Chapter 1
A Strike Back Story
"That's Conrad Knox' daughter?" Sgt. Damien Scott whistles. "She's hot!" He places his dusty boots on top of the very expensive lighted computer table and proceeds to push his chair back until it balances on two back legs. Mischievous eyes hone in on the big screen, and stares at the woman in question, his goofy grin plastered on his scruffy mug.
I shake my head and slap his feet off of the table, then continue to clean my AK47. Scott is a dog. A big, hairy, tail-wagging dog. But he's proven his worth in the field so I try not to hurt him off of it. Much.
"Awe, Stonehenge. That fuckin' hurt!" Scott belies this dramatic statement by laughing like a hyena on his next breath.
"Oh I'm sorry, Princess. Did I hurt your feelings?" I say with a straight face. We have a few rare hours of down time and the team takes a much-deserved rest in the Crib. Richmond sits in front of her computer, green lights reflecting on her dark eyes as she reads new intel. Baxter 's sprawled on another chair, hat covering his face while he snores away. Dalton and Sinclair are off God-knows-where. If I choose to believe Scott, which I unequivocally do not, they're off snogging each other in the back of the curtained-off partition of the Crib. I shake my head again, trying not to visibly squirm with that mental image in my head.
"What?" Scott continues, his favorite topic not to be dropped. "She is hot. Look at all those curves. And that hair," Scott touches the tip of his tongue to the side of his right lip, considering. "It just begs to be pulled."
"Please stop talking, mate." I say, without much hope of getting results. Scott is a dog. Did I mention that already?
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Dalton barges in from behind the curtain, wiping her mouth with the back of her left hand. Wait, what is she wiping off? Could it be? Sinclair's saliva?... Fuck, now I am thinking like Scott. "Downtime over," Dalton continues. "Ava Knox is in Johannesburg, Africa, and we will be there to talk to her about her father."
"Me, me, me, me," Scott wiggles up and down on his bum, right hand waving in the air. "I will talk to Ava's Knockers, I mean Ava Knox," he laughs at his own joke.
Dalton turns and focuses laser-sharp eyes on Scott and talks to me without moving her head, "Stonebridge, you're up."
I stand up, put my hands behind my back, "Yes ma'am." I can tell Scott is annoyed, and that makes me like this mission even better.
"Ma'am, with all due respect," Scott starts, his eyes filled with non-too many respect, "but don't you think Stonewall over here is too much soldier for someone like her?" He gestures in my general area, "look at all that uncompromising stand. Look at his jaw. For fuck's sake, look at his chest - it's massive! I think she'll be more receptive to someone with more charm and class." He ends his plea with a self-congratulatory smirk down his body.
"Well," Dalton considers, "since Sinclair is needed in the Crib, Stonebridge it is." She turns back the way she came, "Dismissed."
I can hear Richmond snicker behind me, and Baxter coughs, hoping to hide his laughter. Scott turns to both of them and glares daggers at his enemies.
Johannesburgh, Africa.
Scott is busy lecturing me about the finer art of what he calls "public charm speaking." "None of that carrot-up-your-ass look, Mikey." He points his finger at me. "I know it's hard, but try to act like a regular person when's you talk to her."
I roll my eyes, and button my white shirt. I can be charming, I think to myself. Kerry thinks so. She has told me numerous times that I can be the next James Bond. That I should quit soldiering to be Bond, James Bond. Kerry. I swallow. My Kerry. I feel my heart thump, a burst of pain so great, that I actually feel it physically. I breathe in, imagine that starburst of pain enclosed in a steel box, that I put under my bed, not to be opened until I choose to. Scott notices. We're spending way too much time together if he can tell the difference between my usual stoic bearing, from my heart-broken stoic bearing. I can see understanding and sadness in his eyes a quick second before he turns his head away, and to my eternal gratefulness, pretends he doesn't see a thing.
"What did I just say?," he barks. "You haven't heard a thing I say."
"Heard you loud and clear, mate," I swallow. "No carrot, regular person. Roger that."
"No, No, No," he insists, walking towards my side of the hotel bed until he has crossed into my personal space. Again.
"What did I say about personal space?," I remind him.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You Brits and your cheerful disposition," he mutters while he unhooks two of my shirt buttons. "There. You don't look like an unmoving asshole." He grins, "Much."
I march up the stairs to the second-floor of an incongruously modern home in the midst of all that desert sand. The windows span floor to ceiling and the cold, impersonal furniture are sparse and uncomfortable-looking. Well-dressed guests are milling about, talking, laughing, and surreptitiously looking at each other to gauge who is better-dressed, richer, funnier; in short, a typical cocktail hour for the rich and famous. I smoothly grab a drink from a passing waiter garbed in their uniform of black and white tuxedos.
"Zero, Bravo One," I mutter, pretending to wipe my lips. "I'm in," I look around like I belong, and catch the eye of the only person not dressed like a sleek snake. In fact, instead of the tight and slithery outfit of choice, this older lady wears a flowery shift so similar to my grandmother's couch fabric, that I find myself walking towards the direction of her gray head.
"Roger that, Bravo One," I hear Richmond's well-modulated voice in my ear.
Blue eyes, clear and mischievous, look up, up, and up, to my own. "Hi laddie," the eyes twinkle, "can you help an old lady get another one of these wonderfully fizzy drink?" "Of course," I smile, "But I don't see any old lady 'round here."
Mrs. Heath and I have been animatedly discussing her grandsons when I hear Richmond in my ear, "Bravo One, Target approaching." I look up and the first thing I'm aware of are wide green eyes in a small pixie face and high forehead, eyes that seem to be smiling at a private joke. White fitted dress, pink pillow lips. Long, curly red hair, "begging to be pulled," I suddenly remember Scott saying. Jesus. Why does that twat's words crop up now, I grumble in my head. I'm dimly aware of two hulking bodyguards behind her. Ava Knox gracefully unfurls her body from hugging Mrs. Heath, and turns to look at me. I stare. Like an idiot. It was an uncomfortable few seconds before I hear a giggle on my left, and a not-so-subtle dig of an elbow to my gut from my new friend, "Laddie, this is Ava," the elbow says to me. "She's founded the Knox Foundation and has invited all of us here to listen to her cause," Mrs. Heath continues.
Smooth and Cool. Smooth and Cool. I'm smooth and cool, I remind myself. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Knox." I extend my right hand and shake a small but surprisingly firm grip in my big, calloused hand.
"I'm sure the pleasure is mine, Mister…." She lets the question hang in the air.
"Ah. It's Sto… er, um, Bryers. Michael. I mean, Michael Bryers," I stutter.
"Mr. Bryers," the smiling wide green eyes sparkle up to me, then behind me, where two big men were getting ready to remove my hand, still gripping Ava's... I mean, Miss Knox' hand. She surreptitiously shakes her head at them, and smoothly extracts her hand from my hold.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Bryers." Wide green eyes swoop down for a second, unsure for the first time since I've met them.
"Michael, please." I offer.
"Ah, Gawd!" I hear Scott's voice in my ear, "Can you be any more awkward, buddy?" he snorts. "I knew Lady MacBeth chose the wrong soldier!"
"Well, Michael," her eyes smile once again, "I'm going to talk a bit about my foundation," she indicates a podium to the right with her pursed lips. I stare at those lips. "Hopefully you can stay and listen to why it's an important part of African life." She turns to Mrs. Heath, whispers conspiratorially, and walks to the elevated podium. I try not to stare at her retreating form, in her form-fitting white dress.
The same elbow digs into my ribs. "Beautiful, isn't she?" Mrs. Heath smiles slyly at me.
I listen to Miss Knox' speech. She is eloquent, funny, self-deprecating, and her plea to this rich crowd is heart-felt and sincere. I find myself wishing Major Dalton supplied me with a checkbook, together with this itchy suit and white shirt that she gave me.
I keep my eye on Miss Knox as she makes her way around the crowd. Smiling, touching the gentlemen's arms, laughing with the women. A politician's daughter, through and through. It will not surprise me in the least if she meets her quota for the month, even without the help of Dalton's checkbook. She finally reaches where I stand, leaning against the doorway, nonchalantly sipping from a champagne glass, the dainty glass looking absurdly out of place in my big hands. Ah, what I would do for a cup of tea 'round here. Here goes nothing –
"Mister Bryers…"
"Miss Knox…." We say at the same time. She ducks her head and laughs a little.
"You first," she gallantly offers.
"Miss Knox," my voice is low and intense. "You know my name, but what you don't know is that I work for the British Military Intelligence. We have intel that your father, Conrad Knox, is in possession of nuclear triggers, and we need your help with finding out where he is." There. Succinct, no flowery words, straight to the point.
"Ah Mikeeyyyy," I hear Scott's disappointment in my ear and see Ava's eyes turn from confusion, to shock, to anger. In the corner of my periphery vision, I see her two bodyguards start to advance on me.
"How dare you utter vile words about a man you know nothing about," she hisses, eyes flaming.
"I do know him and I know what atrociousness he's capable of," I say in a low voice. "Do your research and don't be blinded by what your father has become."
"He has done more for Africa and its people, than anyone. You need to go back to your "British Military Intelligence," she quotes acidly, "and rethink your whole theory before I do it for you," she finishes with venom. I eye the two gentlemen, and Ava notices even amidst her anger, and spats out, "Oh, don't concern yourself with them," she indicates the two angry men behind her, "They're not the ones you need to worry about." She turns, starts to leave, so I grab her upper arm and pull her towards me. I can see the anger in her eyes.
"Listen to me," I can smell her sweet breath, going in and out, suppressed rage making it shaky. "Your father is a mad man."
The punch to my face is unexpected and hurt like a mother. What the… Ava Knox punched me. Me! Sergeant Stonebrick, according to Scott. And I didn't see it coming. I thought maybe a slap, an open palm. But a fuckin' punch to my fuckin' nose. I will never live this down.
"There. You know where to find me if you need another." She finally turns around, and walks gracefully towards the stairs. I know her hand must be hurting like hell, if my throbbing nose is any indication, but she does a good job of pretending otherwise. Her behind moves sensually with every step, encased in their white casing. I stare, finally. And it's as good as I imagined it would be. Her bodyguards smirk at me, and follow their badass charge. By now, the whole crowd has stopped and abandoned their pretense of not listening, and are openly gawking at me and my bloody nose. I look for Mrs. Heath and bow my head in shame as I see her disappointed face.
"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey," Scott shakes his head with glee. We're back in the Crib and the taste of failure is bitter in my mouth.
I hear Dalton rummaging around somewhere. "Paper Scissor, on who gets to tell Dalton?" I know, I'm a coward.
Scott puts his right fist flat on his left hand, and counts to three. "Scissors cut paper!" The bastard smiles. "Heeeeh Heeeh".
Yep. I'm screwed.