Highfire
Page 30
“Actually, it ain’t Mexico,” said Bodi. “Colombia was the plan. Mexico ain’t worth a flying goose shit to you at the moment, pardon my French, Miss Elodie.”
And damned if Elodie didn’t blush. “I can pardon you most anything at the moment, Bode, seeing as we’re in the first flush.”
“‘Bode’?” said Squib. “You two have got endearments now?”
Vern slapped his knee. “My advice to you, kid? Buy some noise-canceling headphones or else be scarred for life.”
Squib squirmed on his perch. He wasn’t a kid in most ways now, but everyone’s a kid when it comes to hearing about their momma’s carryings-on.
“Colombia, boss,” he said, steering the conversation into safer waters. “Because I found this video. I searched for a couple of days under ‘dragon sightings,’ and it was all bullshit, but then I tried ‘gargoyle.’”
“Goddamn!” said Vern. “Gargoyles ain’t even real creatures—they’re statues. All you gotta do to sight a gargoyle is go down to New Orleans and look up.”
“Anyways, they got more and more tourists trekking into the jungle to see the Lost City since the guerrillas chilled out a little.”
“La Ciudad Perdida,” said Elodie, laying on the accent for Bodi’s benefit.
“Momma, please, cut it out,” said Squib. “I’m working here.”
“Sorry, son,” said Elodie.
“More tourists means more videos,” continued Squib, “and last year this pops up on the Internet.”
Squib tapped his phone a mess of times, then swiped once, bringing up a YouTube video. The short film was shaky and dappled with shadow, but it showed something big and reptilian darting into the trees. Something big, with an anvil-shaped head.
Vern sat up straight. “Maybe,” he said.
Squib played it again.
“Could be.”
“Could be bullshit, too,” said Bodi.
“Indeedy,” agreed Vern. “But what choice do I have?” I gotta leave anyway, he thought, so why the hell not go toward something?
Vern was more than a tad anxious. He hadn’t gone looking for his own kind for a long time, and he knew he was more than likely headed over the cliff of disappointment. Still . . .
“Yup,” he said. “Yup, all right. So when do I go?”
“Next week,” said Bodi, “if you’re up for flying.”
“Shit, Green Day,” said Vern. “I was born to fly.”
Chapter 21
SQUIB RECKONED THAT HE WOULD HAVE A WEEK TO FIND THE right words, but then a couple of days later the situation got critical, with Bodi getting back-channel news that the dragon skin had tested fireproof, and the FBI were sending down an additional twenty agents to blanket-bomb the area with investigators. So the newly minted constable had decided to accelerate the schedule, resulting in departure being moved up to that very night, which in turn resulted in Squib and Vern sitting in a Zodiac five hundred yards off the Pass-a-Loutre Wildlife Management Area in Garden Island Bay. Vern was swaddled in a triple-XL Pelicans hoodie so that any late-night crab-fishermen closer to shore wouldn’t pay him no mind.
“You remember that stump out front of the shack, looked a little like Danny DeVito?”
Squib laughed. “I do. Darnedest thing. Danny goddamn DeVito. I love that guy.”
“’Course you do. Who wouldn’t? Pound for pound the funniest motherfucker in the world.”
Squib felt there was more going on than a fond DeVito observation. “So what about that stump?”
“You should take a look at it.”
“Shit, boss. You still giving me jobs? I thought I had to go to school.”
“You do. Then college. What’s under the stump will sort things out. Maybe you might fancy up your house a little—not enough to draw attention. But a little cable wouldn’t hurt. Maybe even broadband. And a sofa, for Christ’s sake.”
“New PlayStation?” asked Squib.
“MacBook,” said Vern. “Get yourself educated in between games. I don’t want those gold ingots wasted. The Confederates didn’t give them up easy. Dole them out to Bodi one at a time. He’ll get a good rate.”
“Under the DeVito stump, huh?”
“Yep. At the end of a chain.”
They sat under a deep blue sky set with a spectacular sprinkling of stars, shooting general shit but not really coming close to communicating. The Zodiac bobbed a little on its anchor, which reminded Vern of a recent inflatable.
“Remember Hooke’s boat, kid?”
Squib was glad to have a topic to latch onto. “Remember it, boss? Shit, I barely got my ass overboard before you blew her up.”
“You ain’t gonna be traumatized by all those goings-on?”
“I ain’t so far,” said Squib. “Maybe later on, you know. If I get depressed and such.”
“Boom,” said Vern, and chuckled. “I lit that sucker right up.”
Squib felt kinda awkward about the whole “so-long” situation and didn’t really know how to jump in.
Vern obviously felt the same because eventually he said, “We don’t need to suffer through the usual farewell rigmarole because we know what’s what, right, kid?”
“Right,” said Squib.
“Me and you, kid, we done saved each other’s hides. So there’s always that.”
“Sure is, boss,” said Squib.
Vern seemed like he was chewing on his words. “And the whole kid-boss thing? Maybe that was it initially, but it ain’t it now. Now’s different. Unique. There ain’t never been nothing like now before.”
This was cryptic, but Squib got the gist.
“So what I’m saying is, kid: Keep on the path and stay straight. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Squib. “Straight A’s all the way. I’ll spend your gold wisely and account for every nugget when you get back. And if you need me . . .”
“I’ll holler,” said Vern. “Count on it.”
Squib scanned the sky. “I don’t see nothing yet. Should be here by now.”
“Delayed, is all,” said Vern. “You ever been on a plane that left on time? Even a narco plane?”
“I ain’t never been on a plane,” said Squib. “Only time I ever flew was with you, and I slept through that.”
“I ain’t never been on a plane neither,” said Vern. “Seems downright unnatural, flying inside something.”
“You sure you can make it? Ten hours in the air?”
“Should be fine,” Vern assured him. “I’ll take a break in Havana when they stop over.”
“Then turn right at the airport.”
Vern patted the pocket of his cargo shorts. “Bodi gave me a GPS, so I can’t miss. Don’t worry about me, kid. Flying is my business.”
“What if they see you?”
Vern shrugged. “Narcos fly quiet. They don’t scan for nothing. And if they do see me, then someone’s cash ain’t making it to Colombia.”
“I hope you find a lady dragon.”
“Me, too,” said Vern, with feeling. “I surely do hope that.”
“Make sure you eat your fat,” said Squib.
“Yep. And you make sure you don’t.”
Then Vern heard an engine maybe seven thousand feet up, and he scanned the sky with his night vision till he located a shape darker than the rest of the sky, and that was all she wrote vis-à-vis au revoirs.
“That’s my ride, kid,” he said, stripping off the hoodie. He stood gingerly, and Squib held onto the oarlocks.
“Send me your address if you can,” said the boy. “I’ll mail you a few Flashdance T-shirts.”
“Maybe I won’t need inspiration no more,” said Vern.
The dragon squatted low, then leaped explosively, spreading his wings at the apex of the jump just before gravity took hold. He flapped like crazy for a few seconds, which must have been a strain, but he kept his features under control, which was cool; then his membranes billowed, and he caught the air, and with one sweeping beat he was gone like a rocket, with only the c
atspaws from his downdraft and the rocking of the Zodiac to prove he was ever there.
“Shit,” said Squib in awe. “There goes my boss.”
He scanned the sky, but he couldn’t see nothing but stars.
But somewhere up there, he knew, there was a cartel light aircraft with a dragon riding shotgun underneath. If there was one group of people who knew how to evade detection, it was the narcos, and for once the dragon was chasing them instead of the other way around.
“Heh,” said Squib. “The dragon’s chasing them. I am funny, boss.”
Then he put his back into pull-starting the little five-horsepower outboard. Bodi was waiting onshore in the truck, keeping one eye out for wardens, ready to flash a badge if someone noticed the boat was missing, but so far, nada. Bodi was saving his other eye for Elodie, who was keeping him company in the cab. God only knew what they’d been getting up to.
I don’t want to know, thought Squib, pointing the Zodiac toward shore. I swear those two are like teenagers.
And then he thought: Junior partner, huh?
Wyvern, Lord Highfire, had no need to worry. Everett “Squib” Moreau would see to it that his business interests were well looked after.
A crane swooped past his starboard bow and Squib thought, Don’t fly too high, buddy. Vern might fancy him some spicy wings.
A COUPLE OF weeks later, Squib found a postcard waiting on the dresser when he got home from his shift at the Pearl Bar and Grill.
A line drawing of a dragon.
Balls out.
Acknowledgments
WITH THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO HAD A HAND, FOOT, EYE, OR tooth in dragging this book from my brain and into the real world. The only reason my Irish self-esteem will allow me to be so proud of Highfire is that you fine people were involved.
About the Author
EOIN COLFER IS THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF the Artemis Fowl series as well as two adult crime novels, Plugged, which was short-listed for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and Screwed. He lives in Ireland with his wife and two children.
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Also by Eoin Colfer
ADULT FICTION
Plugged
Screwed
And Another Thing . . .
CHILDREN’S FICTION
Artemis Fowl
Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident
Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code
Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception
Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony
Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox
Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex
Artemis Fowl: The Last Guardian
Benny and Omar
Benny and Babe
The Legend of Captain Crow’s Teeth
The Legend of Spud Murphy
The Legend of the Worst Boy in the World
Airman
Half Moon Investigations
The Supernaturalist
The Wishlist
Illegal with Andrew Donkin and Giovanni Rigano
COMING SOON
The Fowl Twins
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HIGHFIRE. Copyright © 2020 by Eoin Colfer. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Milan Bozic
Cover photographs © Daniel Dahlstrom/Shutterstock (landscape); © AldanNi/Shutterstock (scratches); © duncan1890/iStock/Getty Images (paper)
Digital Edition JANUARY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-293858-9
Version 12142019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-293855-8
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