Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Arnold and Phoebe head back to Hillwood to take the fight with Scheck away from Arnie, Hilda, and their town. Vasquez figures out Brainy's motivations and tracks him down, only to find that his quarry has anticipated their meeting.
Enough talk, on with the next chapter. Please enjoy.
10. How Do We Eat An Elephant?
Detective Mark Vasquez was miffed. He'd thought he had a line on Brainy. He thought he'd had a chance to cut off Phoebe's and Arnold's primary source of intel. But Brainy was just too good at covering his ass. Plus he'd placed the detective in a very precarious situation: going after the spook would expose some of the detective's dirty laundry, making him a liability to Scheck, a man who wouldn't waste a second in cutting him permanently loose.
To hell then with Brainy; he'd have to go after Shortman directly. But how? Obviously, Helga would be the key. Obviously, her memories were still haunting him. Maybe…what were the chances that Shortman knew that Helga was a certified loon? Maybe he could use that info to rile him into a mistake.
Shortly after decking the untouchable Brainy, Detective Mark Vasquez had contacted Scheck to run that possibility by the old man, only to be informed that FTI's security team were tracking the reporter's cellular phone which had recently come back online. The signal was traced somewhere approaching Bismarck, North Dakota. The eggheads concluded that the reporter and the soldier were trying to escape FTI's clutches by heading east. They even recommended that a team could be dispatched to St Paul, Minnesota to head the couple off. Vasquez had disagreed, contending that neither Shortman nor Heyerdahl came across as ones to run away from confrontation, that most likely the phone had gone quiet because Phoebe was on to their tracking methods, that most likely she had ditched the phone and was on her way back to Hillwood.
"You raise a good point," Scheck had conceded. "That boy was never afraid to confront me. Your assertion makes sense. Now tell me: if you're certain that he's returning to Hillwood, do you have any suggestions on how to deal with him when he gets here?"
Vasquez's answer was for them to stake out the cemetery, particularly the grave of Helga Pataki. Have a hit team ready to strike at a moment's notice. "Ex-military please, not street muscle. Shortman would take those guys apart," he'd insisted, and the old man had agreed: so ordered. The intercept mission was summarily abandoned, and the hit team diverted to staking out the cemetery.
Which now left him without contact details for Phoebe. Which meant he'd need to get to Shortman directly. So far he was able to obtain Shortman's details from the DMV. Now he was back at his desk at the station, reaching out to his contacts within numerous insurance carriers, asking if anyone had an Arnold Phillip Shortman as a client. One contact returned with news to the affirmative: Shortman, Arnold Phillip; Current address ("Not important."); Vehicle, 2007 Golf GTI ("Could be useful"); Licence Plate number ("Ditto."). And ("Yes!"), contact cellular number! He'd definitely be needing that.
Next on the agenda was a call to a colleague in Traffic: BOLO on Red 2007 Golf GTI, license plate blah blah blah. Call him on first sighting. The detective wasn't sure how useful any of the information would end up being but hey, Be Prepared, according to the Boy Scouts motto.
"Anybody tell you? You've got a really nice tush!"
Even as an apparition within his dreams, Helga was capable of making Arnold blush. And she persisted: "Remember the synchronized swimming? Those skimpy briefs? YOWZA! Even Phoebe was impressed! Speaking of which…how was she? On second thought, don't answer! Sex isn't that high a priority when you're dead, amirite?"
Again Helga and Arnold were seated at the San Lorenzo terminal as their adolescent selves. Each one wore their familiar childhood garb: Helga in her pink dress and ribbon; Arnold in his jeans, hanging shirt and complimentary top and jacket.
Then Helga, as she was wont to do constantly in his dreams, changed the subject once again: "So you're really bent on going after Scheck?"
"Don't have much of a choice," he answered. "Either I get him, or he gets me."
At that, Helga's expression changed from playful brashness to one of genuine worry. "Arnold, listen to me," she said as she placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. "You may think you need to do this to earn my forgiveness, but there was nothing you could have done for me. Please don't throw away your life. Not even I am worth it."
Arnold attempted an answer, only to have the dream start imploding. Suddenly his vision was a swirling loss of focus and perspective. Only Helga at the center of all the swirling maintained pristine visual clarity. Arnold, amid all the tumult, answered. No words were coming from his mouth. He tried again, more loudly. Nothing.
Louder.
Louder still.
Finally, in frustration, he bellowed: "You're wrong!"
That last shout startled him back to consciousness and suddenly he was back in his car, albeit on the passenger seat with Phoebe driving. This arrangement was another triumph of Phoebe's indisputable logic, aided perhaps by a little pouting. At their last gas stop, she had expressed a desire to try out the hot hatch for herself. Before Arnold could protest, he was reminded how (A) both occupants had participated in a Grand Prix, (B) one of the occupants took the chequered flag and (C) Arnold was not that occupant.
Arnold was surprised at Phoebe's heavy right foot and impressed by her mechanical sympathy with the car as she guided it through the dips, blind crests and switchbacks that marked the backroads to Hillwood. What a woman, he'd thought more than once, even if he did occasionally have to reign in her vigor lest they'd attract unnecessary attention from law enforcement.
"And what am I wrong about?" asked Phoebe while maintaining full concentration on the road.
"No, not you!" Arnold reassured her. "Just…a dream spilling into reality."
"If you say so, Arnold," said Phoebe in acceptance of his answer. "Enjoy your nap, by the way? Is my driving that boring to you?"
"Sorry, I must have zoned out for a bit."
"See?" proclaimed Phoebe as though she had scored a major victory. "I told you I wasn't a bad driver! I even made you nod off!"
Arnold wanted to counter with how he considered any trip relaxing whenever there was no possibility of IED's or enemy ambushes. He decided to forgo the pettiness and let her have her glory. Besides, there were more pressing matters to address. Phoebe beat him to that particular punch.
"So, what's the plan? When we get back to Hillwood."
"Do unto Scheck before he does unto us."
"Yes, Arnold. But how? Any ideas with more substance?"
"Well…we do still have Brainy's flash drive," Arnold offered. "Can't you put out a story based on what you learned from it?"
"With uncorroborated information? No way!" Phoebe countered. "Scheck's legal and PR teams would tear me to shreds, the story will lose all credibility and we'll lose the only chip we have to play." This she said while maintaining perfect concentration on the road ahead.
"What about the FBI?"
"What about them?" Phoebe retorted, more sharply than she intended.
"Can't you just send a copy of the data on the flash drive to them?" Arnold kept offering.
"Arnold, we've established that Scheck has several powerful public figures at his disposal. The Hillwood PD Commissioner, the Chief of Detectives…Mark," the acrimony was plain in her voice at the mention of that last name. "To say nothing of the local politicians, the governor and a senator under his payroll. You think, assuming – assuming – that we can find an honest FBI agent, that he'd want to proceed with such a politically charged matter? And even if he were to proceed, Scheck would just use his clout to get the agent fired."
"Wow, Phoebe," Arnold was profoundly taken aback by Phoebe's sudden onset of pessimism.
That much Phoebe had read in his tone. "I'm merely being pragmatic," she offered as an explanation. "My previous exposés dealt with a county sheriff and then a mid-level city official. Those were hard enough targets, well connected, resourceful and certainly dangerous. But…this…don't you think we've bitten off too much?"
"Maybe," conceded Arnold, "but considering what Scheck and FTI did to us, our families, our friends…our community…we can't sit idly by and let him win."
"But how, Arnold?"
"I still think the flash drive is our key in succeeding."
"Have you been listening? The information is interesting and definitely incriminating, but easily deflectable."
"You're thinking in terms of truth and justice. Look, I've had a long time to realize that those concepts don't always prevail. The bad guys don't always get caught. And if they do get caught, it doesn't usually amount to much. We can do this, we can take him down, but we'll have to go about it differently. You may even have to forgo your journalistic integrity."
Phoebe's eyes widened briefly at that last statement's implications. "Arnold," she stated in a voice unable to decide between resolve and apprehension, "I'm not saying we mustn't proceed. Scheck must go down. FTI must go down. But I absolutely will not be forced into committing any crimes myself to obtain that goal!"
"And I'm not asking you to do so! But you may have to forget about any Pulitzers. This is a story that probably will never see the light of day. Do you think you can live with that?"
Phoebe was still focussing ahead as she replied: "This was never about the awards. It was about finding the truth."
"So you're in?"
"It depends. What do you have in mind?"
"That's where you can help. I'm guessing that you are familiar with the current Hillwood underworld."
"Yes..?" Phoebe was intrigued: where was he going with this?
"Well, who do you think stands to gain the most if Scheck were to be taken out of the picture?"
Phoebe processed Arnold's words for a while, and finally, her face contorted into a devilish grin. "Arnold. When we get to Hillwood, allow me to take you out and treat you to possibly the worst meal in the entire city."
"Funny you should mention mental asylums, Detective. Wasn't your wife once a guest at one such facility?"
Pause. The video frame showed the detective clearly agitated by the statement. Perhaps a competent investigator would draw the same conclusion.
Play.
"How'd you find out about that?"
Pause. And even if the investigator doubted Brainy's allegation, there was the detective confirming the allegations in his response. Hmm, maybe he could spin this to make it look like the detective was exploiting his wife's fragile disposition.
Fast forward. Play.
"From what I gather, you've been sitting on intel for god knows how long that could bring down my employers."
Pause. Was what the detective just said enough to incriminate himself? At least, maybe it would be enough for IAB to deepen their hooks into him.
Rewind. Play.
"…bring down my employers." That was 'employers', plural.
Fast forward. Play.
"Damn you! This was all part of your plan, wasn't it? To use him to bring down Santalov and now Scheck?" Cool, they'd infer that these two were the employers, plural.
Fast forward.
"…bank statements of a certain Vitaly Santalov, highlighting specifically the settlement of student loan debt incurred by one Mark César Vasquez and all subsequent payments made to an offshore account opened up in the name of…who else?... Olga Pataki-Vasquez." This one was a gamble; he wasn't sure that they'd automatically assume that Olga was an unwilling accessory in this situation. Maybe a good defense lawyer could apply the necessary spin.
"Which, by the way, is cold, even for you: dragging your wife into your mess. Don't you think she's had enough drama in her lifetime?" No good, this one. Only an accusation from Brainy; no admission from the detective.
Fast forward.
"You're lucky the old man only wants Arnold. You're lucky he doesn't consider you a threat. For now, at least." Not specific enough. Could be any old man. Hillwood had its fair share of them.
All in all, the haul was a mixed bag, reckoned Brainy. At least he was happy that the hidden sound and video recorders inside the teddy bear at the cemetery had performed their tasks admirably. The little fuzzball was Brainy's unique design, with a camera and mic built into one paw each, each hooked up to a portable hard drive housed in its body. Its head flipped open to reveal a USB plug, hooked to the hard drive. Said plug was connected to his desktop PC, giving the impression of a suicidal stuffed animal sticking its head in an oven.
Regardless of the creature's will to live, it was providing the material that Brainy was analyzing, trying to sort the useful information from the frivolous. Olga Pataki-Vasquez was the current goal. Olga Pataki-Vasquez was part of this clusterfuck against her will and needed a swift extrication when things eventually went south. And Brainy felt they were about to go south, and soon, very soon.
Now he'd never known Olga socially, but she was Helga's sister and his quest to avenge Helga's death extended to preserving the wellbeing of any of her remaining family not named Robert. And damn if he wasn't going to do so for Olga.
Then he heard the knock at his door: his visitor had arrived.
"OK Brainy, how'd you do yourself in this time?" He'd opened the door to reveal his – badly, he'd claimed when he called her – cut cheek to his visitor. Sheena was not impressed.
To the casual observers within the FTI building, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was merely negotiating improvements in FTI's security detail; apparently the rich and powerful could never have enough bodyguards. But what nobody outside Mister Scheck's spartan but still expensive office knew was that the meeting was taking place without his secretary – or any secretary for that matter – taking any minutes. No recordings were being made of this meeting, and no transcripts or appointment entries would ever hint towards it ever having taken place.
"The way I see it, Scheck, this may be a chance for us to finish the job," bellowed the blustery figure on one side of the desk. He looked as though sometime long ago he might have been a competent soldier, but years of administrative ennui had dulled his profile and competence significantly.
"But if I remember correctly, Charles, we…you…should have finished the job in Asmara two years ago," Scheck countered.
Two years prior, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck had been released from prison and was immediately bent on another crack at Arnold Shortman. With FTI's global resources he was able to establish that the young man had joined the Rangers and at the time was stationed in Asmara, Eritrea. Those same resources were able to obtain the personnel files of the commissioned officers stationed with Lieutenant Arnold Shortman. Furthermore, profilers and forensic behavioral consultants were hired to sift through the files, the pretext being that they were scouting for a candidate to join the FTI Board of Executives. Colonel Charles Rawlins was deemed the least worthy of the potential candidates: his file suggested a condescending attitude to the lower ranks that bordered on abject contempt, and also pointed out his eagerness to advance his own career on the backs of others' hard work was indicative of a sociopathic disposition. In other words, he was in it more for the paycheck and the retirement benefits than he was to 'Be All You Can Be'. Having made their recommendations, the experts were paid their fees and made to sign NDA's before being sent on their way with FTI's most profound thanks. An FTI HR rep then reached out to Colonel Charles Rawlins with their offer, hinting and intimating that the position was guaranteed if the Colonel were – perhaps – to do a small, personal favor for the CEO.
"What kind of favor?" The Colonel's interest was piqued.
"Well, one of the soldiers at the base framed our CEO and wrongfully got him sent to prison. If he could be dealt with appropriately, perhaps?"
"Tell me who he is and consider it done!"
"Lieutenant Arnold Shortman."
Hence Colonel Rawlins feeding Unit 42 the bullshit intel on Khaled Aziz and Abdul Ahmed, effectively marching them into an ambush and a bloody annihilation. After all, what better way to disguise the murder of one soldier than to hide it in the decimation of an entire squad?
Only, it didn't work.
That fucking Shortman! He had to fight his way out of the ambush, rescue the entire squad and get to retire on a General's benefits. Meanwhile. Colonel Rawlins got found out and was shitcanned for his efforts.
Fearing the now ex-colonel's possible repercussions, FTI was forced to take him on board. He was appointed as an in-house consultant for FTI's Security, which suited him just fine as it meant he could do much less work – god bless delegation! – for a much higher salary than what Uncle Sam had been paying.
Any further attempts on the life of Arnold Shortman were subsequently put on indefinite hold, lest he would discover the true instigator. But now it seemed he was aware of at least some of Scheck's current involvement, if not all of it if the detective was to be believed.
Hence the renewed interest in liquidating Arnold Shortman.
Hence the current meeting.
"I'm telling you; Asmara was perfectly planned! We fed his squad the bad intel! We tipped off those two cells of where and when they'd arrive. We drew the biggest goddamn bullseyes on their fucking backs! Everything except blow up the sons of bitches ourselves!"
"And yet, Charles, here we are two years later," Scheck calmly countered. "I consider your attempts back then irrelevant. I'm more concerned about the amends you'll be making in the here and now."
"Excuse me?" Rawlins shot back with incredulity that suggested that he was the higher ranking figure in the room.
"You heard correctly," Scheck's calm demeanor had not slipped in the slightest. "Understand that you've effectively been my guest for the past two years. Your position here is purely ceremonial, and until your obligation from Asmara is settled in full, so shall it remain."
"Now wait a goddamn minute! I- "
"You," Scheck cut him off with a mere adjustment to his tone, "will earn your keep within my organization."
Rawlins sat frozen, any thought of argument quashed and any delusion of backtalk summarily overruled. "Y-yes Sir. Understood," was his deflated response. He watched in stunned silence as Alphonse Scheck opened the desk drawer and took out from it a folder.
"Assets. Names. Base. Target. Killzone. All in here." Scheck outlined the contents with the same effortless specificity he'd use when ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant, which made him all the more sinister as he was outlining the planned murder of another human being. "Meet them and await further instructions. Your target's ETA is within the next 48 hours. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir!" Rawlins acknowledged in a somewhat shaky voice, showing no trace of the self-assured blowhard who entered Scheck's office for this particular meeting, or for that matter who entered the employ of FTI those two years prior.
"Excellent," this in a calmer, more approving voice that put Rawlins somewhere close to back at ease. Until: "And Rawlins, address me as 'Sir' from now on. Thank you and goodbye."
That was it: end of discussion. No more input from him to be entertained. With folder in hand, a dejected Charles Rawlins made his way to the door.
"Hold still!" she ordered. "Oh come on, stop squirming! This isn't the first time you've needed to be stitched up!"
"Doesn't mean I like it!"
"Whoever did this to you must have been a boxer! He cut your cheek badly, even inside your mouth!" She'd already attended to the internal cut. "Ever thought of changing to a safer job? Like 'Lion Tamer'? 'Crash Test Dummy'?" she asked.
"Maybe. I'm almost done with this case anyway."
Sheena and Brainy were seated across from each other. Sheena had disinfected his cut cheek and was currently stitching it up, a process that Brainy had come to accept as a necessary evil in his…could he even call this his profession? Whatever it was, its associated duties were performed in a legal grey area and as such he didn't exactly have his choice of quality medical care. That's where Sheena, a paramedic by trade, fit in.
The woman opposite him had retained her lanky frame and her triangular facial structure from P.S. 118, but her jaded eyes told of innocence lost irrevocably. She and much of P.S. 118 were left reeling after the death of her colleagues. Sheena had chosen to internalize her grief over the matter, while everyone else was expressing anger due to their helplessness: for which they needed an outlet. At first, Arnold was the intended outlet but when word had reached them about Arnold's relocation to San Lorenzo, they extended the grid to those who would defend Arnold Shortman for the incident. Phoebe Heyerdahl, who was constantly speaking in his defense, felt the brunt of their wrath: bullying; cyberbullying; death threats; constant harassment. Eventually, it became too much for not just Phoebe but also her family, who packed up and left.
Sheena was never a confrontational person and could only watch helplessly as Phoebe's fate befell her. Sheena's own fate was isolation due to her pacifist nature. But fate was not done with her, as it led her to Brainy, who as the resident loner of P.S. 118 could empathize with her situation. Through opening up to one another, the two struck up a friendship that lasted until high school graduation.
Back in the here and now. "Why do you do this, Brainy? Risk your life to help people who don't even know that you exist," Sheena's voice expressed delicate concern.
"Like a wise man once said: 'Somebody has to'," Brainy replied.
"And when does it stop? I mean, aren't you tired of all the danger you put yourself in? And what if I'm not around to tend to you? What if I don't happen to be on my day off next time you're jammed up?"
To which Brainy had no answer.
To which Sheena had no follow-through. She didn't want to come down too hard on this man who had saved her professional life. It was a long time in the making, but it too started with the Sunset Arms incident. After the disaster, Sheena was polarized into wanting to become a paramedic. Her main motivation was wanting to do her part in avoiding the losses in life and of loved ones to which she was exposed. So after high school, it was two years for her at community college studying EMT-B, plus Advanced Training, plus certification exams.
Then came the actual job, and soon there was a problem. Six months after she began, several of her longer-serving colleagues came under investigation for stealing painkillers – Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet, the good stuff – from their dispensary which they would sell in upper-middle-class suburbia at a decent mark-up that still undercut their products' insane retail prices. Their counter to the allegations was to pin everything on the newbie by planting evidence on her personal effects. And since she was soft-spoken and nonconfrontational, her defense amounted to "I didn't do it!", which was naively inadequate. Then one day an envelope containing an SD card showed up at her door, with a note stating that a copy had been sent to her bosses and that she needn't worry about her situation anymore.
What providence! The card contained video files of her co-workers raiding the dispensary and of their subsequent transactions in suburbia. One particular video showed a dealer boasting how they were pinning their whole operation on the newbie in the team. The ring was indicted for drug trafficking – for which they pleaded guilty – and Sheena was left wondering who her guardian angel was.
Her answer came a year or so later when she received a call from Brainy. He asked if she was available for an emergency procedure, as soon as possible and off the books. Her curiosity and sense of nostalgia overrode her common sense and she met up with Brainy at his residence to find him nursing a bullet wound.
In the present, Brainy eventually suggested an answer: "Please understand that what I'm working on is very important to me."
Sheena sighed in resignation as she completed the last of the sutures. "I know! You always say that!" Sheena said, perhaps knowing that Brainy's course was set in stone. "But I wish you'd be more careful."
"Would you miss me if I screwed up terminally?" for Sheena, he made a special point to curb his expletives. So strange: In the course of her work she'd routinely deal with GSW's, grievous bodily harm, third- and fourth-degree burns and the occasional missing limb with nary a complaint but swearing in her presence was strictly verboten.
"Not funny!" Sheena almost shouted. "I was scared out of my mind when I pulled that first bullet out of you. You could have died. Was the information worth confronting a jumpy crack addict to get it?" If he hadn't told her five years ago the nature of his 'profession' and that he was actually on the side of the good guys, or that it was he who exonerated her from her co-worker's opioid endeavors, she probably would have turned him over to the police after treating him.
But she didn't, and so a friendship was rekindled.
Brainy saw in her eyes and her frown that she was upset, probably at his blasé attitude towards death and his mortality. In recompense, he reached to her and guided her head to his so that their foreheads were touching. "Don't ever think I'll be ungrateful to you," he started. "You're a good person. You have a good heart and I envy you for being able to stay positive through almost anything."
That got a pause from her. Then a smile. Then a peck on this right cheek, his good cheek.
"Thanks, Brainy," she said softly as she pulled away to gather her instruments. She was halted by his hand on hers.
"Listen, I want you to know that I trust you with my life," Brainy announced, "so I'd like to tell you my real name."
She was agog as he shared this piece of information with her.
The journey lasted about seven hours, but Arnold and Phoebe eventually arrived back in Hillwood. Foutley last checked in to inform the duo that Phoebe's old phone was now approaching Fargo and that their adversaries hadn't yet made any moves in any of the areas the signal had passed, but no news was not to be interpreted as good news.
Not one to lower their guard, Arnold insisted that Phoebe stick to the backroads and avoid any major intersections en route to her rented home. Eventually, the destination came into view, only Arnold insisted that she keep driving until about one hundred yards past the house before making her stop.
"Your housekeys, please," he said in a voice and with a steely-eyed gaze that together made his combat preparedness apparent.
Phoebe was uncertain, but she did as told.
"Which one's for the backdoor?" he asked, and she pointed out the correct one.
"Security code?" She told him, followed by: "Arnold, this is becoming unsettling! Is something amiss?"
"I'll know in ten minutes. Keep circling the block until I call in. You hear nothing from me after ten minutes, drive like hell and don't look back."
He then saw the worry in her eyes before softening his gaze towards her and adding: "Don't worry, Phoebe. I'll be careful." He capped off his words with a warm kiss on her cheek before alighting. "Now go!"
Phoebe followed her instructions: she circled slowly around the block. Once. Twice. By the third pass, he hadn't yet checked in. On the fourth lap, the panic was encroaching on her theretofore calm demeanor. On the fifth lap, the panic was spreading. Then on the sixth lap, her ringing phone started her out of her panicked state. It was Arnold: "All clear. Bring it in."
She completed her lap to the house and parked the Golf in the driveway where Arnold stood waiting. She got out of the vehicle to join him.
"What was that all about?" she asked him in annoyance.
"Precaution. Checking for anything unusual," he answered with unapologetic professionalism.
"Unusual? Unusual like how?" Annoyance and confusion in Phoebe's voice.
"Surveillance devices. Hidden cameras, sound recorders," he reported. "Booby traps, explosives, that sort of stuff." Then, seeing how she was grasping the seriousness of the situation: "Don't worry, the place is clean. I did two sweeps just to be sure."
"You dummy! You could have told me what you were going to do instead of leaving me in the car worrying myself sick!"
A nonplussed Arnold replied: "Listen. As long as we're together, your safety is my number one priority."
"No, you listen! You're not playing the tragic, self-sacrificing hero as long as we're together!" Phoebe's anger and determination could be downright scary when she dialed them all the way up. "Like it or not, it's just as important to me that you survive our ordeal!"
That utterance caught him off-guard, but he recovered quickly enough: "Hey, I don't intend to wear any halos or horns anytime soon." Arnold reached for Phoebe's hands with his. "But maybe I should rephrase my previous statement, hmm?"
"Proceed." Phoebe's voice sounded strict, but in reality, she was motioning to interlock her fingers with his, a gesture which he wholeheartedly accepted.
"Your safety is still my number one priority," Arnold reiterated, "because you as a person are my number one priority. You're smart, you're intelligent, you're sexy as hell and I just enjoy being with you. You're not someone I'd want to risk losing."
Phoebe felt her eyes fluttering, but she too caught herself: "Nice try, Mister! Nothing like laying it on real thick! Having said that…" She then brought her lips to his for a kiss of brief passion and tenderness, "do keep trying. You certainly know how to make a lady feel appreciated. And please, please. No unnecessary risks."
She was smiling again, which Arnold read as a good sign. "I'm glad we settled that. Now, how about we unload our stuff?"
"Unloading!" Phoebe replied in her irresistibly playful tone.
That's your lot this chapter. As always, you have my eternal gratitude for sticking with me for this story. As always, I am motivated by your willingness to see this story all the way to the end. You are the reason for me putting in the effort that I do in each chapter.
Author's Note: I'm having fun with Scheck. Prison has made him even more ruthless but also that more sophisticated. So I've imagined an older version of him speaking in a voice that's a cross between Paul Sorvino, Tony Jay, and Gordon Heath.
Author's Note #2: Another goal for this chapter was to expand Brainy's character and to offer a glimpse to how he obtains his intel. It's important that he not be a mere Deus ex Machina. I also wanted to bring in not necessarily a romantic interest for him, but someone who would be saddened if any tragedy were to befall him.
Author's Note #3: It may be time for a re-read of Chapter 3 to reacquaint yourself with the Rawlins character. You probably thought that he'd be a throwaway background character back then. Just saying...
Author's Note #4: I promise you that I am a confirmed Shortaki proponent for life, but damn me to hell if I'm not having fun with Arnold and Phoebe and their scenes!. Again, just saying...
Author's Note #5: So what songs on Spotify inspired this chapter, I strain to hear you ask?
Something That You Said - The Bangles
Blue Eyes - Springbok Nude Girls
Army - Ellie Goulding
My Hometown - Bruce Springsteen
Changes - 2Pac
And on that note, see you next chapter!