by C. F. Waller
“That’s assumed,” I assure him. “You and Bee then. A policy that covers you both.”
“For the coin?” he states, setting the terms for our arrangement.
“Yes,” I agree and then try and maneuver him. “At what point is the agreement considered fulfilled?”
“That’s a sticking point,” he mumbles, bringing his fingertips together in his lap and laying his forehead on the tips. “Threats would have to be removed.”
“Within reason,” I quibble. “If it was so easy to dispatch them we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“True, and to be fair, all I really seek is a head start. There would have to be a provision keeping my new friend from changing allegiances,” he offers. “Or from revealing my escape route.”
“None of that’s a problem, but when would your new friend receive compensation?” I inquire. “Possibly some upfront retainer, the bulk due on performance?”
“Cut the coin in two then,” he chuckles.
“Hand it over to a neutral party perhaps, like an escrow account.”
There is a long pause as he ponders my suggestion. Removing a purple handkerchief from his pocket he wipes a smear off his hipster glasses. When his introspection lingers for several minutes, I begin to feel self-conscious. I excuse myself to go to the bar and get another brandy while he thinks.
An attractive woman in her mid-forties comes in to what is a mostly a male area and orders straight bourbon. I lean on the bar, which has no stools around it, and watch her find a seat in the corner. Hiking up her skirt to cross her legs, she sips and peers out at the sea through the open patio doors. I’m gawking at her, when Dorian slaps his hand on my shoulder.
“Would my new friend accept a fifty thousand dollar donation to any bank account he favors?”
Still watching the blonde with half my brain, I consider the offer. It’s a trifling bit of money versus what I am actually willing to cross the vicious immortals for. Likely, I will cross paths with Rahnee as well. As I am wavering between taking the fifty and double crossing him or bargaining for more, a lightbulb goes off in my brain.
“Thermite,” I whisper out loud by accident.
“Was that a yes?” he begs, having begun sipping a new drink.
“A hundred,” I counter firmly. “For that, I’ll get you two free and clear of here and in the process cripple your pursuers.”
“Sounds intriguing,” he mumbles slightly wobbling in his shoes. “Pray tell how?”
“If I told you that,” I lean in close and whisper. “I would have to kill you.”
“Oh my. Well, as that is what we are trying to avoid, and thus the entire point of this negotiation,” he remarks and then searches his brain, which is swimming in scotch, for the words. “I will agree to your terms.”
Putting his hand out, I shake it. I try to look him in the eyes, but his gaze is over my shoulder. Turning, I see the blonde watching us and by that I mean watching him. Patting me on the shoulder he steps away and onto better things.
“Don’t wait up,” he says in a hushed tone. “I might possibly be detained.”
“I can see that.”
“Oh,” he spins around and points at me with his glass. “Write the bank numbers concerning our arrangement down and leave them on the desk in the room. I’ll handle that bit of business first thing tomorrow.”
I nod and he slowly turns around, gathering himself, before moving over to the blonde. I sip my brandy and observe his pitch for a while. I thought him quite drunk, but the minute he sits down his speech clears. She is obviously taken with him from the start, but that doesn’t surprise me.
“With enough time to practice you can learn almost anything,” I mutter, heading out to the parking lot. “Let’s make sure the paper bag is still in the trunk.”
Chapter Twenty
Arron Wessker
Once we land, Decker makes a few calls and arranges for a car. Rhea wanted them to call a car service, but Rahnee is doing the opposite of whatever she suggests on principle. Decker goes into the terminal to rent the car while we wait. Rhea seems content to sit on the wing and soak up the sun. Still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, she’s looking a bit ruffled, but oddly she doesn’t seem to sweat. My morning case of body odor was bad enough that I changed into fresh jeans and a tee shirt after taking a hooker bath with wet wipes. Rahnee swapped out her dress slacks for tight black jeans and a tan tee shirt with block letters reading BULLOCKS across the chest. Military looking boots with the cuff pulled over them, add an inch or more to her height.
“A word,” Rahnee asks quietly, startling me as I sit looking out a side window at Rhea. “If you’re not too busy worshipping the queen.”
“Stop it,” I grumble, annoyed at the suggestion.
“Come up front and look at this,” she orders, then leads me to the cockpit.
I push the door closed until it latches to be on the safe side. Rahnee has a map spread out on the pilot’s seat. There are several lines drawn on it in different colors. Leaning over it, they all seem to be routes from the airport to the Queen Mary.
“If we take a straight shot from here to the ship, it’s under twenty minutes, depending on the traffic. There are other routes and you need to learn them.”
“Why?” I balk.
“When this goes sour you might have to make a run for it,” she explains. “You need to know how to get back here.”
“You mean if this goes sour, right?”
“No matter how this plays out, sour is virtually guaranteed,” she frowns. “Just look over the map and remember the main road runs east and west. That should get you started.”
“Or, Decker could rent a car with a GPS?” I smirk.
“Speaking of Decker,” she sighs, taking a deep breath. “When he gets back, he and I are going to take a run by the hotel and have a look. I’m leaving you here with the queen.”
“Why me?” I blurt out. “I want to go.”
“I need to separate Decker from queenie,” she grumbles. “You don’t seem to be quite as affected by her.”
“I’m not affected at all,” I argue. “I am no Rhombie.”
“What?”
“Rhea and Zombie,” I explain. “Rhombie.”
“Funny,” she nods, patting my arm. “Maybe if I get him away from her, it will wear off. If it doesn’t, we may have to leave him here when we go.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” I moan. “You’d have to shoot him.”
To this, she just raises an eyebrow, leaving me concerned not just for Decker, but for my own safety.
“Whatever goes down will determine who lives and who dies,” she lectures me. “I know this seems like a dream, but it isn’t. If not for Shelly, we would be dead already. I’m not getting killed because the queen has Decker under her spell. If he doesn’t snap out of it, he’s not going.”
This entire conversation is making me physically ill. Before Rahnee draws me into an argument over who gets killed when, an engine roars outside the plane. We can’t see outside from the cockpit, so we pile out and have a look from the side windows. Decker has wheeled up to the plane in a black Dodge Challenger wearing a pair of white stripes from bumper to bumper. Rahnee slaps the back of the seat before gathering up her gear, but I pause to watch Rhea.
Slipping down the wing, Rhea waits for Decker to get out and help her down. She’s looking at the car, but watching carefully now, I see her drag her hand over his shoulders and then his forearm as they chat. These are all understandable ways to make a connection with another person, but Decker is acting like he drank the love potion from Shrek.
“Give me your gun,” Rahnee blurts out from behind me.
“You have your own,” I argue. “Really big scary ones I might add.”
“Right, and if I get pulled over carrying either of those, it’s a trip to the station at best.”
“But mine are fine?”
“Those are technically registered to me,” she expl
ains, walking past me and plucking one from my jacket. “I have a carry permit, so yes, this one’s fine.”
“Can I play with yours?” I kid her.
“I left you one, try to not shoot the queen.”
“You really need to work on this jealousy thing,” I wink, trying to ease the tension.
“Stay here and I will call in the next hour to check in,” she orders as she slips past me to the hatch. “If I don’t contact you, stay away from the ship.”
“And do what? I can’t fly the plane and I don’t have a car,” I state, tossing my hands up.
“You’re right,” she smirks and heads down the stairs, talking over her shoulder. “You’re screwed. Do whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” I shout, hands over my mouth like a megaphone.
Once on the tarmac, Rahnee gets between Decker and Rhea like a snarling pit-bull and they leave with him behind the wheel. Soon after a guy in dirty overalls comes by and tows the plane to a nearby hanger. It’s more of a half pipe, open on one side. Judging by its design it’s obviously for small planes like ours.
Without the sun shining on the wing, Rhea sits in the front row of seats eating an apple and watching me. I lean on the hatch and watch tiny vehicles tow things back and forth. I’m really waiting for Rahnee to call, but it’s only been fifteen minutes.
“You figure out what you wanted to ask me yet,” she muses, green eyes blazing.
“I don’t know,” I answer, watching the parade of vehicles. “I guess not.”
“You don’t like me anymore?” she pouts, her voice trailing off at the end.
“Don’t do that,” I accuse.
“Do what?”
“Pretend to care.”
“Excuse me,” she bristles.
“You’re playing with us,” I reply. “Like chess pieces.”
“How so?”
“You’re controlling Decker,” I snap. “You’re trying to control me.”
“Not working so well on you,” she announces, her voice flipping from flirty to serious. “Why is that Arron?”
“I guess I don’t want to sleep with you as bad as Decker does.”
“Oh, you want to sleep with me,” she proclaims confidently. “And I know Rahnee said something to you.”
“Do you?” I scowl, turning and walking past her to the back of the plane, looking for a soda.
“Oh my, why didn’t I see this before,” she purrs, kneeling on the seat facing backwards. “You and Rahnee did it didn’t you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re lovers,” she hums, and then pauses.
“We are not.”
“You like her?” she pesters me then sings out. “Arron has a thing for Rahnee, Arron has a thing for Rahnee.”
“It’s not like that,” I say cracking a can of soda and taking an angry drink.
“I know it’s not. She’s not into you at all,” she blurts out, head cocked sideways as is her thinking pose. “But your feelings are hurt.”
“Why are you here?,” I sigh wistfully, putting a hand on my temple as a headache comes on.
“You know why. I need you to help me kill Sindri and get my guys back. It’s not a secret. Was I somehow unclear?”
“Maybe that’s true, but you’re having way too much fun,” I accuse. “This is life and death and you’re treating it like a vacation.”
“For me it is,” she admits. “Life and death are topics that do not apply to me.”
“Well it applies to me, so excuse me if this isn’t funny from my point of view.”
“Come over here,” she demands, holding out her arms as if to offer a hug.
“See there it is,” I groan. “Playing with me.”
“You’re wrong,” she pouts. “Come over here and sit down so we can talk. Stop making this all about Arron and take advantage of this opportunity.”
“Say what?”
She turns, drops down behind a row of chairs, and disappears from view. Only her bushy hair visible over the seat. Begrudgingly I wander up to her row and see she has already scooted over. With all that’s going on, I decide that this isn’t a battle I want to fight. Either she’s with us and I live, or she’s not and we all die. This moment will be whatever I make of it, so I sit down and relax. She puts up the arm rest between the seats and crosses her legs Indian style, facing me, sideways on her seat.
“I promised to answer a question so fire away,” she begs, huge smile flashing.
“Technically you inferred two, but why is this so important to you?”
“Is that the question?” she asks eye brow raised.
“Sure, let’s say it is.”
“Sort of personal, but I’ll be a good sport. Every time I meet a mortal they have a thousand questions. It was annoying at first, all their silly queries about who I have met and what really happened at some point in history. I guess over time it started to be fun for me. I know all sorts of things, having lived the life of a history book. The mortals sit there so enraptured by my stories, but after a while it was me who craved it. In the end, aren’t we all dying for attention?” she asks, her hand on my leg.
“Technically you’re not dying for anything,” I smirk and receive a slap on my shoulder. “But I get that. It’s logical.”
“Thank you,” she sighs, genuinely sounding relieved.
“What do people ask you? What’s the number one question you get?”
“To qualify this you’re the first mortal I have talked to for more than a few minutes in over two hundred years. The information may sound very dated.”
“How is that possible? That you could be locked away that long?”
“Heavens no,” she gulps. “Never locked away. I can go out whenever I want, but I told you about how dangerous it is. I wouldn’t want to draw any undue attention on my kind. And in truth, I have only been in charge for five years. Prior to that Cronus was in charge.”
“Why is that name familiar?”
“Immortalized by the Greeks,” she replies dismissively. “The Twelve Titans,” she says in a movie announcer tone, putting her fists on her hips and puffing out her chest.
“That’s you?”
“In a cartoonish way yes. We all thought it was funny at the time,” she shrugs. “Those silly Greeks made up the backstory, we just had a little fun with it.”
“That’s a riot,” I grin. “And horrible at the same time.”
“As time passed, we took on a more Star Fleet approach.”
“A Star Trek reference?” I ask astonished.
“The Prime Directive,” she winks. “Noninterference. Of course we came up with that two thousand years before Roddenberry.”
“So you have cable TV at the Estate?” I guess, assuming this pop culture knowledge comes from somewhere.
“No, but we used to have an antenna thingy,” she answers, pausing to think. “Mostly for news programs, but some of us watched other things.”
“Who knew you were a nerd girl?”
“Is it hot?” she begs. “Are you more likely to be into me now?”
“Admittedly yes. You’re a tick more attractive with this knowledge.”
“Hurray for me,” she chirps, putting both hands in the air and wiggling around in her seat.”
“You were going to tell me the most popular question?”
“I thought we were talking about you finding me attractive?” she pouts.
“I’ll stipulate to that. Just answer the other question.”
“Okay, let’s see,” she mutters, putting a finger over her mouth as she thinks. “Was there a King Arthur is pretty common question.”
“And?”
“Sure, there was a guy, I never met him, but most of the stories are just the same ones mortals have been telling forever.”
“How so?”
“Most of King Arthur is ripped off from the Bible,” she recites as if she’s told this story many times. “King David’s seduction of Bathsheba is retold in K
ing Arthur as the foundation of his conception. In the Bible, its King Solomon, in Arthur legend it’s the King himself.”
“Interesting, but out of my field of knowledge,” I reply, confused by the comparison. “What else?”
“Did Nero really burn down Rome?” she recites and then frowns. “Of course not, but it makes a good story if you’re trying to slander the guy.”
“So he didn’t burn it?”
“Have you seen Rome?” she asks annoyed. “You might toast a few thatched roofs, but you can’t burn marble. The place was a pile of stone.”
“But he was crazy?”
“This is a basic misconception,” she explains.
“That he was nuts?”
“No, his insanity is a matter of public record. The misconception is that just because I was alive at the time, that I witnessed everything that happened on the planet,” she rolls her eyes. “For the record, I never set foot in Italy during Roman rule.”
“Here and I thought you seemed like a public bathhouse type of girl,” I offer in a suggestive way, winking at her.
“Italy did not have the market cornered on bathhouses,” she corrects me. “And you’re right. I am a bathhouse girl. The stories I could tell you about the goings on inside those marble walls.”
“Noted,” I interject putting a hand up to keep this from becoming lewd.
“Fine, where were we? Wait, right, the misconception that I know everything.”
“You don’t?”
“Civilization was smaller than now, but travel was even slower by comparison. No news, no television or motorized transportation. Everything you heard was hearsay. Let me ask you something. You were alive at the same time as Martin Luther King. What I mean is, you technically breathed the same air. Tell me about him?”
“I only know what is in books. Never met the man,” I reply somewhat confused.
“And that’s all hearsay,” she bobs her head wildly. “I saw a lot and heard a lot of things first or second hand. I know what the prevailing opinions were, but the percentage of history that I can verify is very small.”
She is enjoying this immensely as am I. It can’t possibly hurt to befriend her as long as I keep my wits about me. Maybe I’ll be harder for her to kill later. This thought makes me chuckle, when in reality it should scare me. Oh how your paradigm can shift in a few days.
