend. Unlike you, she actually has some balls.”
The agent lunges toward me, but the female agent and several of her male counterparts pull him away.
“I bet it drives you assholes up the wall that you can’t touch us,” Grenade chortles as he makes his way over to us, shoving an agent out of his way with his cyborg arm. “Lance here is right. If even a peep gets out that you brutalized the world-famous bounty hunters responsible for single-handedly stopping nuclear Armageddon in its tracks, you all will be swinging from light posts as enraged American citizens pelt your mutilated bodies with sticks and stones.”
The agents all exchange alarmed glances. They know what we know; they may be able to use excessive force on regular citizens, but Boom Boom, Krystal and I are a different story. Right now we’re the most famous and beloved people in the country. In fact, a lot of pundits have gone so far as to say the American people believe more in us than they do the president. It must drive the corrupt secret service crazy that they have to treat us with kid gloves. I do have a theory on why the secret service hate us so much, though. Most of them were (or probably still are) die-hard Klaxton supporters. It must enrage them to no end that we were the ones to end their beloved leader’s reign of terror. Deep down inside, though, part of me is starting to think these agents are right for wishing Klaxton was still in charge. China wouldn’t be acting so belligerently if Klaxton were still sitting on her American throne, that’s for sure.
Boom Boom wags her finger in Grenade’s bemused face and chastises, “You are such a hypocrite.”
“How so, girlie?” Grenade asks like a badass.
“You were just bitching at us on the plane that we needed to remove all of our weapons, and yet you practically had an entire armory on you!”
Grenade shrugs and imperturbably says, “So I forgot a couple knives. Sue me.”
Krystal gives a derisive laugh. “Yeah, okay, and I feed my face because I keep forgetting I’m on a fucking diet. I call bullshit.”
Grenade smirks and responds, “You always were the smart one.”
Krystal returns Grenade’s shit-eating grin. “Y’all hear that? I’m the smart one. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“In the same way that you’re the skinny one?” I crack.
Krystal growls and punches me in my shoulder. It actually hurts pretty bad, so I wisely decide
to shut up.
I glance around and notice that the agents still have their guns pointed at us. But at least they’re acting way less aggressively than they were before I put them in check. Being one of the most famous and beloved people in the country definitely has its perks.
Several agents drag Blackbird’s unconscious body out of the jet and toss him onto the ground.
“Damn, what does this guy eat?” one of the agents mutters, wiping away the sweat glistening on his forehead.
The lead agent waltzes over to us with a no-nonsense look plastered across his hardened, sculpted face. He’s a tall, muscular, African American guy who looks like he’d slit your throat just as soon as he’d look at you. Basically he’s Krystal’s type. And judging by the way she keeps seductively licking her lips, I’d wager that she’s finally found her elusive dream man.
World War Forever (Highway To Armageddon Book 2) Page 15
