Black Tie: Book One of the Sparrow Archives

by Kieran Strange

  “Yeah. My grandpa’s farm, it’s where my mum grew up. She came to the U.K. on a university scholarship.”

  “Intelligent woman?”

  “Very.”

  “And your father?”

  Cabe didn’t pause for a second before responding, hiding his discomfort on this particular topic with ease. “A little... rough around the edges. He was a plumbing and building contractor, so he fit in well with the boys on the farm.”

  Elliot chuckled. “It’s amusing to me how many Americans think all Brits are tea-sipping, gap-toothed fruitcakes. Clearly they’ve never watched the Rugby Football Union play ball.”

  “I dunno, there’s a certain amount of tea-sipping involved in cricket,” said Cabe, a note of amusement playing on his words. “They even break for lunch.”

  “Unbelievable.” Elliot shook his head. “So, your family moved out here to help with the farm, I’m presuming? Grandparent death?”

  “My grandma, yeah.” Cabe didn’t wait for the condolences he knew by now weren’t coming. “And my grandpa was getting sick and old, he wanted the farm to stay in the family. He always loved my old man.”

  “But you didn’t?” asked the billionaire, and his acute perception caused Cabe to lose his grip on the conversation, faltering a little.

  “Well, I, I wouldn’t say –”

  “Relax, Cooper. I’m not about to grill you on your obviously heavily-laden daddy issues. I just felt that since you probably spent hours and hours reading up on me before your deployment, I should bother taking a few minutes to see if we have anything even remotely in common with one another, despite our starkly contrasting backgrounds and lifestyles.”

  “Very courteous of you, sir.”

  “So, flying has always been an issue?” There was a twinkle in Elliot’s eye that told Cabe he might be squirreling away information for any future episodes of sadism he might experience.

  “Unfortunately for me, sir.” Cabe grit his teeth against a gentle vibration of turbulence, managing to avoid a visible reaction. “We visited my grandparents on the farm sometimes when I was a kid, I always hated it.”

  “Your parents didn’t care?” Elliot swirled his drink.

  “My mum gave me travel-sickness pills and whiskey. Dad told me to ‘man up’, what kind of man is afraid of flying?”

  “A man who allows his skepticism and realism far too much leverage over his mind.”

  Cabe shook his head with a snort of laughter. “Yeah, maybe. I made up this rhyme when I was eight or nine? ‘Dad, I’m not afraid of flying – it’s the falling and the dying.’”

  “Cute,” the C.E.O. replied flatly. “So, other than babysitting boy bands on their midnight panty raids, what other sorts of jobs have you had that you are allowed to talk about?”

  “Politicians are probably the worst of the batch,” said Cabe, as casually as he could. If he was trained to remain calm and silent under torture, he could survive a several-hour flight. “Mostly because they’re used to being able to treat everyone around them like crap. I’ve had a couple witness protection clients, those were probably the saddest but the most fulfilling.”

  “You like charity work?” Elliot sipped his champagne. “You’re one of those hero types?”

  “I – I wouldn’t say that exactly, sir,” Cabe responded offishly. “I just prefer those who appreciate my services. No one likes to feel disrespected, I’m sure you understand that as the business mogul you are.”

  While his words were polite and professional, there was a definite serrated edge to his tone of voice. Elliot leaned back in his chair, tapping one long index finger against the side of his glass. “Of course. And rest assured, Mr. Cooper, your gold star and scooby snack will be waiting for you when we land in Canada.”

  A gentle tremor ran through the leather beneath Cabe’s fingers, which tightened subconsciously. His reaction didn’t escape Elliot’s keen vision, and the younger man smirked again in a manner Cabe was trying to ignore.

  “I suppose it must be terribly boring, your line of work,” the billionaire was prattling on. He took another graceful sip of his champagne before placing it back on the table. “I mean, other than the fascinating people you must get to work with every now and again. I can’t imagine myself enjoying standing around like a spare part all day.”

  “Well, on the odd occasion I actually get to put some hours in,” the agent deadpanned in response.

  “When somebody gets shot at?” The look on Elliot’s face told Cabe he didn’t believe that sort of thing happened all that often.

  “People get shot at.”

  “Do they now?”

  “I had someone pull an AK-47 on the last client I was assigned to, about a week ago.”

  Elliot’s laugh was soft and short, and apparently not concerned about being seen as rude. “And who was your last client?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. You wouldn’t know them by name, anyway.”

  “Small-time politician?”

  “Witness protection... sort of.”

  “Another Anomaly.”

  Cabe’s head rose so that his eyes could meet the businessman’s. It was clear from the glint in Elliot’s eye that it was more of a statement than a question. Playing it cool, he relaxed into a smile. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Well, given the fact that Patriot has never sent you over before, despite that you’re apparently ‘one of their top boys’, I’m going to presume there’s a reason for it. And I’m also going to presume the reason is that you are typically assigned to Anomalies.”

  Cabe pursed his lips, irritated. “You know, presuming makes an... well, it makes a pres... out of you and me.” Great going there, Sparrow. Real suave.

  “Am I wrong?”

  In the interest of gaining some of his client’s trust, as well as in allowing him to feel even more in control of the situation and the hierarchy between the two of them, Cabe simply laughed and scratched the back of his head. “No... no, you’re dead on. I’m mostly assigned to Anomalies, more for the client’s protection than anyone else’s. I’m trained in what to expect, both from the government and from members of the general public.”

  “And what do we have to expect, Mr. Cooper?” asked Elliot, his tone disinterested. “Because if Patriot are concerned about Internet trolls, I believe I’ve probably seen the worst of it so far. And if not, well, sticks and stones, eh?”

  “Actually, when members of the general public are upset about something like this, they don’t often arm themselves with Mother Nature’s bounty. It’s usually more of a Second Amendment type dealio.”

  “So you’re trained to throw yourself between me and a bullet?” This time, Elliot’s laugh was unrestrained. He shook his head at his new bodyguard, tucking his feet up into the seat beside him, and took the opportunity to flick through his phone. “Somehow,” he said without looking up, “I doubt that very much. You just don’t seem the type.”

  “Too young?”

  “Too pretty.”

  Cabe snorted. “Thanks for the compliment, sir. Look, all you need to remember is that your life, limbs, and general well-being are all safe in my hands. Just go about your business as normal.”

  “Peaches, I fully intend to.”

  The now constant trembling vibration pitched the plane left all of a sudden, as the aircraft hit a pocket of much more violent turbulence. Every muscle in Cabe’s body went taut and clenched, his joints locking like brakes against the jagged, jerky movement of the plane. His cheeks burned a little as he glanced up and realized his reaction to the turbulence hadn’t gone unnoticed by his client, who was holding both champagne glasses in his hands having saved them from spilling.

  Ah, shit.

  “Still uncomfortable, Cooper?”

  “What makes you... what makes you think that?” Cabe’s jaw clicked loudly. He did everything he could to relax back into the plush leather couch, but given that every nerve and instinct was still standing on edge and the pl
ane was still jerking back and forth, that was a far easier task to muse over than to actually complete.

  Elliot was accepting the turbulence with all of the ease and grace of a frequent flyer. He chuckled again at his new bodyguard’s obvious discomfort. “My legitimate concern that I’ll need to have your current seat reupholstered before my next trip,” he replied smoothly, resettling the champagne perfectly in its divot. “You should drink that, you know,” he said, motioning to Cabe’s flute. “It takes the edge off.”

  “Mr. Wright, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk.”

  “You know more than you think you do,” said Elliot with a wink, as Cabe visibly tried to compose himself. “Maybe I want you to relax.”

  “Alcohol won’t relax me.”

  “Well then, maybe I’m just trying to see how stubborn you are.”

  “I’m pretty damn stubborn, sir.”

  “So I should drink this then?” Elliot took Cabe’s glass in his hand, swirling the rose-clear liquid inside as if teasing his newest employee. He watched Cabe thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “You know it’s not dangerous to fly anymore, yes?”

  “It’s been safe for years,” Cabe replied without eye contact.

  “Well. Technically.” Elliot sipped from the flute. “The electromagnetic particles and coronal mass ejections from the Megaflare only hung around for about a week or so. Flights were just grounded for longer to ensure passenger safety. I took my jet out six days after the Flare without any interference to the satellite navigation.” He punctuated his musing with another sip of liquor, though it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all. It wasn’t surprising though, he’d probably been sucking champagne from a sterilized baby-bottle as an infant. “Do you know any of the science behind it all?”

  “Not really.” And I don’t really want to know.

  “Tsk tsk. Ignorance is not bliss, Cooper. Trust me on that one.” Elliot resettled in his seat. “If you know the science and logic behind something, it’s harder to fear it. Especially when there really isn’t anything to fear.”

  “Actually, sir, I find knowing the exact science even more disturbing.”

  “In layman’s terms for you, during solar flares, much of the energy emitted is done so at very, very short wavelengths,” Elliot was saying, either having already decided he was going to tell him regardless of whether or not he wanted to know, or just looking to torment him more. “X-rays, ultraviolet... coronal mass ejections, or C.M.E.s, which are bursts of energetic particles from the sun which strike the upper atmosphere and ionize it. The more ionized particles there are between the aircraft and our global positioning satellites, the more difficult it is for G.P.S. systems to work effectively.” The billionaire smiled brightly, smugly, at Cabe. “There. That’s all there is to it. Doesn’t that set your mind at ease?”

  Cabe offered the handsome, dark-haired man an expression of annoyance. “G.P.S. interference, plus the cell mutations that happened on those three flights that were caught in the Flare. Those passengers and attendants who developed cancer, and the one that went missing?”

  Elliot snorted over his champagne glass. “Cooper, I doubt very much that the same ions and particles and geometric storms that caused those genetic mutations are still fogging up our sky four and a half years after the fact. That’s entirely impossible, as adorable and endearing as your misguided sense of judgement is.”

  Another shudder ran through the plane, and this time, Cabe was able to resist flinching. Maybe I’m getting used to it, he thought blandly, knowing that likely wasn’t true but willing himself to believe it anyway. Maybe I can at least fake it for the rest of the –

  Whatever tangent his mind was about to lead him on, like a hopeful lamb to the slaughter, was lost in the next instant as Elliot’s entire body convulsed, buckled, then slid down the leather sofa cushion in an unconscious heap.

  “SIR!”

  Fear of flying, falling, and dying all forgotten. Cabe was unstuck from his seat and crouched over his client’s in the blink of an eye. Elliot’s body had gone stiff beneath his fifteen-hundred-dollar Hugo Boss suit, muscles twitching and spasming out of control, almost as if to signal a seizure.

  The alcohol! was Cabe’s first thought, as he stretched over the smaller man’s body to snag a pillow for the unsupported side of his head. He’s been poisoned. He’s been fucking poisoned.

  Panic-stricken, the W.A.R.D. agent allowed himself the single breath he knew would be used to calm himself down and remove any ‘human’ or ‘emotional’ reactions to the situation at hand. Logic and training smothered the screaming voice at the back of his head, and he took exactly three-and-a-half seconds to assess the situation – well under the five minutes W.A.R.D. Field Agents were typically allowed during training to assess a patient.

  About ten minutes after first consuming alcohol poured from a seemingly corked and untouched bottle, his charge had suddenly collapsed. He was unconscious, but breathing, albeit raggedly. His pulse was rapid, and a sheen of sweat was starting to dapple his forehead and cling like dewdrops to the overhanging fringe of his hair. He was as white as the center of a peppermint patty.

  Poisoning was the worst. Quite literally, the worst. A gunshot or knife wound, he had a chance of at least stopping the bleeding and possibly even performing basic surgery or stitches himself, given his training. But with poison, everything was internal, and all he could do was –

  “Max – Captain Samuels! We need to radio the nearest hospital, NOW! Mr. Wright is unresponsive!”

  Cabe didn’t wait for a response. The pilot had just as much desire to keep their young celebrity alive and well as he did, considering the bad publicity and other monetary calamities that could follow an incident such as this not being treated with utmost care and priority. The agent was already lifting Elliot’s jerking frame carefully onto the floor of the galley, appropriating it in the recovery position in case his body decided to expel whatever it had ingested.

  “Mr. Cooper, again – WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?”

  Cabe heard the pilot’s (presumably) second shout, throwing his head back to yell a response over his shoulder. “He’s unconscious, possibly a seizure, spasming, pale, sweaty, signs of –”

  “He’s fine.”

  ‘Taken aback’ may have been an understatement. “WHAT!?” the W.A.R.D. agent hollered back, but he wasn’t given time to repeat his previous order-request before Max was talking to him again, this time through the P.A. system.

  “Mr. Wright is likely experiencing a vision, Mr. Cooper. As per his instructions, monitor his pulse and breathing, and only interfere if absolutely necessary.”

  His own heartbeat thudding against his eardrums, Cabe stared down at the shuddering, shivering billionaire with the sudden but overwhelming urge to strangle him with his own bare hands.

  A vision!? The self-serving, sadistic little shit was having a vision!?

  And what was more, the damn pilot knew the symptoms but Mr. Wright never thought his personal bodyguard should!?

  It was just another reminder that Elliot Wright didn’t take Cabe’s presence here seriously. Just another reminder that, thanks to his own sense of self-inflated ego, he had given his new bodyguard quite possibly the hardest babysitting job in the world right now, with heart-stopping shocks and surprises around every goddamn corner.

  Huffing out an uneasy breath, Cabe resisted the urge to just do him in there and then, and settled onto his knees beside his ward. Elliot’s body was still for the most part by now, jostled by the occasional jerk or twitch of his muscles. His breaths hitched a little, and Cabe thought it best to remove the black silk tie around his neck before he strangled himself.

  No sooner had he wiggled two fingers into the side of the knot, Elliot’s hands were snapping around his wrist with the intensity of a vise. His well-manicured nails dug into Cabe’s skin, tearing bloody little half-moons, and his eyes shot open. The look in them was one of absolute terror.

&nb
sp; “Blonde – gun –!” came the hoarse, ragged gasp from the very, very back of the billionaire’s throat. “G-gun –!”

  A blonde with a gun? Cabe wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t being played, or even that, if this was a real vision, Elliot Wright’s hallucinations were anything more than that. He had no proof that anything Elliot saw was an actual facts representation of events to come... but even still, when your client panicked about seeing a blonde with a gun in his future, a bodyguard tended to take it somewhat seriously.

  “Sir...?” he prodded, ever so gently. He left his hands within the smaller man’s grip, wincing slightly against the pain.

  “Can’t...” He was struggling now, struggling against the silk tie, working his fingers underneath the silk and fighting against the knot. “Can’t... breathe... cold, COLD...!”

  That was more than enough for Cabe’s already substantially frayed nerves. Ignoring the way Elliot’s hands ripped at his own, he yanked the tie loose and popped the first two buttons of his dress shirt. The violent attention seemed to rouse Elliot from his seizure-like nightmare, and within seconds the young C.E.O. was laying supine on the galley floor, staring up at his bodyguard as his chest rose and fell in raspy, panting breaths.

  “Really... Mr. Cooper...?” he managed between gulps of air. “You couldn’t... you couldn’t wait until I was done... before undressing me...?”

  Jesus tap-dancing Christ. He’s fine. Cabe slumped back against the bottom of the couch, not even bothering to respond to Elliot’s badly-timed comedy efforts. “You all right, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cooper, I am ‘aw’ right’,” he replied, mimicking his bodyguard’s pronunciation as he picked absent-mindedly at his topmost button, which Cabe had ripped partway off and was now dangling down about where his nipple would be.

  Why the hell am I thinking about... okay, y’know what, let’s save that can of worms for when we have more time.

  With a loud, blunt noise, everything suddenly went very, very, very quiet. Empty. Still. Deathly so, in fact. Every light failed at once, swathing the entire cabin in darkness. The unnerving vibrations whirring their way all throughout the small private craft died down, and were replaced with an even more unnerving sensation – nothingness.