by Judy Jarvie
But I hadn’t twigged that Havana was on my other side, and now she’s staring at us both as if we just set her favorite lingerie on fire and melted her hair straighteners. I’m sensing our Bananas may have a thing going for Dan the Man.
And I’m going to wind up in a holding cell with her planning how to best torture me. An untimely demise awaits. Maybe I should’ve kept the blanket on? Or my mouth shut.
I’m certain of only one thing right now. Not where I’m going. Or what I’m going to have to do to get out of this mess. Or even if I’ll actually survive. As I said, I’m certain of only one thing—how much I hate Dan Draven and how at some point—if I do live to escape this shit situation—he is going to pay for his bloody treachery in a very painful fashion.
* * * *
When we get to our destination I’m blanket-blindfolded again. Dan says it’s for security reasons, but I figure it’s because he just likes to piss me off. When I emerge from various walks with twists and turns, the blinkers are removed. I’ve woken up in an Arctic polar scape. Things are very white. There are no windows.
“Hello. I’ll bet you don’t know your down from your sunny side up but I’m here to put the perk in your pep,” says a voice with a discernible accent. Russian, Czechoslovakian, Ukrainian, Transylvanian? Despite the accent the lingo is definitely Stateside mastered. Via bad TV shows methinks.
I’m not sure, but being here in this no-windowed room, having been dropped off by gun-strapped agents, feels kinda like the stuff of Bond missions. Minus Daniel Craig jumping in with his steely eyed, passionate kisses.
The man with the accent and the strange lines is staring at me. He’s no Agent Top Dog. He looks as if he should be on a live demo on the Cookery Channel meets a friendly Hell’s Angel Biker Club stalwart. He’s wearing a black and white bandana, an apron covered in lipstick print, and the air around us is thick with soy sauce and ginger and something that makes my stomach howl with love—I haven’t eaten more than a finger of toast today, give me a break here.
“Woo. Somebody’s hungry.” The man grins like a circus sideshow host. “Wanna join us for supper? Maybe you’d prefer to eat alone for your first night? They don’t do great table manners—could scare a girl off. Choice of noodle surprise or garlic gluttony pasta. Home baked rosemary focaccia on the side or prawn crackers—Bullet Man’s favorite. Crème Brulee to follow. Asian, Italian-fusion God knows what is my theme for the menu most nights! Afraid we’re eating late—one of those days. Happens here—no different from a job in Wal-mart. All hands on deck.”
Now this is weird. Weirder than waking up in a Muppet Movie and learning yours is the piggy suit and Kermit’s your leading man.
We’re near a big white table in a fancy industrial kitchen. I’m sitting with Mr. Fat Cook Smiley Agent, and there’s nobody else. Just us. A massive table that’s set for dinner with twenty seats and nobody but us crazy clueless chickens at it.
“You should eat first before the mob get here. I’ll keep you company. The team aren’t very good around ladies. Likely to stare.”
“Can somebody please fill me in on what is going the hell on? Where’s Dan now?” I ask. He just marched off with the other Stormtroopers with no explanation, likely in search of galaxy domination. Me caring is stupidity unbridled. I hate him. He’s Fucker Numero Uno. So why play elbow buddy with Mr. Set Me Up and care where he’s gone? Um…because he’s the nearest I have to anything verging on a friend here. Without him I’m burned toast.
“He’ll be back. Big debrief…sorry, how rude of me. We haven’t been properly introduced. Allow me. I’m Warbuckle but you can call me Warbie. I’m the Fabric Convener—I deal with food, supplies, everything to do with a happy ship in our little Santorini home. You are our latest guest—which means I get to pick out some fancy linen and make you a cozy nest. We even have designer sheets. I’m guessing you might like taupe as a preference? I have a very nice snazzy set. Jewel accents.”
“Excuse me?”
“You finding it all a tad tricky to take in?” says Warbuckle. Blinking like Kung Fu Panda is wont to do. Warbuckle. Imagine—what a name. Did he make it up? Is he really real? Did he really just offer me bedazzled bedding when I’m in a spy hole?
“This is Santorini Interpol HQ–Troika base. Hidden away from prying eyes underneath the island—a mecca for our mission. A bit like a thirty bed hotel subterra, and we’re all persona non grata. We do great parties sometimes though. Shots until you’re shot. I mean, even agents get to let down their hair and shake it all out there. For the most part it’s all keep tabs on bad guys and plan to catch them unawares. But dinner time’s where the action starts—the fights usually break out over dessert. Sometimes there’s blood but I’m a qualified First Aider so we’re cool. Fun, huh?”
I honestly am gob-fucking-smacked.
“So where are we? Under Oia?”
“Damn straight. Well, not quite beneath the village—we’re out toward the forest land to the east. Tunneled below. Main base goes right down, with room for speedboats and submarines storage. There’s a helicopter base to consider too. We’ve other outlying bases all over the island, but this is the daddy. Give you the tour of this place soon enough. Once the others come back from the bollocking from Mr. Big, we’ll be free to wander.” He holds up a drag queen hand. “Within reason, honey. You do realize you can’t leave. You’re ours now!” He says it like the pantomime baddie, then pisses himself laughing. “Just a liddle jokette!”
“Can’t leave. For how long, exactly?”
“However long it takes. Certainly not until the job’s done and we let you go. Waaaaay too dangerous to let you out under current conditions.”
“Mr. Big?”
“Rich Redman. Interpol’s Ayatollah. He’s mightily pissed that his plan to ease you in gently has been badly breached. Suspected leak. Bullet Man Dan won’t be able to sit on his behind for weeks. Such a cute ass too—you’ve probably noticed. Man, is he going to pay for that gaffe. Top tip—be kind to him for a few days. I hear you’re quite the shrew when your wind’s up.”
“Um. It wasn’t exactly Dan’s fault. We were shot at. He didn’t do anything to cause this.” I can’t quite believe I’m sticking up for him, but there it is. Go figure.
“Oh but it was, honey. He didn’t call ahead about the delays at the airport. He failed to accept the second agent in the car—said you’d ask too many questions. Made a big fuss about it when he called in. The agents were a bit too glib about Villa security checks. Havana’s tits are on the line. So, somebody has to take the can. May as well be the newest addition to the island—so DanBoy gets a crown of thorns. It’s okay, hon. He’s a mean motherfucker. He knows how to take it. He‘s had plenty of experience. Kinda likes the ugly, badass side of the sheets. Anyhoo, but enough of Dan’s dirty little proclivities.”
That little insight makes my flesh prickle with interest, and something in my abdomen dances the Lambada. Dan likes it badass. I want to know more.
Warbuckle goes over to the steaming wok of food and swishes and tosses with aplomb. I smell the soy. I salivate for the ginger. My stomach has fallen for him in a big way. Wow, those smells are divine. If there’s water chestnuts and bamboo shoots I may just love him forever.
“Eat? Come on, peaches. When the others come in there won’t be a scrap left. Never is. Rocco would lick the plates clean and rub his ass over the table if we let him.”
“Nice. Met him earlier and figures.”
“Actually he’s bravest of the brave. Trust him with my life. Dan, most of all.”
Warbuckle ladles steaming noodles and stir-fried heaven into a wide ceramic bowl and hands it to me, plus fork. “Come to the table—get some nourishment. A girl can’t think straight without food. No wonder you’ve been acting like a loopy loop without a limo. Heard that Havana wants to take your throat out. Nice girl to pick for a sand pit fight. She’ll tear you limb from limb.” He laughs like a maniac in a psychiatric ward sketch. “Be in no doubt she will w
in.”
“You haven’t seen me in action.”
“True. Point to you.”
I take the bowl and sit, realizing I’m a touch wobbly and weak. Maybe it’s just the reminder that Havana wants to kill me. My feet are unsteady just travelling the short distance to the table, and my hand is shaking with the fork.
He notices. “My dear love. Brandy—you need a medicinal snifter.”
“What is it with agents and the brandy thing?”
“Basic training protocols. Give the civilian in shock brandy. Or hot tea and a biscuit sometimes works. Failing that, shove them in a blanket or knock them out.”
A brandy is duly delivered, and I down it without any quibble, grateful nobody has as yet punched me. I suspect I may now have been inducted into having a brandy habit on the sly. I’m so hungry, I manage to stuff the noodles down. I must look like a tramp eating from trashcans, with soy sauce splashing over my chin. But, such is my shaking and abject hunger, I can’t help it. I eat as much as I can and I fall back replete.
“Can’t eat more. Might be sick,” I confide. “Sorry. It’s the shock. It was lovely.”
“Ah,” says Warbuckle. “I know just what you need. Just the thing for trauma.” Moments later he’s bring a bottle of high proof vodka and shot glasses. It has a fancy Russian crest on it as if it’s been handed down from generations of Russian aristos. Perhaps bottled by Rasputin himself. Should I be worried?
“Um. I’m no expert but I’ve had brandy. Isn’t mixing drinks unwise?”
“You’re with Interpol. We ain’t scared, Lovie dove. What our leader doesn’t know won’t hurt him and you, my darling peach-tree, have had a thoroughly shit day. Vodka on the rocks.” He pours two shots and nudges one toward me. “Down in one. Boom yeah. Another?”
I shudder, then nod. I take the small glass between my fingers and follow orders. Then accept the refill.
“Atta girl. Think I’m gonna like you. You’re just what we need here to brighten this crappy joint up. You bring some easy breeze to black ops bland.”
The vodka burns my digestive tract like toxic diesel fuel. I’m coughing and my eyes are watering when I look up into the cold gray gaze of somebody who’s just silently walked through the door to see me getting lashed on vodka shots.
“Having fun?”
Dan watches me, Batman-faced. He clocks the shot glass in my hand. He should come with the subtitle unable to be sociable. He’s Wild Bill Hicock to my Calamity Jane. It worries me that he’s just seen me drinking down Sasparillas, and he has a gun.
And marksmanship smarts.
“Ah. It’s Sore Butt himself. Wanna shot, Bullet Man? C’mon—draw up a pew,” Warbie baits him. Has he been on the cooking sherry all day?
“On duty,” he spits out. “As are you.”
I’m sensing an eggshells and tippy toes scenario. Dan could be about to blow big time. I watch his eyes dance, and the cord that tics in his neck is doing body-pops. If he has been chastised or hurt, he isn’t walking strangely. But he doesn’t look happy either.
“Settling in?” he asks darkly. “Warbie, you damn dillweed, get the lady triple-strength java pronto—I’ve orders to take her to meet the boss. As for you, my drama-stirring peace wrecker of a brain-frying female,” he says, squaring me in his sights and it makes me gulp. “We’ll chat later about things you won’t do with Warbie. Or any male agent for that matter. Number One—alcohol—severely punishable at my hands. From now on I’m ‘Sir’ to you and you submit to my every command.”
“Now, there’s an offer,” whispers Warbie, before vacating the table at speed. Warbie doesn’t make anything better when he whispers over his shoulder. “Think we’re in trouble. Jeez. Somebody’s caught a major case of the crankies.”
Dan fixes Warbie in his sights. “She’s not like most people. She’s not agent standard.” Dan breathes fury flames like a dragon with a sore throat and an off-scale fever. “You deserve kicked asses—quit the besties chitty-chat and get the hell to it, now!”
Chapter Six
Kate
Dan leads me down a long, dark, rock-hewn corridor. I’m no geological boffin, but I’m sure we’re deep in the earth’s creepy bowels—I once did a news story on naturist potholers which made me avoid venturing below ground ever since. Naked men braving punishing cold temps by choice with their knobs out can do that to a girl.
I’m about to confide it to Dan but stop myself. These things have likely only popped into my head because I’m high on coffee and booze. So high, I’m ready for scaling the piped lighting like a radioactive ninja spider.
And I think Dan senses it, because he’s staring at me strangely. “Why do you try to piss me off so hard?” he asks, grinding the words as if ventriloquism may be a new leisure time hobby.
“Exsqueeze me but maybe my actions aren’t all about you?”
“Oh, I think you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re causing enough trouble to make me think involving you is a huge mistake.”
I’m ready for sparring. Never start a fight with someone who’s drunk booze too fast and been through too much high stress. “If you’ll wind your ego in a notch you may just part your delusions enough to see the real view, Agent Narcissist.”
Dan glares at me and shakes his head while his jaw does clench press-ups. I’m stuck here with this black ops cop, who’s more than a tad storm-clouded touchy. His muscles are positively bristling. His body language screams fucking fucked-off to fuck and back.
But he doesn’t scare me. Maybe I’ve a death wish that way.
“Jeez. Why do you lurch between okay and uptight so much? Are you bipolar? You should have assessments done and get meds.”
“Don’t fucking push me. I’m totally ready to do harm to something or someone,” he growls.
Dan’s aggressive attitude bugs me. As do the noodles I ate, now playing havoc with my innards. Probably wasn’t a good idea to eat fast after high stress. I may throw up before the big bad international policing supremo I’m being led to. Perhaps on his shoes. ‘Cos I’m acing all bases today.
I feel like singing—and that only ever happens with vodka, a reason I usually avoid it. “I swear if I sing down here it would echo back for weeks,” I try to lure Dan into conversation. It doesn’t help my plight.
“Please refrain. Unless you’d prefer I gag you. Could be arranged.”
I blame the spirits combo for my rambling. “I could do a great rendition of the Let Me Out, You Nutjobs Overture? Why not tell me about some of this?” I mutter. “The police job. That there might be more to this assignment than was presented. A few hints even. This is all too much of a bombshell to cope with sober.”
“You’re not sober.”
Which winds me up further. “And with justification. You’ve taken me back to bad places I don’t want to visit. Circle of Life. Elton John wrote that song and Sir Elton knows stuff. The Lion King happens to be my fave movie.”
Dan stops me with a large hand on my arm. “Nice window. Please just shut the fuck up. I’ve had a lion’s share of bad day.”
He keeps me held in his grip. As if he’s scared I’ll go AWOL. I’ve jumped from VIP Interpol guest to mistrusted ne’er-do-well. He takes cuffs out from his back pocket and closes them over my wrists, one at a time.
“Why?” I squeak. At the pinnacle of what I can take in the downers department.
“Technically, I’m not supposed to cuff you. You’re a civilian and this is liable to get me in a shitload of grief. But frankly, my trust in you is completely kaput. So the cuffs stay until you calm the fuck down.”
I pout. “So now I’m the lia-bloody-bility?”
“You are. I couldn’t tell you squat—strict orders. Doin’ my job. Haven’t we been through this, Katie? And FYI—the team are the best there is in life-on-the-line situations, but put a woman with your ass and eyelashes in here an’ things are gonna get loco. Six different agencies together—stray dogs at feedin’ time. When the chips are down, I’m alph
a wolf—just to be clear on the issue. You’ve made a hard situation a hell of a lot worse.” He lets out a long breath that has his chiseled cheekbones doing overtime.
“Don’t Katie me. I see the ‘call me Kate’ thing didn’t last. It’s Kate. How many times until you get it right?” But you know me and booze. I can’t resist an ego jab opportunity. “And for your info, Alpha Wolf? In your dreams, Wile E. Coyote.”
His nose meets mine, and he yanks the cuffs so hard I yelp. “Quit it. Damn straight I’m top cop here. They’ll be flirting with you so hard it’ll blow your tiny mind. Your orders from me are to avoid being alone with any of ‘em. Warbie being an exception, but I’ll give you rules of play. No drinking. No crazy stuff. In social time, you stay around me.”
I bite because I’m pissed at his orders, and the alcohol doesn’t help my restraint any. “Like I’ll listen.” My mind drifts like a butterfly visiting a rose garden. Maybe he’s right and my mind is tiny? “Warbie’s kind, not lecherous. My gaydar’s flawless, and he’s officially in the camp that prefers show tunes and sequins.” Dan’s eyes roll, but I’m on a verbal diarrhea roll. “Warbie’s my only friend in this messed-up underworld where Havana hates me and I’m clueless, controlled, and now cuffed without sanction.” I shake my wrist as proof. “You told him I’m ‘not like most people’ and definitely not ‘agent standards’. Nice slice.”
Dan stares then he sighs and unlocks the cuffs with reluctance. “I was reprimanding him, not you. I meant what I said about the guys—especially Rocco. Keep distance. As for Havana, she hates everybody. You really think you’d’ve come if you’d known the real deal?”
He has a point. I shake my head. “Havana doesn’t hate everybody. She has a big, glowing soft spot for you that’s somewhere censored.” See. That’s the booze talking. I’d never have said that sober. Not in a million.
I’m gratified when his cheeks burn. “You’re more vital to this mission than you know. But I’m not the one who can tell you all. My boss, Redman, is. So keep your head straight and just go with me on this.”
