Men in Black International

by R. S. Belcher

  H smiled. “I’m not playing.” He tipped his glass toward her. “Hern.”

  “Just ‘Hern’?” She raised a perfect eyebrow.

  “I’m building my brand.”

  “One word.” The woman nodded. “Must make it easier for you to remember. I’m Riza.”

  “Just Riza?”

  She was breathtaking, with hair that was a pale blonde with black horizontal stripes. It fell down to her shoulders. Her skin was pale with a hint of a citrine undertone. Her eyes, pale blue like the Tyrrhenian Sea, shone with intelligence and wit.

  “No, but ‘Riza’ is all you get for now.” A playful smile came to her face. “So, Man With One Name, you here for business or pleasure?”

  “It was strictly business, but now I’m thinking, why limit my options. You?”

  “My father has business here,” Riza said, “so while he works too hard, I’ll play hard for both of us.”

  “He’s lucky to have such a devoted daughter.”

  “I try to live up to his expectations. You have pretty eyes, Hern.”

  Before he could respond, H spotted Whistler moving through the crowd like a threat of smoke. A smaller, greasy-looking man in a bright yellow jacket kept close to his side. The gun-runner nodded to H, and H gave him the faintest of nods back.

  “Sadly, my business has caught up with me, Riza,” H said, “I truly wish it hadn’t.” He was a little surprised at how much he meant it. “Perhaps—”

  Riza put both her arms around H’s neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him deeply. His confusion rapidly became pleasure, and he returned the kiss just as passionately.

  Breaking the kiss, she danced back into the crowd, calling, “Good luck with your business, Hern.”

  H touched his lips, still tasting her on them. He walked over to Whistler and his companion.

  “Who’s the girl?” Whistler asked.

  “I wish I knew.” Now that H was closer, he saw the man in the yellow jacket was a Luboshian: he had two tiny pairs of gills on his cheeks, either side of his nose. To a casual observer, they looked like scars. “Who’s this?”

  “Skeeze.” The man had a thick, slurring accent. “How you doin’?” He offered his hand to H, who did not take it. “Okay, okay,” Skeeze shrugged.

  “Skeeze works for the Merchant in these parts,” Whistler said.

  “We got a car waiting outside the kitchen service entrance,” Skeeze said. “This way.”

  Whistler stopped H from following Skeeze by placing a palm on his chest. “Hold it. Where’s your sample case? I told you to bring it.”

  “I’ll show you outside.” H pushed the hand away and followed Skeeze toward the kitchen doors.

  An oversized black Range Rover stretch limo was idling in the parking lot. As they reached it, Skeeze shoved H against the car and began patting him down.

  “What the—!” H spun and pushed Skeeze away. The Luboshian fell.

  Whistler aimed a laser target pistol of elegant design at him.

  “You don’t get in the car until you’re searched,” Whistler said calmly. “Boss’s orders. Now, you can let Skeeze do it, or Luca can search you.”

  “Luca?” H looked around. “Who’s Luc—?”

  The whole limo lifted suddenly as a massive amount of weight departed its back seat on the side opposite H and the others. An eight-foot-tall alien loomed over the roof of the car and regarded H. The alien had dark green skin; it was gray in a few places. His body was muscled well past the point of caricature. He had a shovel-shaped face with a massive, fanged jaw that was drooling a little. His eyes were like cheap, green, glass marbles.

  “Whoa.” H took a few steps back as the giant alien approached him. “You’re a Tarantian, aren’t you?” The alien glowered, and continued to advance. H glanced over to the smiling Whistler and Skeeze. “You have yourselves a Tarantian, don’t you?”

  “That,” Skeeze said, rubbing his jaw, “is Luca. He’s the boss’s personal bodyguard. Now, you going to behave and let him pat you down, or do you want to see what he does to rude clients?”

  “Not looking for any trouble, big guy.” H raised his hands and leaned against the car to be frisked. Luca growled a little and shoved him against the car, hard. H and the whole limo moved under the Tarantian’s one-handed shove. The big alien searched him roughly for hidden weapons. He felt Luca grab at his shoulder holster under his jacket and then the leather snapped as if it were made of twine. Luca held up the holster with the blaster and tossed them to Skeeze.

  “Get in the car,” Whistler said. H complied, and Luca squeezed into the opulent compartment beside him. Whistler and Skeeze got in on the other side, facing H and Luca. Skeeze examined H’s pistol and then leveled it at the agent.

  “Sample case,” Skeeze said.

  “Where’s Stavros, first?”

  Skeeze thumbed the power switch on the blaster. “Where’d you get that name?”

  “If you think I don’t look into the background of those I do business with, you’re dumber than he is.” H jerked a thumb at Luca. Luca bared his teeth.

  “Stavros don’t come near any deal until we give the green light,” Skeeze said. “The man’s got heat on him, intergalactic heat, not to mention the MiB.”

  “We’ve run checks on you too, ‘Hern,’” Whistler said. “Not much to find; you’re a big question mark.”

  “Good. I paid a lot of money to stay that way.”

  “The point is, Stavros pays us good money to take the heat for him.”

  “So, you deal with us,” Skeeze said, “or we don’t deal at all. Now, where’s your sample case?”

  “Here.” H had crossed his hands, so each was touching one of his cuffs. He put a finger on each of the jeweled cufflinks he wore. There was a soundless flash of light, and H now held the handle of a sample case in one hand and a squat, flattened grenade in the other hand. He squeezed the grenade, and a red display light came on.

  “What is this?” Whistler barked. Skeeze brought the gun to H’s face.

  “This—” H held up the cylinder “—is an active vortex grenade. I take my hand off this, everything, everybody, in a half-block radius gets compressed into a space the size of a Tic Tac.”

  “How did you do that?” Whistler asked nervously.

  “Toscolan Phase gems in my cufflinks. Keyed to teleport specific items to my hand as they burn out. In this instance, my sample case—” H handed the black, featureless metal case over to Skeeze “—and my insurance policy.” He held up the grenade.

  “You’re crazy, Hern,” Skeeze muttered as he flipped open the case. He and Whistler inspected the half-dozen weapons, and H could tell they liked what they saw.

  “Okay,” Skeeze said, “supposing we’re interested, I’m thinking—”

  “I’m thinking this is above your pay grade,” H replied. “I will sell the whole arsenal to Stavros for the price I already tendered. No bargaining and no intermediaries.” He opened the limo door and climbed out. “I’ll be staying here for the next week if your boss decides he wants to do business. I think I’ll work on my tan.” He gestured toward the ripped shoulder holster and gun. “Keep it; it’s deactivated.” And then he tossed the vortex grenade into the compartment. “This is, too… I think, anyway.” He slammed the door on the limo and walked away, smiling, as the car convulsed with frantic shaking and angry shouts.

  * * *

  H made his way back to his suite. Everything had gone as planned. Well, except for meeting Luca… and Riza. H felt a pang of regret that the encounter had been so brief. He’d send High T a message to update him on the evening’s progress and then go to bed and try not to think about how wonderful that kiss had been. He expected it to be a long night.

  Thoughts of Riza faded when he noticed the door to his suite was ajar. H opened it silently. Nobody there. He crept quietly into the main room and removed a small alien handgun from its hiding place. He swept each room, moving cautiously, wondering if perhaps Stavros had sent assassins, h
is way of saying the deal was off.

  A creak from the bathroom. He took the three steps that led up to the raised pedestal section of the suite’s floor where the bed and master bath were located. H waited behind a column. Someone was padding lightly across the bathroom tiles. He stepped out from hiding and leveled his gun at the intruder. It was pointing straight at Riza, who was wrapped in a towel, her hair wet.

  “I was sweaty from dancing.” She was unfazed by the gun. “I decided to take a shower and freshen up. I hope you don’t mind.” That last part wasn’t a question, more a challenge. H put the pistol away.

  “Not at all. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me how you got in here?”

  “When we were kissing, I took your room key. That’s why I left the door open a bit, so you could get in without it. Key’s over there.” She indicated the key card in the wall holder.

  “You’re good. I didn’t feel you lift it.”

  “I’m good at all kinds of things,” Riza said. H turned. She was now wearing a sheer black nightgown, her long hair pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail. H walked toward the pedestal, shrugging off his jacket.

  He ascended the steps to her. She slipped her arms around his neck again, pulling him close. H put his arms around her waist and pulled her even closer. The kiss felt like the continuation of something old, something perfectly in sync, powerful and preordained. When they broke the kiss, they were already in the bed. Riza was pulling H’s shirt off him, kissing his lips, neck, and then chest as she did. H cupped her face and took one of her hands in his own.

  “Why?” H asked.

  “That’s really not the question to ask after the train’s left the station, darling,” Riza said, her hands busy freeing H and herself of their clothing. She sighed. “Because how often in life do you meet someone that you can kiss the first time you meet them and it feels like a lifetime full of kisses? You don’t let that get away from you.” She kissed him again. H fell into the kiss until his brain told him something was weird. He was holding her hand, but she was undressing them with two hands.

  H pulled back for a second and looked at Riza. “You… you’ve got three arms!”

  Riza smiled. “Brimming with biceps and brains, just the way I like them.”

  “You’re a Tribrachian!”

  Riza nodded as she laughed. “Guilty. Half the people in that club were aliens. I figured that with that Klothonian hardware you were packing in your shoulder holster when I snatched your key, you were either not from this zip code or a local who knew the score.”

  “I’m local. Jury’s still out if I know the score.”

  “I know better than to ask why you’re carrying a gun. But I do have to know, is the third arm a deal-breaker? ’Cause it can come in… handy. Pun totally intended.”

  H pulled her down with him onto the bed. “It is not a deal-breaker,” H said. “Far from it. In fact, I think it adds a great deal to your already dis-arming charm.”

  “Oh,” Riza moaned, partly from the pun, partly from the kiss. They fell into each other. The night was tangled and torrid, soothing and sweet.

  * * *

  The next few days were a blur. It felt to H like a different life, or maybe a dream. Whatever it was, H feared pulling at the seams of it too much, in case it dissolved. He and Riza were inseparable. They boated, swam, and danced the evenings away in the hottest nightclubs along the coast. They spent the days lazing on white beaches. All the while, there had been no word from Whistler.

  Riza’s personality swung like a pendulum, from a playful side that harbored a childlike attachment to small animals, to a more mature and much more aggressive side. He saw tiny flares of a cold, cruel anger show up in Riza, too, like when one of the waiters got her drink order wrong, and Riza tore him apart verbally, to the point H feared she was going to do violence to the man. Then, like a light switch being turned, she was sweetness and light to the man again.

  The shifts in personality should have been a red flag for H, but he wrote it off as the powerful personality of a passionate and complicated woman. He was happy with her, happier than he could ever recall being in his whole life, before and after MiB.

  On the fourth night, they were walking alone along the beach. The waves smashed themselves to foam, and the cool wind, coming off the ocean, raced unchecked along the dunes. H paused in their stroll and looked up. He held Riza’s shoulders and she leaned against him.

  He pointed to the star-scattered sky. “There,” he said. She squinted to see what he was pointing at. “About 37 million light years away. Your home galaxy.” The cold spray of water rushed in and tickled their feet.

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I’m an army brat,” she said with a smile. “My father was a soldier. He fought in wars and police actions and rebellions across the universe, and he dragged me and Mom along.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t care for it.”

  Riza shrugged. “It was exciting for a while—new worlds, new people. I learned a lot about cultures, languages. But every mission Dad took killed Mom a little bit more. There were so many nights I heard her crying, heard her praying he’d come home alive and in one piece. I started to hate it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Riza laughed. It sounded a little sad, a little broken, and very wrong.

  “When Mom died, I considered setting off on my own, finally, but my dad was starting to slip. He was making mistakes, forgetting things. I couldn’t just abandon him. Then one day, I discovered that spending my life idolizing and then caring for a risk-taking, emotionally distant man had marked me more than I had ever dreamed. I have a thing for dangerous men. Men like you.”

  H didn’t want to lie to her anymore. “I’m not—”

  “Please,” she said, “don’t tell me what I want to hear. I know your type, Hern, I know you’re going to hurt me in the end. I don’t care. You’re worth the pain.” Their lips brushed against each other, and H pulled her to him.

  “I’d never hurt you, Riza.” They kissed again, and the kiss became hungry, insistent.

  “Is your name really Hern?” she gasped, momentarily breaking the kiss.

  H almost told her then. “My name starts with an H.”

  Then they were lost to the embrace, and there were no more words.

  * * *

  The note was waiting for H at the front desk when he and Riza returned to the hotel the next day. It was from Whistler, saying they were on for tonight and they would pick him up at eleven. The meet was set for an old, defunct shipyard complex on the coast near Nice.

  “Your ‘business’ came to find you,” Riza said, sadly, seeing his expression. H nodded. He took Riza’s hand and walked her over to an open-air patio bench just outside the lobby.

  “What if I told you this was my last piece of business, ever?”

  “What? Why?” she asked.

  “I found something more challenging to take up my time.” He looked into her dark eyes.

  Riza’s smile was like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds. “You… you really mean that, don’t you?”

  H nodded. “I’ll finish this up tonight, and tomorrow we start making plans for whatever comes next.”

  Riza laughed and hugged him, and H found himself laughing too.

  “Go back to your suite,” H said. “I’ll call you when it’s finished.”

  * * *

  There was a knock at H’s door. He opened it to find High T dressed in the white formal wear of the hotel’s kitchen staff. “Bonsoir, monsieur,” High T said in impeccable French. “The champagne and caviar you requested.” H’s mouth opened and then closed, as High T wheeled the waiter’s cart into the suite and then closed the door. He held a black, plastic capsule about the size of a small Bluetooth speaker. He clicked the button on it and dropped the fake accent. “Where have you been?”

  “Are you out of your mind? The suite could be bugged.”

  “I
f it is, this—” High T pointed to the capsule “—buys us about ten minutes of privacy. Report.”

  “The deal’s on tonight. They’re picking me up in about twenty minutes, unless they show early.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll be gone in five. Where?”

  H gave him the location of the defunct shipyard near Nice. High T nodded. He removed a silvered, steel briefcase from under the cart and handed it to H. “Here’s your arsenal.”

  “Standard phase case?” H asked. High T nodded.

  “We added a one-way hyperwave transmitter. Once the case is open and activated, we will hear everything going on and can move when it sounds best for us to do so.”

  “Perfect.”

  High T’s expression was stern. “I’m thrilled you’re happy. Now, why haven’t I heard a word from you in almost a week?”

  “I’ve been in… deep cover.”

  High T chuckled. “I’m sure you have. I saw the surveillance photos of her. What are you doing, H?”

  “T.” H sat on the edge of the couch. “I want to quit MiB after we shut Stavros down.”

  “I see. For this woman?”

  “Yes.” H couldn’t read his old partner’s expression. “What do you think? Am I crazy to be thinking about this?”

  “If love doesn’t make you a little crazy, it’s not really love,” High T said. “What does your instinct tell you, really tell you? Sift through the fog of all those feelings, and listen to your gut.”

  H was quiet for a moment.

  “She’s… unpredictable, maybe even a little unstable,” he said. “But when we’re together, it’s like some secret code is passing between us. A connection. I don’t feel like a ghost in the world with her. I just don’t know, T.”

  “I think maybe you do.” High T placed a hand on H’s shoulder. “Whatever you decide, I’m in your corner, son. You’ve done your bit for Queen and planet.” He checked his watch. “Now get your head back in the game.”

  He left the cart but picked up the small capsule-jammer as he walked to the door. “I have strike, intervention, and clean-up teams ready to go. We’ll be watching if you need any help. Good hunting, H, and good luck.”