Autonomy: a novel

by A. R. Braun

  He must be busy destroying the world. Horny old pervert wants an eighteen year old that looks like a little girl as personal assistant so he can cheat on his wife.

  Finally, he picked up. “Chancellor Velvet’s line.”

  Scout cleared her throat. “Is this Walter?”

  “Who wants to know?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Secret service, ma’am. We screen all his calls.”

  The sun went behind the clouds and the temperature dropped, which was a blessing. The heat had been sweltering for a few minutes. Scout wondered as it began to sprinkle and thunder if God was angry with her decision.

  “This is Scout Marshall. Chancellor Velvet wanted me to be his personal assistant.”

  Agent of death, more like it.

  “Hold, please.”

  Instead of Muzak or rap coming on the line—it had been the latter with her circle of friends before the tribulation—AC/DC played “Highway to Hell,” which was eerily appropriate. Then the music stopped.

  “Young Scout?” a kind, fatherly voice asked.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  She made sure her thoughts were all about devotion to him, since he could read minds.

  “Ah, dearheart, I thought you were going to call me straightaway. Why’d it take so long?”

  “Sorry. Went to town on food and slept half a week away.”

  “You’ve gotten the microchip implant, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready to go to work.”

  “Splendid!” He chuckled.

  Scout didn’t know what was so fucking funny. “I’m in front of Barney’s Shooting Range on the corner of Tenth and Main Street. You still in town?”

  “I am. That’s delightful! I was just on my way to the airport to fly back to England. I’m done with my tour of the camps in the states. Ever fly first class in a private jet?”

  “No, sir.”

  I’m leaving the U.S.? Gawd. Remember the mission.

  “Well, prepare for a royal treat. Champagne, the finest foods, any movie you want.”

  She almost thought How about Left Behind? but checked herself.

  “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  “We’ll come get you in about ten minutes. Stay where you are, sweetums. You’re going to like working for me. You’ll be draped in furs and velvet, pardon the pun.”

  She almost thought Oh Jesus Krispies.

  “Ta-ta.” He broke the connection.

  Scout began to panic. Ten minutes? She power-walked to the back of the shooting range where the dumpster loomed and took out her weapons, threw away the cases, then concealed the guns in her purse, except for the small derringer, which she hid inside her asshole after going to the bathroom. With that she trotted to the front of the range and waited.

  In awkward pain.

  ***

  Velvet’s long black limo pulled up as Scout took a few steps toward the curb. Every nation’s flag hung from all the windows. Secret servicemen clad in three-piece suits and wearing sunglasses got out, and one of them opened the back door, the other looking around like a hawk for trouble.

  Inside, Velvet was adorned in a grey satin suit with a red tie. He grinned from ear-to-ear as he watched her slide into the seat. The door was shut behind her.

  For a few seconds, Velvet’s teeth were serrated. Her heart palpitated, then skipped a beat.

  He frowned at her. “Good heavens,” he said in that kinder-than-kind voice. “We can’t start you on the payroll wearing that.” He pointed at her shorts and halter-top. “You look like … the help.” He spoke into a Bluetooth ear piece with a mic. “Driver, take us to Macy’s at the mall. We must find an appropriate outfit for my new assistant.”

  Scout gawked at the interior. They sat on a black-leather seat, the secret servicemen sitting opposite them. A console between them contained a small widescreen television for each of them, as well as champagne, ice, cigars and hors d’oeuvre. Air-conditioning blasted the space.

  Velvet put her hand on her knee. Scout sucked in a breath.

  “I dare say.” He pinned her with those lovely blue eyes. “You are certainly one step ahead of me. You’re dressed to share my bedroom quarters.”

  Her heart fluttered. The feeling came back that this was what she’d always wanted, a successful man to give her love to. I didn’t plan on being a mistress, though. Here she rode in a limousine, being handed a glass of champagne as the old chap lit a cigar. Lady Gaga blared from the speakers. This guy’s a pimp! She felt it possible to be as swayed and admit she’d faked the chip and get a real one.

  And there was the way he seemed to read her thoughts. She didn’t feel her mind was her own anymore. She didn’t dare let thoughts about having the fake microchip in her mind.

  How easy it would be to give in to this—paradise—and be with a successful man, the baller of all ballers … then she remembered that her parents wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for him.

  “My dear.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m so pleased you’ve joined the organization. Please don’t have any doubts.” He reached over and took her right hand, kissing it where the implant lay. “Downright devilish. Just delightful. You’ve surrendered to me, body and soul.”

  She didn’t dare think differently. The perverted look in his eyes as he licked his lips made her want to change the subject. “So, what’s the first order of business in England?”

  “I have to meet with the ten … the U.N., and then we’ll be free the rest of the night to—ahem—get to know each other a little better.” He patted her leg a few times, then leaned back in the seat to enjoy his cigar. “You’re quite attractive, and your scar adds to your beauty instead of taking away from it.”

  Her heart beat like a big bass drum. He thought her gorgeous and even loved the scar?

  She didn’t dare think Lord, have mercy. But she wanted to.

  Before long, the secret service handed him an important call.

  Scout slipped her headphones on and flicked her little remote until Megiddo: the Omega Code 2 came on the screen. She relaxed and sipped her pink champagne, the sweetest concoction to ever hit her palate—the panacea.

  Good luck finding Muffy, Tim. I hope you beat her to death.

  ***

  One of Velvet’s secret servicemen had taken Scout into Macy’s at the mall. Of course Velvet couldn’t walk among the commoners. She’d been handed a Venture rewards card from Capital One and she decided on a pantsuit. The secret serviceman shook his head and led her over to a sheer white blouse, a black cashmere sweater should it get chilly and a black silk skirt that rose above the knees. She picked the nicest black pumps they had, purchased everything, then ducked into a lady’s fitting room as the secret serviceman guarded the door.

  Had to pick a short skirt. Has to be lusty.

  She pitched the halter and the shorts, along with the socks. She kept the Skechers, however, carrying them out in a box. She loved the clacking sound she made crossing the floor and felt like a real woman now, eighteen years old, dressed to the nines and … the Antichrist’s slut. She stopped and bought some Ray-Ban sunglasses—always wanted a pair of those—and marched out to the limo, which garnered stares, points and whispers from the people outside the mall who couldn’t afford such luxuries. Others pointed to the vehicle and yelled, “It’s the chancellor.”

  The secret serviceman rushed her into the limo—practically throwing her inside—and they took off with haste. Scout crossed her legs. She caught Velvet staring at her gams.

  This man makes me feel sexy. No guy has ever done that. No, wait, it’s just because the perv’ likes little girls.

  Velvet’s mouth formed an o as he danced his fingers over her thigh and down to her knee, squeezing it, taking her breath away. “Well, don’t we just look fetching.” He raised his chin as he locked eyes with her. “I’ll make a lady out of you yet.” The bastard had the nerve to lean forward and kiss her neck sensuously. She shuddered with pleasure.


  God, she was tempted to give in. Wasn’t this what she’d always wanted? Dreamed of? Pined for?

  She broke the spell: “Will I meet your wife?”

  The secret servicemen laughed and Velvet sighed. “Why in the world would you want to meet that old bag?”

  She sucked in a breath.

  Velvet slipped a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses on and stared out the window, which wasn’t tinted on the inside. “She’s in a death camp in London. She wanted to help the poor so much, now she has her wish.”

  The secret servicemen snickered.

  And that was all he had to say on the subject.

  ***

  Exhausted, Scout napped on the plane, exquisite as it was. She’d declined the movie while Velvet played pinochle with the queen’s guard as they drank cocktails. Poor old Elisabeth II and the prince had been booted, apparently, and the secret service didn’t leave America. Scout had had the pleasure of drifting off on a plush bed so bouncy and soft she absolutely sunk into it. Velvet had kicked the tennis players and the other rich people off and had taken over the Emirates planes.

  They arrived by limo late at night at his palace in London, Velvet saying he was having Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, St. James Place, Balmoral Castle and more remodeled for his unguilty pleasures. “The queen and prince, outraged at being evicted, wouldn’t take the RFID chip,” he told her. “So I shot ‘em.”

  Scout felt like Amanda Bynes in What a Girl Wants. She’d slipped into her cashmere sweater as soon as the sun had gone down—dying to wear it—and had been led into a massive living room after passing huge pillars in the foyer. She gawked at a chandelier the size of her parents’ house, antique paintings, Michelangelo on the ceiling and walls. Apparently, these priceless relics had been moved. A huge portrait of Satan as Baphomet battled for place with a Dante’s “Inferno” bas relief.

  A statue of Ambassador Velvet—an exact replica, nude and well-hung; was that an exaggeration?—bowed and smiled at her, saying, “Good evening, young Scout.”

  She almost had a heart attack and watched her back as they exited the living room. She remembered the scripture about a statue of the beast in whom the breath of life was given.

  Dinner was in a dining room so huge she could barely make out his facial features as she sat at the other side of the head of the table stocked with councilmen, U.N. delegates and heads of state. She dined on roast duck and the most delicious red wine to ever enter her mouth, as well as mashed potatoes with heavenly brown gravy that contained mushrooms—even the green beans were delectable, made with wine sauce and bacon bits—and cherries jubilee for dessert. When finished with the meal, she wanted to go to bed, not enter Velvet’s bedchamber.

  No one said grace before the meal, of course.

  When Velvet closed the huge, double-doors inlaid with a gilt design of Satan leading an army of demons behind him, she gaped at a bedroom with a four-poster heart-shaped bed covered with a red satin canopy and coverlet. Chocolate mints sat on top of the pillows. Mirrors covered the walls, and as she stepped closer to the bed and looked inside, a mirror stood on top of the inside canopy. She kicked off her high heels and reveled in the gold, shag carpeting. (“All the better to shag you on, my dear.”) She opened the royal, gold doors that led onto a huge balcony, which looked down on a pool and the Thames in the distance. As she came back in and closed the door gingerly behind her, Velvet stood at a full bar; he poured her a stiff drink.

  She looked into her purse and found the guns gone. As the Antichrist—the world leader—Velvet had made sure no one stood in the way of her weapons getting on the plane, but he’d obviously had his guards take them when she wasn’t looking. He hadn’t been in her anus to get the derringer, thank God. Yet. In her mind, she’d prayed for a miracle, that the metal detector and the TSA wouldn’t find her small gun, and it had worked.

  She mentally cursed him for taking her other weapons.

  “I think a double brandy will do you good after such a long trip, my dear.” He looked up at her and lost the grin, blanching and gaping. She’d crept up on him in stocking feet.

  Butterflies erupted in her stomach, and her heart blasted a beat into her ears, but that didn’t stop her.

  “This’ll do me better.” She’d whipped the stinky derringer out of her asshole. “This is for my parents.”

  She fired, catching him in the left side of his head as he ducked. She’d lowered the weapon with him at close range, anticipating the move. Blood splattered the large mirror hiding behind the many bottles of expensive liquor as he spun, reeling from the shot.

  Velvet went down.

  Scout, now temporarily deaf, ran out to the balcony and dove into the pool below.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Scout swam to the edge of the pool and pushed herself out. Above her, a warning siren wailed. They found him dead. She ran through the property and jumped a fence, hoping the waterlogged derringer still worked. Got some more death to do. Scout seemed to run forever down the winding road leading away from the castle. She heard engines revving behind her and ran with stealth till she got to the street. An execution vehicle stormed by, its cherries and siren blazing, the red-and-blue colors swirling around the ground in the night. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. No one spoke from the other end. She broke the connection.

  That’s probably Velvet’s men trying to track me.

  She hailed a taxi. He pulled over and she hopped in.

  “Where you goin’, love?” the black-haired, handsome hackie asked.

  “Just drive.” She showed him her microchip.

  He nodded and took off. “Blimey! What’s the commotion at the mansion?”

  Trying to catch her breath, she answered, “I … don’t know. I was there for a party and the siren went off. It freaked me out so I got the hell out of there.”

  Her cell rang. She saw Bill’s number on the caller ID. “H-hello, Bill?”

  “It’s Tim.”

  “Hold on.” She fixed her eyes on the driver. “Step on it, will you?”

  “Righty-right,” the driver answered, speeding and taking hairpin turns. “Joyride time.”

  “Okay … I’m back.”

  Tim said, “You sound out of breath. That probably means you’ve done some damage.”

  The city lights and massive spires of gorgeous London took her breath away. Velvet had already taken care of her passport and had given her a monetary advance for coming to work for him.

  Hooker’s fee, probably.

  “I can’t really talk,” Scout answered. “But let’s say I gave hmm-hmm what he most richly deserved.”

  “The silver bullet?” Tim asked.

  “Something like that.” Scout looked behind her and didn’t see anyone in hot pursuit, but she could hear the sirens approaching.

  “Great!” Tim said. “I found Muffy. She had the damned mark of the beast and a bunch of friends over to my house. They were having lewd sex, drinking and doing drugs. I kicked her friends out and beat some sense into Muffy, but it’s too late. I reamed her for what she did to you, though.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He sniffled. “Hey, Bill wants to talk to you. I’m staying at his place ‘cause my kid’s gotta have a home, so I gave the house to her. I don’t want any of that mess. Here’s Bill.”

  “Hey, Scout, bravo! Good shot! I hope you busted a cap into his head.”

  “Um-hmm. I did.”

  The cab driver craned his neck and furrowed his brow at her.

  “Listen, Scout,” Bill continued, “you need to change your appearance and find a motel next to a cell phone tower. That’ll scramble the chip so they can’t find you. When they can’t locate you, they’ll know the chip’s bogus. We have to believe they’ll assume that. And don’t have any of your own thoughts. Think like you’re somebody else and change your name in your mind. That way he won’t be able to read you. Are you going to stay in England or are you coming home?”

  “Don’t kno
w yet,” Scout answered. “Hold on.” She tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “Do you have a motel around here that’s next to a cell phone tower?”

  He nodded. “The Queen’s Rocket.” He twisted his head to glare at her. “That’s way across the city, though, over the river.”

  “Money’s no object. Hurry!”

  He watched the road. “You in some kind of trouble? Can’t have a fugitive bird in my taxi, now can I, love?”

  Scout sighed and slammed the phone onto her leg. “I told you I was just a guest! There’s a psycho I was partyin’ with, and I wanna get as far away from him as possible.”

  Finally, he shut up and drove.

  “Call me when you get to the motel, all right?” Bill asked. “Right now, you probably want to turn off your cell. They can track you with that, too.”

  “Check,” Scout answered. “I’m outie.” She powered the cell down and stuffed it into her pocket.

  Talk about Mission Impossible.

  ***

  The cabbie hadn’t lied; The Queen’s Rocket stood right beside a cell phone tower. It was a dive, a one-story building with a wan room consisting of a TV, bed, desk, chair and a bathroom. She powered up her phone and called Bill. On the way, the cab driver had finally warmed up to her. As soon as she’d turned the cell off, the sirens had diminished. He’d went on and on about how he couldn’t wait to get home to his wife-cat. Scout had almost puked on him.

  “Scout?” Bill answered.

  “Yeah, I can talk now.” She lay on the bed and flicked the remote. The BBC came on. Knowing she couldn’t trust them to report the true news, she changed it to a sitcom—a rerun of The Benny Hill Show—and muted the sound. The weak, noisy air-conditioner pounded out an aggravating rhythm, whining and grating on her nerves like someone dragging their nails across a blackboard. She closed her eyes and blanked her mind so Velvet couldn’t read her and figure out where she was. “I shot Velvet in the head. He confiscated all my weapons except the derringer, which I hid inside my … um … bum.”