Hey, NaNo is over! And I have an update for you!
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter eleven: Familiar Faces
Vince paced around the penthouse apartment of Ark Towers, muttering curses in every language he knew under his breath. (He spoke—not fluently, but well enough—at least eight regional dialects from the Middle East. Mostly, it was cursing, but there were some useful phrases—namely "I'm about to set this on fire" and "Is this camel?") He was going to go nuts here. He'd been cooped up for a few days—ever since he'd been able to walk around on his own, even with the crutches—and it was driving him completely out of his mind. (On the upside, if he went nuts, he might be able to share a padded room with Hartman, which would have been fun as all get out.)
There were a few consolations to being stuck in Fleming's home, though. He had unlimited hot water that he didn't have to scrounge off the local pipelines (or spend his limited funds on cheap pay-by-the-hour motel rooms) to get. Fleming's cook seemed dedicated to making him gain weight by any means necessary, and Vince couldn't remember eating as much food as he had—outside of the academy, but that was random luck most days—and the food was great. (Benefits of having a five-star chef at your beck and call, apparently.) He had cable television that he didn't have to steal or get from a pay-by-the-hour motel room. And yet…
He was bored out of his damn mind. There were only so many shows he could watch before he went nuts. He'd seen every single movie SyFy had out and, God help him, he'd begun to lose interest in his stupid monster movies too. He was on almost permanent restriction from physical activity, which was grating and annoying since he'd been a vigilante for the better part of almost a year now. He was allowed to walk around on his own, without an escort, but… Well, getting out of the penthouse wasn't happening. He needed a keycard to get the elevator to open up for him. (Damn Fleming and his paranoid security measures.)
The bright side was that Fleming had, somehow, tracked down Jake Lofgren and dragged him up to the penthouse to, as Fleming put it, "Keep Vincent from chewing on the furniture, would you?" before he left for work. Given that Fleming had known nothing about Vince's previous career with the Jackals, he counted towards breaking an annoying contract keeping Vince from contacting any of his men from his old squad—Marty hadn't been included in the gag orders, since it would have looked strange if childhood friends who'd gone through a military academy and served for years together suddenly stopped talking to each other for no reason whatsoever. Lofgren, unfortunately, still couldn't convince Fleming to let Vince leave the penthouse.
Given that Vince looked like the poster child for a battered spouses PSA or a survivor of domestic violence, it wasn't too surprising. Just…annoying.
The former vigilante groaned in annoyance and flopped down on one of the plush sofas. He winced as his ribs let him know their opinion of him, and felt around for the remote. Soon, the sound of some daytime crap television show filled the sitting room/living room/whatever the hell rich people called it. Vince did some minor exercises—well, minor for him—and tried to drown out the noise of the show that was currently on through sheer force of will. (He was trying to figure out a better way to cut out distractions in a sort-of meditation, much like the trance Ruvi had taught him to sink into. It was working…moderately.)
There was only so much he could take, even with Ruvi's less insane techniques for inducing a meditative trance, before he had to stop doing push-ups and crunches and had to turn the TV off again.
Well, he could always take advantage of the cell phone he now had and call his old teammates… (Maybe, as a bonus, he could give their beloved handler at the Department of Defense an aneurism at the same time.)
"Hanson first…" Vince muttered, dialing the number from memory.
- o – o -
Hanson grumbled and swiped around at his bedside table, one hand searching for his alarm clock. He smashed the hapless bit of machinery and settled back down with a sigh. Retirement had been alright to him, except in the area of his willingness to be awake at all hours. Sleep had been a luxury when he'd been in the armed forces, and he'd been loath to give up any in his civilian life. He could afford to sleep in.
The beeping continued, forcing the giant of a man to sit up with a tired, annoyed groan. There had been a PGA tournament the day before, and he'd spent all evening arguing with the annoyed golfers who'd been misfortunate enough to lose their balls over his twenty-foot high fence. He'd slammed the door in their faces, finally, after telling them to get their lawyers if they wanted to keep arguing the point.
The noise was coming from his cell phone. A squinted check of the screen showed that it was an unknown caller. The man grunted. Probably one of the damn lawyers then…
"Hanson," he grunted into the phone, not having to fake any of the aggravation he was feeling. He stumbled upright and out of bed, yawning widely and listening to his jaw crack. There was yet another article in the paper about some billionaire and his abused boyfriend on the front page, and Hanson was about to chuck the paper again (if that kind of inanity had made it to the headlines, there really wasn't anything worth reading about in the rest of the paper) when the man's voice on the other end of the line registered in his sleep-fogged brain.
"Captain?!" he yelped, fumbling the phone. "Jesus Christ a'mighty," Hanson swore. "I heard you were dead!" And really, he had. There had been no way to miss the news of Faraday's death—it was mostly in connection with ARK Corporation getting control of Palm City's police force, but that wasn't Hanson's concern, seeing as he was in Georgia and there were no ARK interests near his home.
-Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated— Vince replied dryly. –Please tell me there's something that will take my mind off of the upsides to insanity.-
Hanson checked the paper's headline again, green eyes widening slightly. "Depends…" he said slowly. He heard the captain groan in annoyance and chuckled. "You look worse than after that one time in Fallujah, Captain Faraday," Hanson said. "Nice glamour shot, though. Five star restaurant, huh?"
He cracked up at the muffled sound of his former commanding officer's muffled swearing. Probably trying to asphyxiate himself with a pillow again, or something.
-He's…disturbing, slightly- Vince finally grumbled. –I would prefer Fallujah, actually.-
Given the fact that Vince had nearly died from electrocution and sepsis in Fallujah, it said something about the state of his relationship—whatever the hell said relationship actually was—with Peter Fleming. It was still goddamn funny, though.
"Sorry sir," Hanson said. "Just roll with it. See how much he'll give you before he throws you out is my best offer."
-Remind me to murder you next chance I get- Vince grumbled. Hanson laughed like a hyena as Vince hung up in disgust. Oh, the things he could get up to when Father Jackal wasn't in strangling range…
Now he had to get some coffee, and go through all the papers he'd scrapped out of annoyance. There had to be some good blackmail there too…
- o – o -
Vince glared at his phone in disgust before pulling a pillow over his face. This was not going to be a good day, he could tell. The cabin fever was going to kill him before Hanson's gossip could spread, at least. That was always a benefit… Of course, that was saying Fleming hadn't figured out some way to keep him from dying of humiliation and/or embarrassment too…
And he was starting to sound like a hormonal teenager again. It was the cabin fever. And the pain meds. Any second now, he was going to start mooning over Fleming's absence. (Wasn't that a terrifying thought…)
The former vigilante sighed and stood up, ready to start pacing around again. Another sure sign that he was going stir crazy locked up here: He was starting to actually like Pe…Fleming. He was starting to like Fleming.
He needed a hobby.
- o – o -
Dana tapped her pen against the table she was sitting at, one hand propped up on her chin. Pre-trial motions were, for the most part, tedious and dull. She'd argued her points until she was blue in the face. As to whether any of this was going to work… Well… The woman glowered over at her opponents, the fleet of lawyers who were trying to get her client convicted of murder. For all intents and purposes, they worked for ARK Corporation, despite the fact that they swore they didn't. It was a polite fiction maintained for the public. Dana knew better though.
Her client, the source of most of her recent headaches over the past few weeks, was sitting next to her. Dominic Raoul made her feel…tiny. It was worse when he was trying to be polite and charming. When he wasn't being an idiot (which was still rarely, because he hadn't stuck to the points Dana had coached him on for the past week and a half), he was surprisingly charismatic. He'd also, apparently, read Machiavelli. Dana just hoped she won her arguments and this case was thrown out before it went to trial.
She had more important things to focus on. Like killing Peter Fleming and getting her life back together.
Dana huffed in annoyance at the thought and threw her pen down on the table. It skittered across the worn, polished wood, sliding to a stop next to her client's hand. Dana refused to look at him, concentrating on what she was going to do if she won. She'd have to keep Mr. Raoul (she was no longer referring to him as Dominic, because he was being an idiot) from talking to the press without a set script that didn't involve him pissing off ARK Corporation and/or Peter Fleming. She also wanted nothing to do with any cases for at least two days. (She'd ask for a week, but Travis couldn't afford to lose an employee for that long, so a week's vacation was out, even after having to keep someone like Raoul from doing something unbelievably stupid while trying to keep him from ending up on death row.)
The judge came back into chambers and Dana stood up with the rest of the people in the courtroom—the court reporter, Scales, her opponents, and the bailiff. The public defender resisted the urge to cross her fingers until after she had sat down again. She could pray that the motions she'd filed (three days ago, and she was glad the paperwork had been routed through the system so quickly) were accepted and this wouldn't go to trial. As if she would be so lucky.
"In light of recent events, it is the opinion of this Court that all evidence collected during Mr. Raoul's interrogation is inadmissible. Case dismissed."
Okay, maybe she could get lucky once in a while.
Had to happen sometime, right?
- o – o -
It was raining heavily by the time Dana managed to get her client through the mob of reporters waiting outside chambers to see what the results were. Why they weren't bothering with the murder trial in the next courtroom over, Dana didn't know. The papers tomorrow, though, would have lovely pictures of her rather annoyed face as she elbowed reporters to the side so her client could make his way through relatively unaccosted. (And Mr. Raoul was going to have a good laugh at her, Dana was sure, for being protective and thinking he needed someone that much smaller than him to clear a path. Wonderful. As if her life wasn't messed up enough already.)
Dana sighed as she realized she didn't have an umbrella. "Just perfect. I love my life." She pulled her jacket off and held it over her head, preparing to run for her car. And then Scales was behind her, holding an umbrella. Dana glared suspiciously up at him. "Somehow, I think you're angling for something, Mr. Raoul," she said, sighing as she pulled her jacket back on. "It worries me."
Scales laughed. "No sense in getting wet when you don't 'ave to, right?" he asked. He smiled at her, and Dana just scowled out at the pouring rain. "'sides, I jus' wanted t' thank you for getting' me out of prison."
The public defender looked at her former client. "Really," she said, fumbling for her car keys. "That's fascinating." She pulled her keys out and unlocked her car. "Thanks for keeping me dry."
Scales smiled at her. "No' a problem, luv."
Dana waited until he'd vanished out of sight before she began beating her head against the steering wheel. "Why. Is. My. Life. So. Strange?"
There was no reply.
-o – o -
So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Am I torturing Dana and Vince far too much? Drop a line and let me know!
