Lee frowned. “Yeah, sorry again about that; but when the head of your department throws a faculty party at her house, you’re kinda diggin’ your own professional grave if you don’t at least make an appearance.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Danny moaned.
“Ah, relax, Danny,” Lee chided, twirling a pen between his fingers. “We blew through E-37 a lot easier than we figured, which put us right back on track to 42. Besides, it ain’t like you’ve got any shortage of things to do with your free time. I’m sure Gloria was more than thrilled for a chance to,” he coughed, “serve and protect with you on an impromptu mid-week evening.”
“Who?” Danny asked, not following.
“You know, Gloria… that college-girl waitress from Lavene’s you were seein’ the last time I was back home? The brunette.”
“Dude, that was Kelly. She graduated and moved back to West Palm… like… six months ago.”
“Then who was Gloria? The bank teller?”
“No, that was Charlene.”
“Wait, I thought Charlene was the aerobics instructor from Philly?”
“Close, but no. That was Darlene.”
“Good Lord, son,” he groaned. “I mean, do you keep this stuff in some kinda evil black Rolodex or what? If Charlene was the bank teller, and Darlene was the girl from Philly, then who the hell was Gloria?”
“Lee, I swear to you. Never, in all my life, have I ever dated anyone by that name. Honestly, I haven’t… But now that you mention it, I’ll have to get right on that.”
“Wow, you’re an ass!” Lee said dryly, drawing another snicker from the other half of the conversation.
“Alright, so tonight,” Danny recovered. “Eight o’clock, sharp. Be there!”
“Hey, nobody wants to finish this thing more than I do,” said Lee. “Rumor has it the first clan to beat it gets a look at the beta for MA 2.0, and that’s not due out for another year, minimum. Supposedly they’re givin’ the 13 a serious upgrade too, and I want a peek at her while she’s still in prototype.” The excitement was building in his voice now.
“You and your fighters,” Danny mocked. “You know there are actual, real-life girls out there who are a lot sexier, not to mention a lot more fun to spend your Friday nights with than some digital friggin’ space jet, right? Don’t get me wrong. I want the title too, but let’s keep some perspective here.”
“Sorry pal, but you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly ready for the broom closet just yet.”
“And no one is saying you should be, Lee,” Danny added, his tone flashing serious. “But you’ve heard the old axiom about ‘getting back on the horse’? Well my man, the ink on those papers is officially dry now, and while nobody thinks you oughta saddle up for the Kentucky Derby—me included—it doesn’t hurt to take a quick stroll by the stables from time to time either. Know what I mean? After all, it’s not like dinner and drinks ever killed anyone.”
“Appreciate the friendly advice there, Dr. Feelgood,” Lee smirked, “and how much do you pay in alimony, again?”
“Dude!” Danny griped. “That was so below the belt, I might be sterile… Besides, if those beach girls down there in J-ville aren’t doing it for you, flights from Jax to Athens aren’t exactly expensive, and we all know there’s one up there who never minds seeing your ugly face.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lee brushed off the remark. “Man, how long has she been stuck up there now? A year? Eighteen months?”
“Pretty close,” Danny said. “Her parents are hellbent on making that second location work up there at UGA. All jokes aside Lee, you know she’d love—”
A light tap rattled through the office door glass and Lee looked up to see the blurred silhouette of a female student with a backpack on the other side.
“Gotta jet, Danny,” Lee said, grateful to cut this particular conversation short. “There’s a young lady here who needs to see me.”
“Awesome timing,” Danny chuckled. “I’ll talk to you at eight, and remember… stables, bro, stables.”
“Whatever,” Lee grumbled, and snapped the phone shut with a not-so-subtle clack.
****
Lee Summerston and Daniel Tucker met during their sophomore year in high school when Danny’s father (a world-renowned psychologist and New York Times bestselling author) had broken from his partners in Miami and relocated the family to Lee’s hometown of Tampa to launch his own practice. Both having a huge love for music, they enrolled in a beginner’s guitar class, and after being paired up for a project during the first week, the duo instantly hit it off to become fast friends.
After graduation, Lee wasted no time applying for colleges before ultimately being accepted at FSU while Danny—having been hammered with his father’s “I did this all for you” speech since childhood—stayed behind in Tampa for junior college and a gofer position with the family business. That decision would be short-lived as, a year later—having nowhere near the grades for pre-med and all but bombed out of the job—Danny packed a suitcase, filed his Pell grant application, and headed north to join his best friend in Tallahassee. Needless to say, the move thrilled Lee, who hadn’t yet found his way into any particular circle of friends.
Following Danny’s arrival, the two wasted no time jettisoning their identities as “high-school boys” and adapting to life as “college guys.” Setting their majors and stacking their respective schedules with as many afternoon classes as possible (Lee in history, Danny in criminology) the duo spent their nights wandering the streets of the Floridian capital city, engaging in all the usual party-centric escapades that tend to define two single guys in their early college years.
Still, despite the fact that clubs were generally the preferred hotspots for meeting members of the opposite sex, neither of them could ever really acquire a taste for the tiny, overcrowded spaces, thumping monotonous dance music, and horrendously overpriced drinks that were generally the trademarks of such places. Though on the weekend of their 21st birthdays—which coincidentally fell a mere three days apart—clubs were officially a thing of the past when the duo inadvertently happened upon a tiny basement dive bar just off of campus. Quaintly dubbed “The Pourhouse,” they loved its smoky laid-back atmosphere, quirky roadhouse personality, and rugged rock n’ roll charm; and thus, it soon became their watering hole of choice for nearly every occasion. First impressions aside, however, neither of them could’ve ever foreseen the number of memorable nights they’d spend there, perched on scarred wooden stools behind its aging, horseshoe-shaped bar, or, for that matter, what the place would eventually come to mean to them before their time in Tallahassee was finished.
That summer, their clique of people was doubled when they’d met Hamish Lunley, an international business student from Scotland. He, in turn, introduced them to Lincoln Baxter (or “Link,” as he quickly became known), a pre-law student from Denver, Colorado; though it wasn’t until the arrival of Mac in that second year that the circle of friends who would become so close was finally complete.
****
As the hands on his office clock ticked past 11, signifying the conclusion of his morning office hours, Lee snatched his car keys from the edge of the desk and threw the deadbolt on his office door to head out for an early lunch. His next class wasn’t for another two hours, which meant he had time to kill, and taking a casual stroll through the Collins history building’s main courtyard, his thoughts remained focused on what most would’ve described as the golden age of his life. Laughing softly to himself with the metaphor, he found it difficult to argue its validity. After all, given the way in which more recent years had unfolded, who was he to disagree?
Spotting the Jeep’s silvery frame parked under the shade of a tall oak in the corner of the faculty lot, Lee climbed into the doorless driver’s seat and turned the key.
“Screw this job,” he thought with a final scowl at his building, as the aging engine idled noisily beneath the hood. “Just get me to tonight.”
****
&
nbsp; “Did you receive my recommendations for tonight’s protocol changes?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I have no intention of changing anything. The program is fine the way that it is.”
“I respectfully disagree, Doctor. I made my thoughts on this very clear during yesterday’s briefing. I am adamantly opposed to the integration of a rescue op scenario into the simulation. We’ve spent nearly a year on this project, and I’m not prepared to throw all of that away on account of five strangers who may or may not be able to make a snap decision in the middle of a firefight. We’re too close to going home.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of your objections to the Sygarious protocol, just as I’m also aware that the leaking of its existence onto the net was a direct result of your decision to send unauthorized personnel into my simulation. You had no right to deploy your people, Keith. That was a blatant violation of internal security and given everything that’s at stake here, you of all people should’ve known better.”
“Stop your whining! It’s my job to put your software to the test. I make no apologies for my methods, and besides, all of this could’ve been avoided if you’d been more open with me in the beginning.”
“The Sygarious protocol is a crucial component of this project’s success—perhaps even the key—because it will reveal to us the character of this team. We already know all that we need to about their skill, which is obviously beyond compare; but when everything is on the line, are they able to look past the mission and risk everything they’ve worked for to do what’s right? That is precisely what this protocol is designed to tell us, but it only works if the initial choice is an instinctive one. That’s why keeping those prisoners a secret is so incredibly vital, and your actions last week may have compromised that.”
“Relax, Doctor. We saw to our mess. There is no trace of your precious protocol anywhere on their Internet. We’re clean.”
“I hope so, Sgt. Major, because if there is one thing that you and I can agree on, it’s that we’re almost out of time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to finalize before their launch at 20:00.”
“Fine. Go tend to your beloved simulation. This whole project is just a waste of time anyway.”
Chapter 3: Game Changer
Shortly after his final class, Lee hung a right onto North Main Street toward the tiny, weather-worn townhouse that he’d called home for over a year now. Tucked away in an aging community off of Railroad Court—roughly three miles past the old Evergreen Cemetery—the place had little to offer in the way of lavish comfort. Dank and dingy, with peeling paint, fried shag carpet, and boasting a floorplan that was all but devoid of natural light, Danny had likened it to a dungeon during his first visit. Truth be told, if the lingering fragrance of cigarettes and kitty litter from the previous tenant were any indication, the comparison was probably spot on. Still, with no need for roommates at such a bargain basement price, it was his dungeon and his alone; and at a time in his life when peace and quiet was everything, he would take it.
Bringing the CJ to rest above the newest collection of weeds in his cracking driveway, Lee hopped out just in time to notice a sizable patch of gray forming overhead. Having no desire for a wet-seated ride to work in the morning, he retrieved the Jeep’s soft top from the floor board, buttoned it down over the vehicle’s roll cage, and kicked someone’s empty beer can out of his overgrown lawn en route to the front door.
Pushing inside ahead of the initial sprinkle, Lee tossed his briefcase and keys on the small oak dining table to his right, surveyed the wilderness of trash, cereal boxes, and dirty dishes to his left, and frowned.
“Kitchen first or laundry?” he weighed. Then, remembering the blimp-sized hamper awaiting his attention upstairs (and wanting no part of a commando day at work tomorrow) he headed for the bedroom.
Two and a half hours later, having temporarily masked the smells of Marlboros and Tidy Cat with those of ammonia and chemically-manufactured pine, Lee made one final towel-pass over his kitchen’s now-sparkling countertops, just in time to see the display on his cell phone light up with an incoming text.
“Oh, you’d better not be bailin’ on me, Hamish,” Lee grumbled, snatching the phone from his snack bar and eyeing the name of the sender.
****
Hamish Lunley, born in Chicago, had been adopted as an infant by Isaac and Eleanor Lunley, a pair of Scottish immigrants who were unable to have children of their own. Shortly after age three, however—upon receiving word of his adopted grandfather’s cancer diagnosis—Hamish and his family were forced to leave their lives in Illinois and return home to North Berwick (a small bay-side town just outside of Edinburgh) so that Isaac, formerly a doctor in the Cook County Hospital ER, could take over the family medical practice.
Growing up, Hamish quickly developed a reputation as a character. He was sarcastic, quick-witted, and most times exceptionally loud—all qualities that usually made him a hit with his peers. Even still, there was always the subtle hint of an almost outcast element to him, despite his immense popularity at school. Granted, many attributed that to his oftentimes brash behavior, though much of it most certainly had to do with his physical appearance, which was starkly different from everyone around him. Hamish’s biological parents had been African-American and as such, he was quite literally the only black Scot in a school of just under 1,500 students.
Still, one thing was for certain: whether it was his loud Scottish mouth or his dark skin tone, Hamish Lunley always stood out in a crowd, a fact that was clearly evident at the Pourhouse by the masses of people who tended to flock around him, if for no other reason than to hear such a peculiar accent boom from the mouth of such an unlikely source.
Link Baxter, meanwhile, was the perfect complement to Hamish. The two had met at a Dropkick Murphys show during their first semester at FSU and hit it off immediately with their myriad common interests, ranging from British punk music to rugby, politics, women, speculative fiction, and of course, Scotch whiskey.
From a physical standpoint, the two couldn’t have been more different. Standing some six feet, two inches tall and weighing in at nearly 285 pounds with barreling broad shoulders and a shaved head, Hamish’s physique was more akin to that of a bowling ball, whereas Link (5 foot 6, 150 pounds) sported a significantly wirier frame with pale skin and thick black head and facial hair. Nevertheless, while physically they were polar opposites, their personalities would make anyone believe that they were brothers separated at birth. Like Hamish, Link displayed the same wisecracking, sarcastic temperament, though admittedly a bit more hotheaded, and when paired with his larger Scottish counterpart—particularly in a place that served alcohol—the duo was almost certainly guaranteed to be the center of attention before the night was out.
****
Typing up a quick response to Hamish, who was thankfully just checking in, Lee stuffed his phone into his pocket and cut back through the kitchen to the door that, once upon a time, would’ve let out into the townhouse’s single-car garage. In the years since its construction, however, the space had been remodeled by the original owner into a separate family room for the kids, and it was this feature that had initially caught his eye.
Stepping down into the dark and flipping the switch on the inside wall, Lee watched as the room’s florescent lights flickered awake to reveal the crown jewel of the otherwise forgettable dwelling—a 25 x 30 foot game room.
Meticulously decorated with an array of treasures from seemingly every flea market, garage sale, and Craigslist ad in three counties, the room featured a tall, L-shaped bar (which he had built himself), along with a billiards table, a steel-tipped dart board, a trio of old-school arcade games, and finally a wall-to-wall collection of aging bookshelves—each one spanning from floor to ceiling and all but brimming over with a boundless library of academic and recreational texts. An avid bookworm since childhood, Lee read it all. From Ernest Hemingway to Tom Clancy, Stephen King to Timothy Kel
ler, and Jonathan Maberry to Louis L’Amour, there was very little that he wouldn’t at least try. The quartet of Stephenie Meyer novels hidden in his desk drawer was a testament to that, though thankfully only his sister knew of those.
Rivaling Lee’s passion for literature was his equally eclectic love of cinema, a fact made evident by the expansive gallery of glass-framed movie prints hanging around the room. Naturally, the classics were well represented (North by Northwest, A Bridge Too Far, The Godfather, Apocalypse Now). However, there were also newer films as well, like Gladiator, Serenity, and Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Then of course, there were Lee’s favorites; the westerns behind the bar. High Plains Drifter, Pale Rider, Silverado, Tombstone; these were the films he’d grown up with, and while he’d forever be a fan of the Star Wars and Citizen Kanes of the world, there was just something about a good, old-fashioned western that had always captivated him. Maybe it was their grand epic scale, or in the case of the later Eastwood films, their darker, more complicated anti-heroes, but ever since watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as a boy with his father, he’d been infatuated with their stories of heroism, justice, and life in the old west.
Making a brief stop at the bar for a fresh bottle of water, Lee slid past the dartboard toward the room’s centerpiece; and in retrospect, the only good thing to come out of a mountain of student loans—a first-class, full-service video gaming suite, complete with twin 42-inch flat screens, digital home theater system, webcam interface, and a custom-built beast of a computer console that generally reduced most IT guys to giggling schoolgirls.
Taking a seat in his chair and swiveling in behind the desk space, Lee raced his fingers across the keyboard until the lower flatscreen soon filled with the classically styled, electric-blue Mako Assault logo. Meanwhile beside him, the home theater’s subwoofer rumbled with the game’s symphonic intro.
Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) Page 3
