Lies_simple

by Scott, Kylie

  “Stopped for a drink or something first? Sure.”

  Amazing. The man is a real romantic. I tap my fingers against my thighs, thinking deep thoughts. “But weren’t you trained in seduction and all that? How to get people to give you what you want in the course of carrying out your nefarious and underhanded schemes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how did you mess us up so badly?”

  A small line appears between his dark brows. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “Maybe I’m just too high-maintenance for you. Or maybe you misread me and played the wrong character.”

  “Maybe I did,” he agrees.

  “That happens with bigger girls.” I rest my head back, gazing out at all of the aforementioned natural splendor. “People tend to think we’ll be happy to take the scraps.”

  He shoots me a look, but says nothing.

  Up a seemingly endless winding path, we reach a decrepit wooden cabin. Still somewhere in northern California. The ground is muddy with occasional puddles and the air has a verdant scent similar to the moss we use at work. Guess it’s rained a lot lately. Trees are alive with the most beautiful bright autumn colors, while the shack itself is half-covered in spider webs, dirt, and overgrown vines. One of the front windows is shattered and a broken rocking chair sits on the front porch. It looks like something out of a horror film. The type with ghosts and other assorted monsters lurking in the basement. Serial killers hiding in the bedroom. That sort of thing. Not even the soft hazy late-afternoon light can enhance this dump.

  “I guess no one will think to look for us here,” I say.

  “Come on.” He grabs my duffel bag out of the back and hoists it over his shoulder. “Lesson number one, never trust your eyes.”

  Bypassing the cabin, he heads straight for the falling-down woodshed or whatever it is at the side. It leans against the original structure at an odd angle, the door hanging on mostly by a thread, so far as I can see. But then he just said not to trust my eyes. The door creaks ominously and Thom steps inside the dark, dank shed.

  I, however, hesitate. “We’re going in there? I think if you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer it happened out here. Have the last thing I see be blue sky and butterflies and pretty things like that.”

  He grabs my hand and tugs me in after him. The door swings shut and clicks into place. And then we wait.

  “What are we waiting for?” I whisper for some reason.

  “You’ll see.”

  Somewhere between thirty seconds and forever later, I ask, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes,” growls Thom. “Henry, quit dicking around and let us in.”

  At this, the back wall of the shed swings open to reveal a set of metal stairs descending below ground. Small white lights are embedded in the concrete wall.

  It’s an honest-to-God underground bunker. Holy hell.

  The crazy-ass survivalist owner in question sits below among long work benches loaded with computers, assorted weaponry, and ammunition. I thought people like this only existed on the Discovery Channel. But he’s real, and about fifty or so, with silver hair and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

  “It’s an emergency,” says Thom. “This is my fiancée, Betty.”

  Henry’s mouth drops open. “You’re getting married? You?”

  “No,” I say just as Thom says, “Yes.”

  The man looks between us, expression bemused.

  “We’re still working out some issues.” A solid compromise from Thom. Sort of. “She’s going to stay here with you for a while.”

  “This have to do with a friend of yours getting hit in Prague?” asks Henry, crossing his arms.

  Thom just blinks. “News travels fast. Yes, it does have to do with that.”

  “Thought as much. All right, then, boy. What do you need?”

  “The works.”

  Henry whistles between his teeth. “It’ll cost you.”

  “I’m aware. Also going to need a hacker. The best you can find.”

  “On-site?”

  “No.”

  “It’s going to take some time to organize.”

  “That’s one thing I don’t have a lot of.” Thom sighs. “How soon can you have it ready?”

  “Give me ’til midnight. One at the latest.”

  “Okay. The vehicle up top needs to disappear as well.”

  “Roger that.” Slowly, Henry rises from his stool, giving me a looking over. “Betty, huh? You realize he’s a certified a-hole who doesn’t deserve you?”

  “I do,” I say.

  “Good for you, honey. Break his spirit and make him crawl.” Henry grins. “Take the room in the back and help yourself to the pot roast in the fridge. Made it myself yesterday.”

  While I seriously love this guy, Thom exudes an aura of less than impressed.

  The bunker is all concrete and steel. Though the numerous racks of knives, guns, and other assorted things that go boom lining the walls give it a homey touch. If home is meant to be vaguely apocalyptic, that is. Holy shit.

  “You okay?” asks Thom.

  “Um, yeah.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the side of my jeans. Anxiety is becoming a bad habit, but I don’t see it ending anytime soon. “Is that a rocket launcher on that table?”

  He turns, taking in the instrument of mass destruction in question. “Only a small one. Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not feeling agoraphobic, are you?”

  “No, no.” My attempt at a smile feels weak and sloppy. “Just…you know…trying to keep up with everything.”

  “You’re doing great. C’mon.”

  He takes my hand once more, leading me down a hallway. We sure are holding hands a lot lately.

  First there’s a long, narrow room with a couple of those paper body outlines hanging at the end. Henry has his own underground shooting range, apparently. As you do. Next is a storage room with even more gear and weapons neatly sorted and stored. Then a small kitchen and dining area. A lounge room with an elderly TV, battered-looking La-Z-Boy, and a green plaid sofa. A couple of closed doors, a very minimal bathroom, and finally, a small room with a double bed made up with military precision. It’s like Batman’s lair but with more weaponry and less of a cave-like aesthetic.

  I’m so far out of my element these days, it’s not funny.

  “Make yourself at home.” Thom dumps my bag on the end of the bed. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  I nod.

  “Betty.”

  I look up. “What?”

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” he says, eyes as serious as they can get. “I promise.”

  “Who is he? How well do you know him?”

  And there’s the pause. The entrenched reluctance to withhold all information, to not give anything away. I just wait while he wages his internal battle. Eventually he swallows hard, licks his lips. “Met him when I joined the Rangers. Things went south on a mission in Afghanistan and he took the fall. Dumbass politics. He retired from active duty, but he got bored, and also he was a little upset at the government in general, so he decided to set up shop.”

  “So, what, he’s like the underground Walmart of war now?”

  He almost smiles. It’s a close thing. “Basically. Only deals with a very select clientele. He owes me a favor. You’ll be safe here. This place is basically impenetrable.”

  “Okay.”

  “I got to get to work.”

  “Sure. Go. I’ll be fine.”

  Another pause, and his hand half reaches out, gaze going to my mouth. And I realize what he intended. Because this is what we always used to do when one of us went to work. Before he’d disappear off on a business trip, he’d take my hand and give me a kiss. Nothing overly dramatic or reeking of romance. Just a squeeze of the fingers and quick peck, really. Us going through the motions of being a couple. Him pretending to be my boyfriend.

  But now he just stands there, frozen. Lips slightly parted, a
faint frown in place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so unsure.

  “I’ll be fine,” I repeat, taking a small step back. Because I don’t want him to kiss me. Not if he’s only doing it because it’s what we do. Not if it means nothing. Though I shouldn’t want him kissing me at all. I shouldn’t want him anywhere near me. God, this is confusing.

  He gives me a slow nod.

  “You won’t leave without saying goodbye, will you?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  Then, without another word, he’s gone.

  Underground bunkers are surprisingly boring. Or not so surprisingly, depending on your point of view. I take a shower and change into a fresh set of jeans and a blue T-shirt. I eat some reheated pot roast and peruse the collection of DVDs. Lots of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne. Some Hong Kong gun fu, Jackie Chan, and Bruce Lee. No idea where Thom has gone, but Henry is back to leaning over a workbench. The same as he was when we arrived.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, wandering closer.

  “Making bullets.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No thank you.”

  “So you’ve known Thom a long time, huh?”

  “That I have.”

  With a hip leaned against the bench, I do my best just-hanging-out-and-taking-it-easy impression. I am the queen of subtlety. “You know all about his activities and his history and everything?”

  With a smile, he sets his little tools and the weighing machine aside. “You have questions.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t answer them for you.”

  Damn. “Well, how about you tell me about you, then?”

  “Sorry, honey. That’s classified.” And he’s serious. Very much so. “But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never seen a woman make Thom nervous before.”

  “Me? Make him nervous?” I laugh. “You must be kidding. He certainly doesn’t show it.”

  “Of course not; it’s been trained out of him. Physical tells are a big no-no. Can’t have targets reading your body language and figuring out what you’re up to.” Henry leans in closer, like he’s selling state secrets. “Yet I’ve seen him slip a time or two around you already. It’s quite entertaining.”

  “Huh.”

  “Why don’t we talk about something I’m actually allowed to talk about?” he proposes. “Tell me, Betty, if someone attacked you, what would you do?”

  “Scream.”

  “A good start. What next?”

  I think it over. “I don’t know. I guess I’d hit them or kick them or try to run away if possible.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He crosses his arms. “Do you carry pepper spray?”

  “I did, but I lost my handbag and everything when the condo blew up.”

  “What about a knife?”

  “Do not give her a knife.” Thom appears behind me, sunglasses resting on top of his head. I hate it when he sneaks up on me, which is often. Another giveaway for his true vocation. He’s so stealthy, not making a sound. “Moved the SUV into the garage. Where’d you pick up the Cobra?”

  “None of your business,” says Henry. “And it’s not for sale.”

  “Pity.”

  Meanwhile, there’s me and my outrage to consider. “Hey, I’m a florist. I play with pretty flowers and sharp things all day. I can handle a knife.”

  Thom doesn’t even blink. “Not fighting with one, you can’t.”

  “All right. Then you need to teach me how to fire a gun so I can defend myself.”

  “You hate guns.”

  “More than I can possibly say. But we’re being hunted here, Thom.”

  His jaw firms. “No.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I say with just the right touch of petulance. “He just wants to hide me away, safe and sound.”

  “That’s what people do with things they treasure.” Henry rises to his feet, cracking his neck. He’s pretty buff for an older guy, broad of shoulder, with a barrel chest. But he’s way off on the treasure thing. Mostly I’m probably just a pain in the ass where Thom is concerned. But Henry doesn’t know that.

  “This is a lovely underground bunker.” I paste a pleasant smile on my face. “But I’m not sure anywhere is completely safe right now. Isn’t it better to be prepared?”

  “She’s got a point,” says Henry. “Teach her how to shoot, Thom. You’ve got the time and facilities—use them.”

  “I don’t want this shit touching her.”

  “Too late—it already has. If you wanted her to remain a nice, normal girl from the suburbs, then you should never have gone near her.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then do something about it, clown-dick.”

  I snort. “Good one.”

  Thom, however, is not amused. “Back off, old man.”

  “You’re just pissed because you know I’m right,” returns Henry, nonplussed.

  “Am I allowed to say something?” I ask.

  “Of course you are, honey,” says Henry. It’s good to have someone on my side. Especially someone who makes Thom stop and listen.

  “Neither of you can promise me safety. Not really. Things happen.” I look Thom right in the eyes, face set. “If the last day and a half has taught me anything, it’s that none of us are in complete control of this situation. There’s a chance you may not be able to stop what’s coming. Give me a fighting chance.”

  Thom’s gaze is flat and unhappy.

  “Oh, dear,” whispers Henry. “He wanted to be your hero in shining armor and you’ve just gone and burst his bubble.”

  Both Thom and I frown.

  “Of course, if they get past our boy here, we’re probably all screwed.” Henry gives me a warm smile. I think Thom’s father figure just became mine as well.

  “They don’t know about you or this place,” says Thom. “Why do you think I brought her here?”

  “He doesn’t have any connections to the zoo?” I ask.

  “None.”

  “The zoo?” Henry laughs. “I love it. She’s adorable. You should definitely marry her. But teach her how to kill first.”

  Turns out Henry is right about the physical tells. Thom has micro-expressions. A hint of furrowed brow, or a certain tightening of the eyes, like right now. Then there’s my personal favorite, the ever-so-slight upward curl of one side of his lips. This is how he frowns, expresses anger, or smiles. In small ways. No wonder I thought him an emotionless automaton. Not only was he hiding everything from me, but I definitely wasn’t reading him right. Until recently, that is.

  Guess it isn’t until you know someone’s a liar that you know to really look. As he said, don’t trust your eyes. They can deceive you far too easily.

  Spies and so on in the movies are always rough and rugged or debonair and dashing. But Thom just sort of blends in. Slouches just enough that his height doesn’t stand out. Medium build. Must be useful for his job. Of course, I thought him attractive. Or maybe what sealed the deal was his initial interest in me. The fact that someone wanted me. Everyone needs validation now and then.

  Never again will I fall for that shit. I am woman, hear me roar. I do not need a man or a relationship or whatever it was I thought was so lacking from my life. I will stand on my own two feet and learn how to defend myself. Even if the thought of being violent sort of makes me want to hurl again.

  “You all right?” asks Thom.

  I raise my chin high. “I’m fine.”

  He just looks at me.

  “I am.”

  “If you say so.” His gaze seems to take in everything. He’s not a classically handsome man, but there’s something enticing about his angular features. The hard line of his jaw and fine lips, his clear blue eyes and high forehead. Then there’s the nose that’s been broken a time or two. He told me he’d broken it skateboarding as a child. Another lie, no doubt.

  “C’mon.” He tips his chin. As if that explains anything.

  “Where are we going?”


  “You wanted to learn how to handle a gun,” he says, selecting one off the wall. “This is a single-stack nine millimeter.”

  “What’s single stack mean?”

  “Instead of two alternating lines of ammunition in the magazine, you’ve just got the one. So the grip is smaller and the gun is lighter. But you’ve got fewer rounds, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s a compact. Women usually like them.”

  “Ooh, does it come in pink?”

  “Are you taking this seriously, Betty, or shall we not bother?” He gives me a look from under his brows. “I could happily do without you accidentally shooting yourself in the foot. Or me.”

  “If I shoot you it will not be an accident.”

  He just waits.

  “Sorry,” I say, chastened. “I am taking this seriously. Please proceed.”

  His hand moves over the piece. “If you’re not using the gun, keep it pointed away toward the ground. If you’re not prepared to fire it, don’t draw it in the first place. Brandishing a weapon is pretty much guaranteed to escalate tension every time. Sometimes trying to talk your way out of a situation first is best. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  He nods toward the hallway. “Let’s head into the shooting range.”

  We go inside the long room with the weird thick gray padding hanging on the walls and matching foam attached to the ceiling. At one end is a small desk with a couple of pairs of earmuffs. Far down the other end of the room is the traditional paper target with the outline of a body. Other people would use this space for a home theater or bowling lane. Not Henry.

  Thom shows me the magazine with a neat stack of ammunition before slapping it back into the grip or butt or handle or whatever it’s called. Then he runs his fingers over the top of the gun, indicating each piece. “Front sight, ejection port, slide, and rear sight.”

  I nod.

  “And this here is your trigger,” he says, passing the weapon to me. “Put your ear protection on.”

  With nerves beginning to kick in, I do as he says.

  “Give it a go. See how it feels.” He closes the door and puts on his own earmuffs. It makes our voices sound like they’re underwater or something. Muted, but not completely silenced.