Chapter 8: Suit Up

"I suppose I could just slit his throat," Reddington said. "That'll buy us a few minutes, I should think."

"Remember," Keen said, "he's a cooler."

Reddington bit his lip and blinked. Finally he turned away and put his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "You're right."

"Nobody panic," Ressler said. "Take shallow breaths. Don't talk. If we play it smart, we might just make it through this after all."

Zim let out a tremendous sigh.

"And you." Ressler said. "Don't do that anymore. You're wasting oxygen."

"He wastes oxygen every second of his life," Reddington said.

Fitz mimed doing the Fitz Whistle. Zim wanted to choke the life out of him. And Brandon. And everyone else in this compartment. Maybe not Keen. Maybe if she saw that they were going to die, she'd want to have sex one last time, and Zim would be the only one there. He glanced over at her. Yeah, he could see that.

Sullen and silent, everyone sat on the floor and waited. Zim wondered what would happen if he could get that gun away from Reddington. Maybe he should wait until Reddington was too weak to resist. But then Zim would be too weak, too. Then again, Reddington was old and fat. Zim was young and in good shape.

"You won't be able to do it," Reddington said.

"Huh?" Zim asked.

"You want my gun. You won't get it, I promise you that. And from the way you keep furtively looking at Agent Keen, you have a few ideas rolling around in your head. Keep them to yourself. Banish them, if you can."

Could Reddington read his mind?

"I read the files, Zim. I know what's in your head at all times."

Fuck.

"That must be horrifying," Fitz said.

"Yes. Yes it is."

"Quiet, everyone," Ressler said.

Even Reddington seemed chided by this. Everyone returned to quiet.

Hours later, Keen was the first to start asphyxiating. Her throat whistled as she tried to breathe. Reddington sat next to her and tried to comfort her. Dammit! Zim seethed. Reddington was probably fucking Keen. He hoped they both died.

Then Fitz and Brandon started to feel it. Good. Fuck them.

And then Zim started feeling it. By now Keen and Fitz had fallen unconscious, and Brandon was on the brink. Please God. Let me live long enough to see them die.

Something thumped against the compartment. Reddington managed to stand and tried to see something through the port. The parachute still covered it. Then the compartment shook back and forth, and they got the sensation that they were being lifted.

"Finally," Reddington whispered.

Shortly they touched down, and someone opened the compartment from the outside. A head poked into the compartment and looked around. His head was oddly shaped, and his face was mostly covered with a pair of blocky glasses. "You rang?"

"Oh dear God no," Reddington said.

"Hey Reddington! You look like shit!"

"Glen, I . . . never mind. Help us get out of here."

Glen uttered a repulsive laugh and stepped in to help Reddington get Keen out first. Zim staggered out on his own and breathed in a great breath of fresh air. It tasted too salty, but he was glad for it. He got to survive another day.

"Hey you," Glen said. "You mind helping me get these others out of this thing?"

Zim noticed then that Glen had ridiculously short arms. Weird. "Nah, I'm good."

"Zim, goddammit," Ressler said. "Help us get Brandon and Fitz out of there."

Zim shook his head. "No."

"Forget it, Agent Ressler," Reddington said. He gasped in breaths. "You're going down . . . never mind. You're a big boy. You'll figure it out."

After everyone was tended to, Glen explained that he'd been running a black ops mission from Madrid. He'd needed the warship that they were currently on for . . . reasons. Naturally he was skimming, and he didn't seem ashamed to mention it. Zim could see rage building on Reddington's face. He knew it well, as it was usually directed toward him. Let this Glen fuck take the brunt for a change.

"I'll get you guys to the continent," Glen said. "After that, you're on your own."

"Thank God," Reddington said.

He seemed very relieved when Glen dropped them off. They had a helicopter waiting to take them to an airfield. Reddington said nothing about boarding yet another plane with Zim. Maybe he thought that if he took any action whatsoever, it would turn on him viciously.

They actually made it to the tip of Italy's boot, and before long they were in a fancy hotel. They would soon board a yacht sent by the island's owner for his special guests.

"Which means we get to wire you both up!" Brandon said. "Ready, Zimmy?"

Zim growled. "Fuck. Whatever."

Fitz took Reddington into the adjoining room to wire him up. Brandon remained with Zim and a suitcase full of expensive looking equipment.

"Okay, Zim. Take your clothes off."

Muttering under his breath, Zim pulled off his t-shirt and jeans, but he remained in his boxers and socks.

"All of them, Zim."

He kicked his way out of his socks, but not his boxers.

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Come on, Zim. Don't be shy."

"Motherfucker!" Zim yelled. He whipped his boxers down and kicked them angrily against the wall. He then refused to make eye contact.

Brandon broke out laughing. "I can't believe you fell for that! Put your boxers on, dude! What the fuck?"

Zim scrambled for his boxers and yanked them up so hard he snapped his balls. He yelped and cursed and cradled his nuts through the boxers.

Brandon laughed so hard he fell down and rolled. Zim wanted to kick Brandon's head off like a soccer ball. He also wanted to be able to breathe, though, and he waited for the pain to ease away.

Brandon stood over him. "Get up. We gotta get you wired." He all but called him a pussy.

Zim thought, God, he probably thinks I'm gay now! That bastard!

Finally he stood, and Brandon started doing the actual job. He taped a few wires around his waist, where the belt would go, which would hide it. A wireless mic paired to the wire went on his cheek, which Brandon painted a fake flap of flesh over. He did the same for another piece, this one in his ear. He placed more devices as backups around his chest and neck. Then a couple more. "These are going to track your biometrics," Brandon said.

"I know," Zim said. But he didn't.

After a few more flesh paintings, Brandon stepped back. "You should be good. Get dressed."

Zim reached for his clothes, but Brandon shook his head. He gestured to their luggage and removed a plastic wrapped three-piece suit.

"I hate suits," Zim said.

"Too bad, Zimmy." Brandon mimed tears and rubbed his fists just under his eyes.

Zim sighed and got into the suit. Just as he adjusted the tie, Reddington and Fitz came back.

"We'll be monitoring you guys from here," Fitz said. "Agents Keen and Ressler are already on a scouting boat. They'll be your backup. They'll extract you if needed. It might take five to ten minutes because there's a lot of security there, but we have blueprints for the layout, and a spy gave us all the security details. If you're in danger, just bluff them. Stall them. Whatever it takes, okay?" He looked at Zim and no one else.

Zim wasn't listening. By this point he'd learned only to listen to cues and give the proper response. "Got it."

"Zim," Brandon said.

"I said I've got it!"

Reddington looked at his watch. "It's time we get down to the dock. We don't want to be late."

They took a limo supplied by the hotel to make it look like legitimate. They were greeted at the dock by a shady looking guy who wore sunglasses at night. Zim thought that looked cool. He'd start doing that when he got home.

The yacht trip was spent in silence. Reddington kept his back to Zim to discourage conversation. Zim had difficulty identifying social cues, but this one was loud and clear.

When they got to the island, they went through security. As Aram had promised, the new tech was so hush-hush that these guys apparently hadn't gotten word of it yet. They were admitted to the gambling floor, which was not very crowded, not like a Vegas casino. There were very few games.

"Rockwell likes poker," Reddington said. "He insists on five-card draw, no wild cards. That's usually the table." He pointed. Not many people sat there.

They took up positions next to each other, and the other players greeted them well, especially when Reddington and Zim took wads of cash out of their pockets and asked for chips.

And then Hitler Cuntface Rockwell came down a spiral staircase, dressed to the nines, smiling and showing off a gold grill. He approached their table and laughed. "Reddington! It's been a while! I think you owe me this game."

"You'd think that, naturally," Reddington said. "Please have a seat."

Rockwell did. Then he looked over at Zim, and he got a peculiar look in his eyes. "Cris Zim?!"

What? How the fuck could this guy know his name? Considering the tattoos, he would have remembered meeting this guy.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Rockwell said.

"I would love to hear this story," Reddington said. "Especially since you never mentioned before, Zim."

"I don't know," Zim said.

Rockwell smiled, and his face suddenly split open revealing another face below. A very familiar face.

Zim gasped.

TO BE CONTINUED!