Séptima Luna

by Gabbo De la Parra

  “No Sicily. This ferry goes to Malta.” Dude answered, peering at Angel from the rearview mirror.

  This wasn’t good, they were going to be trapped on that island with no passports or identifications, and surely those tracking them would figure out their location soon enough. “Malachi?”

  “No problem, baby. Remember what I told you about grandma, I still have property and family there. We’ll be alright.”

  More cousins. I don’t like this.

  Dude waved a True Blue CD. “Madonna, oka-ee?”

  Angel growled, “Sure, why the fuck not? We’re bound to the other Isla Bonita.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Who shoots rockets in the middle of a jam-packed street?” Hugo slammed the desk.

  Snyder swirled his drink. “The boys are raiding the docks full on.”

  “That wasn’t Juggernaut. It must have been that third player we still don’t have a clue about.”

  “The one you tortured some guys from?”

  “They didn’t have much information, just independents with a contract to kidnap Angel. The money trail was a dead end.”

  “We got people five minutes away from every gate, the moment we notice something weird happening, we can react instantly. It’s not like opening an elevator, it takes time, and we can stop them before they even start.”

  “Before, I thought Angel would be fine, but after this? Poor kid must be rattled. I mean, a fucking launcher.”

  “Although, it seemed as if they were shooting at their own people, really sloppy I’d say.”

  The incoming beep had Hugo shushing Snyder at once. “Tell me something good.”

  “Yes, sir, we found them.”

  “Excellent.” Hugo rested a hand on Snyder’s shoulder. “Where?”

  Aaron’s hesitation didn’t sit well with Hugo. He finally said, “In Birgu, sir. Less than ten miles from Malta’s gate. The site is still open for tourists so they’d need to wait for dusk.”

  After an hour and a half of Madonna’s greatest (and not so greatest) hits across the Mediterranean, Angel found himself seated at a restaurant embedded on a flank of the conveniently named Fort Saint Angelo. The most exotic thing about the place was not the cuisine but the name, which in Roman times was the word for bordello, Lupanara. Only in Angel’s book he’d end up waiting to be abducted in a pick-up point named after a whorehouse.

  Their table was outdoors beside a water front, and Malachi had gone inside to phone his cousins. Fashionably crowded at mid-afternoon, people chatted in many languages around Angel. He sipped his wine and noticed a familiar figure coming toward him from the ancient stone arches beyond the entrance.

  Relief, anger, and the need to flee braided in a strong cord, paralyzing Angel until the man pulled a chair and sat beside him. The blond oaf spoke in soft tones after lighting a cigarette and blowing his first puff. “Pretty hair color. Nice to see you’re all right.”

  “I should say the same but, under the circumstances, you’d know it’s lie.”

  He didn’t look like someone who had been under a tree less than a week ago. Unfolding a napkin and cigarette dangling, his former jailer chuckled. “You have a good heart, boy. Don’t try to disguise it.”

  Angel didn’t believe he was so transparent. What was taking Malachi so long? The man hadn’t approached him guns ablaze, so it was time for small talk then. “I’d care a little more if I knew your name.”

  “Martan Kovak,” was tossed with an elegant shrug. “Want my DOB, too?”

  “Nah, your social security number would be better to fuck you over.” In spite of everything, Angel felt that in a different life he could have been friends with this mountain of muscles. And he was handsome in a wrestling-federation-heavy-weight silly way. “So, what now?”

  “No foreplay? No haggle? No threats? I have to say I’m disappointed.”

  “I’m aware of the situation, Martan. You came to take me to the gate. My only condition is that you let Malachi go.”

  Right beside him, Angel heard a muffled “Fuck”

  “You found us,” Malachi growled stiffly, a hand on Angel’s shoulder, immobile.

  “I have to admit the wig threw us off a little but not for long.” Martan pointed with his chin at Angel. “Little spitfire here wants you out of the trip.”

  “I heard that,” Malachi sighed, sounding almost defeated.

  “What say you, then?” Blond Hulk puffed another bluish cloud with a twist of his lips.

  Was Martan laughing at Malachi?

  Malachi sat opposite to the intruder, looking at him but holding Angel’s hand with both of his. “Wherever he goes, I go with him.”

  Like a child refusing bad medicine, Angel shook his head violently. “No, you don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s not your decision, it’s mine. We’re in this together.” Malachi stroked Angel’s knuckles. “Please, baby, let me stay with you.”

  The idea was to set Malachi free so these idiots didn’t have any leverage against him. The frigging cue-ball was making the case more complicated that it needed be. But he didn’t have any strength to refuse those sad puppy eyes. Malachi had turned him into a ninny. “Oh, shoot. Why do you have to insist?”

  “No reason for you to go through this alone.” Malachi smiled, and that sealed Angel’s sentence.

  “I’d say you two birdies need to stick together, and I don’t have a problem with that.” Martan singsonged with unusual joviality, inhaling from his smoke incubator. “The more the merrier.”

  “If in some filthy recess of your twisted mind you’re hoping this leads to a three-way, you are in for a rude awakening,” Angel hissed shooting daggers at Martan.

  Palms up, Martan replied with the stupidest grin ever to grace planet Earth, “Geez, lady, untwist your panties. I like my action one-on-one. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Aggravation oozed from Malachi as he barked, “Enough, Kovak.”

  “How do you know his name?” Angel narrowed his eyes, and Malachi’s hesitation didn’t escape him.

  Martan snorted and answered, “I always introduce myself before I torture the shit out of my victims.”

  Angel rolled his eyes and groaned palming his forehead.

  What an asshole.

  Angel was sincerely hungry and royally pissed off that his hackles weren’t up in the middle of this messed-up conjunction; he decided to put an end to the macho malarkey. “Okay, since we all gonna be civil here, I want to get my meal and then go wherever the fuck is that you need me to go. Martan order something and be quiet.” Then he smiled, tight-lipped. “It’s on us.”

  Both men looked chastised enough. Martan judiciously snuffed his sickly sweet smelling device off on a conveniently centered ashtray.

  Their waiter appeared with Angel’s Rosemary Lamb as if cued.

  Good. With a full stomach Angel would be able to deal with what was ahead, even if he didn’t have all the pieces to prepare himself.

  Kovak forced them to a lot of sightseeing in congested areas to avoid any encounter with the Brotherhood and wait until the gate was devoid of tourists. From St. John’s Cathedral, that didn’t look different from any other centuries old church from the outside but was all gilded and magnificent inside, to the Grand Harbour with its impressive medieval fortifications intermingling with modern port structures. Malachi caught Angel several times looking at him with more suspicion that at Kovak, and that hurt a lot. Luckily for him, the Hypogeum (the world’s only underground prehistoric temple) needed at least a six-week in advance reservation for its tour. That would have been the worst place to be ambushed if their enemies went bunkers.

  Even if ninety percent of the time Kovak was a royal pain in the ass, he’d saved Malachi from blowing his cover. He knew he was running on empty and, really soon, he must tell Angel the whole truth. Perhaps if they could sit for a moment by one of the hundreds of sidewalk cafes and send Kovak for a hike, he could muster the courage to tell Angel everything. The fucking black
hole in his stomach became larger by the second, and his damn partner had been puffing like a chimney to make matters worse.

  Thankfully, Malachi had ditched the wig and, in the nice weather of Malta, didn’t need the sunglasses that much so he could steal glances with Angel. His target’s questioning looks were badly disguised. Nevertheless, Angel gifted him with wonderful smiles now and then. Those made Malachi desperate for a secluded place where he could kiss Angel until the lad was numb and dizzy, and the truth would be just a hazy recollection once offered.

  Surreptitiously, they exited Valleta and arrived to their next destination, Zurrieq, as they were slowly moving toward the gate, transforming a thirty-minute trip into a seven-hour journey. The delay in Zurrieq included a French animated movie with (surprisingly) English subtitles, where Angel laughed so hard the tears made his blue eyes twinkle like sparkling jewels.

  Malachi’s lust had turned into something extraordinary and deep. It could lead to a lifetime of togetherness if, by some unexpected miracle, Angel didn’t kick him to the metaphorical curb, which in Malta could possibly translate into any nearby cliff.

  Well, nobody would have a lifetime to do a thing after Angel unearthed what was behind the gate. The part Malachi dreaded the most was Angel’s encounter with Tau, since she was the one to teach him how to unlock the portal and gain control of the army.

  The sole idea of mean-spirited Countess Tau around Angel revolted Malachi. She might look like a lady, but she was despicable and sour in more ways than vinegar poured over hemorrhoids. Her lucky husband had gone to the Hereafter with few years of dealing with the beast.

  “Are you gonna tell me where this gate is? We’ve been running around in circles for hours.”

  Kovak answered that one, even if the question had been almost murmured in Malachi’s ear. He drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it at Angel. “There.”

  “The gate is in a bank? How fucked up is that. I’m pretty sure whatever we gonna do is illegal, but breaking and entering into a bank is way beyond my comfort zone.”

  “No, smartass. The back,” Kovak grunted and stole a weird glance on Malachi’s direction.

  “Still looks like a bank to me.” Angel chuckled and gave the coin to Malachi, the wink accompanying it was mesmerizing.

  This wasn’t a new minted five cents euro but an old one, if you could say 1972 was an old year. “It’s the Mnajdra temple, Angel. It’d have been nice to take you there under different circumstances.”

  “Whiny ass,” Kovak blurted, grabbing the coin from him, “gimme back my lucky charm. It was for the boy to look at, not for you to paw over.”

  Angel shoved Kovak. “Hey. Play nice, you big oaf.”

  With a low growl, Kovak turned around toward the car. “Let’s get going.”

  Malachi rewarded Angel with a resounding peck. “You’ve noticed he’s bigger than you, right?”

  “The bigger they are, the harder they fall. I don’t care if the earth trembles when he walks. I don’t tolerate bullies if I can help it.” As they entered the car, sitting shotgun Angel added. “Besides, his people need me, so it isn’t like he can do anything about it.”

  Kovak patted Angel’s thigh with one hand and turned the ignition with the other. “Yeah, you’re a treasure. On the other hand, I can beat lover boy back there to a pulp, and they will not even blink.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Eh, eh, eh, we agreed to be civil.” Kovak chortled.

  “The truth shall never offend,” Angel hissed, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Oh boy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Instead of the Mnajdra Temple they arrived to a house that would have been more at home in LA (with its glass walls and airy disposition) than at the rocky hills of Malta, and serving as a lair where unnamable things happened (Geez, he was hysterical and sounding like Jack!). Yet, more at odds with reality were the armored men in futuristic SWAT-team-meets-cyborg black getups and wicked looking machineguns; so different from the menacing but everyday thugs guarding them in Merbha.

  “Is Glock here too?” Angel didn’t know what made him ask that question.

  “Nope, he’s not with us anymore. He died, when you two escaped.”

  The shock on Malachi’s face was undisguised. “I don’t believe I hit him that hard.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, birdie. A beam fell on his chest and squashed his organs.” Blond gorilla spat, oozing more venom than needed for the situation, shoving Malachi into an empty room and giving entrance to Angel using a ridiculous flourish.

  He wasn’t fazed by Martan’s ugly demeanor toward Malachi. If anything, as soon as he had the opportunity to speak to the moron in charge, he would send Malachi away and would not do shit until he was sure Malachi was somewhere safe and sound. You don’t trust this kind of bastards just because they said yes, you always requested proof. Malachi’s wish to stay with him be damn.

  “May I offer you anything?” The mockery of hosting was annoying as Heck.

  “Yeah, a full box of condoms,” Angel blurted out, the same irritating tone coloring the six words.

  “None of that, you fuck bunnies. I meant something to drink.” Martan looked at his watch, then at something behind Malachi. “Oh, there’s a pitcher of water, go ahead suit yourselves. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes to fetch you.” And with that, he left.

  Angel was half-expecting to hear the door bang as the brute exited.

  “Well, just plain water and no condoms. What to do with our time?” Malachi smiled and held Angel by his waist.

  “We can make out like football players under the bleachers.”

  “Shouldn’t there be a busty cheerleader in that equation?”

  “Oh please,” Angel huffed, “it's twenty fourteen. Trust me. There are a lot of quarterbacks and wide receivers making out under the bleachers nowadays.”

  “But I’m a tight end.” The chuckle was accompanied by a sweet bite on Angel’s earlobe.

  “You sure are, sweetie.” Angel grabbed two handfuls of steel glutes and squeezed. “You sure are.”

  Malachi did that fuck-kissing thing (his hands weren’t even wandering this time), and Angel was about to bust a nut—when Martan entered, displaying his usual bang as if hoping to catch them with their mouths wrapped around thick, elongated things.

  Asshole.

  “Is that some kind of tactic to fuck with our heads, the door banging?”

  “Nah, not a tactic, I just like to be loud and make an entrance.”

  “Moron, an entrance is a sequins dress and a tiara, a feather boa, a flashy diamond, not kicking a fucking door.”

  “Oh shut up.” Martan rolled his eyes. “You’ve been around drag queens for too long.” And he looked at Malachi up and down. “Well, somebody has nice beard burns.”

  “Fuck off, Kovak.”

  That was more like it. Angel was somewhat frustrated with Malachi’s passive acceptance of Martan’s constant quipping.

  Martan held both hands up in a gesture of surrendering. “Okay, come with me.”

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “To the person in charge. She’s eager to finally meet you.”

  Still no hackles up.

  They walked through the airy corridors of the spacious place, flanked by armed gorillas with Martan leading them with a silly, happy skip (probably too happy by their upcoming good-byes).

  The room they entered was ample and uncluttered; dark, plush sofas and pale vases full of bright flowers scattered about. The walls were correction fluid white, but the silhouette of bricks peeked from the color void. Soft lights hindered the starry night outside. A woman waited for them, legs crossed and leafing through a magazine. As she saw them, she stood, but no smile graced her handsome features.

  A mix between Cruella DeVille and Milla Jovovich, the woman made all of Angel’s alarms go off at once. There was nothing worse than self-importance, and this lady had a stick so up in her (probably bleached) ass, sh
e must certainly have splinters on her tongue.

  And Angel was ready to make her life miserable. “Well, grate my dick and serve some hash browns, you’re darn right pretty, ma’am,” he blurted with the thickest twang he could muster and shook her hand so violently he was aiming to dislocate it. “I’m Angel Green, and it’s a blinkin' pleasure to meet you.”

  She jerked her hand away from him. “I cannot say the same.” The woman almost rubbed her shoulder but caught herself in time, regaining her poise. Anything but showing some weakness.

  Bitch.

  “Angel, please rein your effusiveness in, Countess Tau is not accustomed to such displays of emotion.” Martan intervened using the same mocking tone he usually wielded against Malachi.

  “Oh my sweet baby Jesus, she’s one of ‘em royals.” Angel affected the stupidest curtsy a man could summon, pulling the hem of his shirt as if it were a skirt (belly bottom peek-a-boo included) and cross-flexing his legs. “Is Kate that pretty in person? She’s one of ‘em countess too, right? Oh, no she’s a duchess, is that higher?”

  “I’m not British. I am from Slovenia.” If her eyes were lasers, Angel would have been a puddle of goo in that second.

  “And where the Hell is that? After Russia?” He was playing dumb to the extreme because he knew she must be as obstinate as any billy goat from the mountainous country, and nothing irked a blue blood more than people thinking that the only true royalty was from England.

  Malachi’s astonishment was so evident, Angel almost snicker-snorted as he took his hand and shoved it at Tau. “This is my boyfriend Malachi, he’s an astronomer, knows a whole lot about stars. Hope you don’t mind, you know, two guys goin’ at it. It’s truly a beautiful thing.”

  Reaching beet red, she huffed “I know who he is, and who you fuck is irrelevant to my purpose.”

  “Well,” Angel clapped as if inspired by joy, “since we hit cuss-level familiarity already, I’m fuckin' dying to learn how to do this gate thingy. It’s got to be the shit to be able to control a zombie army.” He loved the way her face had contorted hearing the words “zombie army.”