(Author's Notes: Sorry for not updating this story for a long time. My health has been making it difficult to write as much as I would like.)
The Hit
Chapter 5
Fenton drummed his fingers against the table, waiting in the worst dive he'd had the displeasure of being in. He had ordered a gin and tonic just so that the bartender would stop eyeing him, although he hadn't touched it. The cleanliness of the glass was questionable at best, and he was pretty sure that the drink was more tonic than gin, so it wouldn't be worth passing it down his throat.
Having seen a picture of Drake Mallard from the FBI database, Fenton knew who to look for. Nervously, he tapped the table at the booth he sat in, taking turns looking to the door to his watch. He had been a half hour early and been watching and expecting the man to appear any moment. But Mallard proved to be extremely punctual and entered the bar exactly at ten o'clock.
Fenton sighed with relief, afraid that he had taken too great of a risk in setting up this meeting. After all, if anyone from the Bureau found out, he would lose his job. Possibly serve time in jail. He would be a disgrace. Six years of college and working hard at the academy to be number one in his class would go right down the drain on this gamble.
But Mallard had come through.
Then a second male duck came in behind Mallard, tall and imposing and causing Fenton to sweat.
It was the hitman.
Fenton reached into his jacket for his firearm, remembering he wasn't on duty. He carried a privately owned gun in a leg holster, but it would take too long for him to retrieve it.
Expecting to be attacked, Fenton prepared to fight back or run. He ran through several scenarios in which to disable his opponent or escape. Why was Mallard with the hitman? Had he made a mistake? Were Mallard and the hitman working together? Did they come to kill him?
As his mind went through a state of panic, he realized that Mallard didn't know who he was or what he looked like. In fact, the two ducks were standing around as if unsure what to do, looking at each of the patrons of the bar for any sign of the meeting. If Fenton wanted to, he could walk out of there that second and wash his hands of the entire thing.
But then he remembered the texts, how desperate they sounded. Mallard had said that his best friend's life was in danger. That was the only reason Fenton hadn't turned in the burner phone. In fact, he still had it in his pocket. Perhaps there was more to the situation than he knew.
When Mallard's eyes swept over the bar one more time, adrenaline coursed through Fenton's body as he made eye-contact and waved the pair over. Too late to back out now.
"I'm assuming this is you," Mallard said, holding out his phone showing the text conversation.
"Yes, I am," Fenton said, trying to keep his voice steady. He had to be strong, or at least pretend he was.
"You have a lot of explaining to do," Mallard said, putting away his phone.
Fenton frowned, his eyes going to the hitman. "So do you. What is he doing here?"
"It's his life that's in danger. And you said you could help us," Mallard said, sliding into the other side of the booth. He waved at the bartender and held up two fingers. Obviously he was a regular here since the man poured two beers from the tap and brought them over to Mallard and the hitman.
"You go first," Fenton said, taking a sip of his drink. As he predicted, the quality of the liquor left much to be desired.
Mallard sighed, took a long pull from his beer before telling an unbelievable story about his friend—introduced as Launchpad McQuack—asking Jim Starling for a permanent job as a chauffeur but through a misunderstanding was hired as a hitman. Fenton's text had caused a scene at an amusement park which resulted in Mallard finding out about everything.
"You expect me to believe that?" Fenton asked, his earlier nervousness gone as he analyzed the tale. "Nobody could be that dense." He looked to McQuack, seeing the large duck creating origami animals out of napkins.
"Don't underestimate Launchpad. He's not dense. He just thinks the better of everyone," Mallard said.
"No way," Fenton said, eying McQuack with suspicion. "No one would be stupid enough to work for Starling and not know who he is."
Mallard's face turned red. "Well…to be fair, it's not like Starling hired me himself. And when I answered the ad, it was for a corporation, not an individual."
Fenton stared. Was it possible that they were both idiots? It would explain so much.
"So what are you? St Canard PD? FBI? Or something else?" Drake asked, leaning over his beer.
Fenton should have guessed that Mallard suspected his was in law enforcement. There wasn't that many options. "I'm FBI," Fenton said, showing his badge. "I found out about the hit this morning."
"How?" Mallard asked, sounding just as suspicious as Fenton felt.
"I was…hiding underneath the table in the coffee house," Fenton admitted. "It was…kind of an accident."
"Looks like we've all had our share of those," Mallard said with bitter humor. "But the question is: how can you help us? When Starling finds out that Launchpad didn't go through with the hit, he'll come after him."
"Well, if you're willing to testify against Starling, then there might be a chance that the FBI could put you in witness protection," Fenton said. "But there's a big problem."
"We're not good witnesses," Mallard guessed, showing his expertise from when he worked on the police force. "Launchpad's testimony is riddled with holes, not to mention Starling could easily say that he hired Launchpad to do something else and that it was all in Launchpad's mind. And I'm not a witness at all. I've not seen anything remotely illegal in my time as Charity's bodyguard."
"Well, there's that, too," Fenton admitted, having not thought that through. "But there's also the little hiccup that I'm not actually here as an official agent."
"What do you mean?" Mallard asked, sounding a little angry.
With a sigh, Fenton revealed everything, how he was a junior agent, a glorified paper pusher, and hadn't been able to get the other agents to listen to him. He told how he went rogue when he got access to the burner phone just to warn Mallard about the hit on Charity.
"My intention was to save her life and that's it. I didn't think it would go any further," Fenton said with a sigh. "But when you said your friend's life was in danger, I kept the burner and decided to meet with you."
Mallard sat back, rubbing his forehead. "I thought you looked too young."
"Hey, my age has nothing to do with this. I'm a full agent," Fenton said, tired of being underestimated.
"But inexperienced," Mallard said with folded arms. "Why don't you call up your boss and we can make a deal with him? Perhaps there's something we can do in exchange for protection."
Fenton leaned forward. "Wait, please. I could lose my job," he pleaded.
"I don't care about you losing your desk job. Our lives are on the line," Mallard hissed. "This is the reason I left the force. Too many people putting their own careers over doing what's right."
Fenton felt ashamed. He shared the same thoughts about people in the Bureau. If he put his job over the lives of these men, he would be no better than people like Mark Beaks. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll…I'll call my boss right now." He wondered if Agent Donald was still in the office. More than likely he was if the Nanny hadn't been caught. If anyone would be eager to help Mallard and McQuack, it would be him.
"Wait, what's going to happen to Miss Charity?" Launchpad asked, looking up from his napkin menagerie.
Mallard and Fenton looked at him, clueless.
"When Mr. Starling finds out I didn't…you know…won't he find someone else to do it?" McQuack asked, looking worried. "And since Drake won't be there, she'll be defenseless."
Fenton hadn't thought of that either. He was beginning to realize that being an agent in the field was a lot more difficult than he thought it would be. "Well, we'll have to find a way to warn her. Perhaps you two could talk to her and convince her that her fiancé is trying to kill her. And she may be a better witness for our case."
Mallard snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that. If you can get her to say anything semi-intelligent."
"She could have seen or heard something incriminating," Fenton said. "She's been with him for months. It seems unlikely that he could hide everything from her."
"That's if she pays attention," Mallard said, taking a drink. "Charity isn't exactly in the running for brains of the month." He chuckled into his mug.
"Hey, Charity isn't that bad," McQuack defended. "She's really nice and generous and…and…she's not as stupid as she acts."
Fenton watched as Mallard's derision faded, wondering about the dynamics between these three and how they became associated with scum like Negaduck. Was it really possible that three completely innocent and naïve individuals fell in with Jim Starling by accident?
"We can't leave Miss Loveatte to her own devices," Fenton agreed. "And if both of you don't turn up for work tomorrow, Starling is going to be suspicious. If he thinks that something is going on, he'll make Miss Loveatte disappear. You need to warn her."
"Well, she's not going to listen to me," Drake said, folding his arms.
"What do you mean? Doesn't she like you?" Fenton asked. "Our surveillance always shows her smiling around you, sometimes even flirtatiously."
Drake's beak pressed in a thin line. "Yeah, well, the last time I saw her, I sort of yelled at her. And lately, she's been kind of cranky."
"I don't think she's going to care about all of that if her life is in danger," Fenton rationalized.
"Don't underestimate the power of the irrational female," Drake said sagely. "She likes Launchpad. Why can't he explain it to her?"
"Because he's the 'hitman'," Fenton said, using air quotes. "If he tells her that, she's going to scream."
"Then you do it. You're FBI," Drake said.
"She doesn't know me," Fenton replied. "If you want me to call my boss, then you need to at least do something for Miss Loveatte. As a potential witness, I need to make sure she is safe."
"Fine, I'll call her," Drake said, reaching for his phone.
"You really want to tell a girl that her fiancé is trying to kill her with a phone call?" Fenton asked in disbelief. "It should be done in person. That way, you can bring her in and I can find a way to get the three of you into witness protection."
"Then you're coming with me," Drake said. "Otherwise, she's not going to believe that I'm taking her to see the FBI."
"I can do that," Fenton said.
Drake finished his beer. "And I suppose I can call a buddy of mine from my days on the force. He has some FBI connections. Perhaps we can arrange things to make this legit so you don't lose your job."
"Really?" Fenton asked, sounding hopeful.
"It'd be a shame if the FBI lost a kid like you," Drake said with a smirk. "Plus, we have Starling's ten grand. That should be enough evidence to get you a warrant or something. Maybe if you run the serial numbers, they'll come up with something."
"Yeah," Fenton said. He should be happy with how things were going, but he suddenly felt that he was taking the back seat in this investigation. Despite the fact that Fenton should have more authority, Drake had taken the lead easily with his suggestions and forceful voice.
Even when he was the only agent around, Fenton still felt inadequate.
Charity held the vial in her hand. It was amazing how such a small amount of white powder could knock out a grown man. Now all she had to do was to somehow get Drake to drink it. That would be the real feat since she hardly saw him eat or drink anything while on duty. Maybe she should have suggested a tranquilizer dart instead of using sleeping pills. It would have been very satisfying to shoot him with one.
Oh well, she had a plan but not a very good one. If she had to, she would force the powder down his throat.
There was a knock at her door, and she slipped the vial into her purse next to her phone and a small revolver she kept for emergencies. Plastering on her best smile, she answered the door.
They brought the limousine. They had to. Agent Crackshell-Cabrera wouldn't let Drake go home to get his own car in case someone was looking for Launchpad, and the junior FBI agent didn't own a car. The vehicle was large and awkward, and Drake wondered what the FBI would think when they appeared at their building like a group of celebrities.
He felt sick and nervous and couldn't help but think that there were so many ways for this plan to go wrong. He felt as if the most likely scenario would be Charity disbelieving that Starling would try to kill her and go running to her fiancé to tell him everything. Then they could all get killed together.
With Crackshell-Cabrera at his side, Drake knocked on Charity's apartment door and waited.
"Punctual as usual," Charity said, opening the door. She hesitated before exiting, her eyes falling on the FBI agent with uncertainty. "So, is this the new chauffeur?" she asked, giving the other duck a dull look.
"Uh…" Drake tried to summon words to explain everything, but was interrupted.
"Good, because all I want to do is to go to Jim's and veg out. I'm not in a good mood to do anything else," she announced, shutting her door and locking it.
"Wait, that's not…" Drake started to say.
"It's nice to meet you, Miss Loveatte," Crackshell-Cabrera said, standing up straight like he was in the army.
Charity smiled. "Well, at least someone around here has some manners," she said, her words were obviously directed to Drake.
"Shall we go, Miss Loveatte?" Crackshell-Cabrera asked, offering the lovebird his arm.
With a sultry smile and a flirtatious roll of her shoulder, she took the arm, following the FBI agent to the elevator.
In the parking lot, Crackshell-Cabrera opened the door for Charity, acting the perfect gentleman.
"What are you doing?" Drake hissed once the door was closed.
"This is perfect," Crackshell-Cabrera said, a huge grin on his beak. "We could gather more evidence."
"Wouldn't that be an illegal search and seizure?" Drake asked, getting a bad feeling about things.
"Not if I'm invited inside and don't take anything," Fenton said. "I can look around and take pictures, all of which will be legal."
"This wasn't the deal," Drake said, his teeth grinding together. "You promised we'd talk to Charity, get her somewhere safe, and then the FBI would protect Launchpad."
Crackshell-Cabrera put a hand on Drake's shoulder, which made him want to slap it away. "Mallard, I may have exaggerated my promises a bit. The truth is, the FBI might not put your friend or Charity in witness protection when you're giving them hardly any information. With Charity and McQuack's testimony combined, it isn't enough to do anything against Negaduck."
Drake breathed heavily through his nose.
"But if we could get some hard evidence, then that's another matter," Crackshell-Cabrera said.
Drake knew this to be true. He should have suspected as much before now, but he was so desperate to save his best friend's life that he believed the FBI would help. "Okay, let's do it." He moved toward the driver's door.
"Hey, I'm supposed to be the driver," Crackshell-Cabrera said, stopping him.
Drake frowned. "Do you even know how to drive a limo?"
Crackshell-Cabrera shrugged. "How hard could it be?"
As Drake found out the day before, the FBI agent learned that it was very hard. However, due to Launchpad's poor driving skills and tendency to hit stationary objects, Charity didn't seem to notice. Drake gave directions to Starling's estate, and they rolled through the tall, iron gates with only a nod from the guards.
"That was easy," Crackshell-Cabrera said optimistically.
Drake snorted, his nerves turning into needles. "Look, there are certain rules that you need to follow," he began explaining. "Starling is very peculiar about how his employees act and where they can go. As a chauffeur, if you need to come in the house, you go through the back. There's a kitchen and a lounge where Launchpad would spend his time if we stayed inside all day. If you go snooping around, you'll have to be careful not to get caught. If you do, I don't know you."
"Got it," Crackshell-Cabrera said, looking more serious than before.
Yeah, he better wise-up. This wasn't some game.
Leaving the FBI agent with the limo with the hope that he wouldn't screw things up and get them all killed, Drake followed Charity up the front steps inside the house.
"Charity?"
The lovebird squealed, racing to her fiancé and showering him with affection. Starling looked surprise.
Yeah, she's still alive, scumbag.
"How was Duckburg?" Charity asked, running her hands around his jacket, acting as if she were going to start undressing him.
Drake looked away in disgust.
"Uh…it was fine," Starling said, recovering from his shock. "So, my darling, what are your plans for today?"
"I'm tired. Do you mind if I just lay around today?" Charity cooed, twisting one of her curls around her finger.
"You feel free to do what you want, my heart," Negaduck said with a smile. "Unfortunately, I can't stay and lavish you with your every desire." He looked down her cleavage, his hand squeezing and pulling her close. "Perhaps another day?"
"I look forward to it," Charity said in a sultry voice. "Will you be working at home or at your office?"
"If I stay here, I'll never get anything done," Starling said, breathing hard. "No, I will be going to my office where there are less…distractions."
Charity smiled with half-closed eyes. She kissed his cheek. "Have a good day," she said before skipping toward the entertainment room.
"Hold on there…what was your name again? Mallard?" Negaduck called, his attention falling on Drake.
Heart pounding and pours opening to allow the flow of moisture, Drake forced himself to look calm on the outside and respond to the summons. "Yes?"
When Charity was out of the room, Starling asked, "The limo driver from before. Is he working today?"
Of course he would ask about Launchpad. Drake wasn't prepared for this.
"No, he's not," Drake said, going through likely questions he would be asked to prepare for answers.
"Did he call in sick?"
"He no longer works for you," Drake said, a plan forming in his mind that would alleviate some of his worries. "I had to let him go."
"Let him go? You don't have the authority to fire anyone," Starling said, pointing a finger at Drake.
"It came to my attention that the driver was a threat to Miss Loveatte's life. So I took care of things," Drake said, hoping that the lie wouldn't be perceived.
"Take care of? Did you call the police?" Starling looked to be calm, but there were tell-tale signs of worry.
"No, I had the problem removed permanently," Drake said, putting his arms behind his back. "It'll be a long time before anyone finds him."
Starling looked impressed. "Good. Fine work. Keep it up," he said, smiling. "I'm glad I'm getting my money's worth out of you, Mallard." The crime boss then walked to the door, his men opening it and leading him out to his own limo.
Once he was alone, he sighed and threw his head back in relief. Well, even if things go south, Launchpad will be safe.
Going to the entertainment room, he found Charity sitting down to the start of a movie. For once, she hadn't picked something stupid. Instead, out of character, she had put in an old black-and-white, foreign film. For once, they could both be entertained. And who knows, maybe the ditsy girl will learn something.
After twenty minutes, Charity stood up with an irritated groan. "It's so cold in here," she grumbled. She closed all the vents and pulled out a pair of space heaters from a closet.
Drake begged to differ. He was the perfect temperature. With it being summer outside, each room's vents were blasting out air-conditioning, keeping him comfortable in his dark suit. He frowned when he smelled the familiar scent of dust burning off the space heater's coils from months of disuse.
"That's better," Charity said with a sigh, plopping back on the couch again.
Drake glared at the lovebird's wardrobe. No wonder she was cold. She had on short-shorts and a thin shirt that barely covered her belly. She might as well have come in her underwear.
Time passed with the movie, and Drake struggled with the heat raising the temperature degree by degree. He hoped that Crackshell-Cabrera was using his time wisely and had found something. His mind wandered to the possibilities. Perhaps there were dead bodies in the basement. Or a counterfeit machine in the kitchen. Contraband caviar in the bathroom. Drake almost laughed as he thought of more ridiculous evidence before realizing that the heat was getting to him.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, feeling how wet his suit was getting.
"Drake, could you ask a maid to make me some lemonade?" Charity said.
With a nod and a single word, Drake stumbled out of the entertainment room to the cool air of the rest of the house, his head clearing up quickly. He found a maid to make the request before reluctantly returning to the hot room, wondering just how cold a girl could get.
He knew women sometimes got hot flashes, but was it possible for one to get a cold flash?
Minutes later, a maid returned with a silver tray with a large pitcher of lemonade, ice floating and clacking, and two empty glasses.
Charity immediately stood up to pour herself a portion of the liquid, drinking it right in front of Drake while still watching the movie.
Drake moved his tongue around his mouth, wishing he was drinking the cooling refreshment as well. He should. After all, the maid brought two glasses, so he was meant to drink from one of them. But for some reason, he refused to take a drink while Charity was nearby.
Luckily, the lovebird finished her drink, poured more in her glass and sat down. By Drake's self-proclaimed rules, he was now safe to take a drink.
He poured, making sure several cubes of ice dropped in with the lemonade. He picked up the glass, the moist condensation making his grip slippery. Just as he was about to drink, Charity called out, "I'm hungry. Could you find someone to make me a sandwich, Drake?"
With it already at his beak, he allowed himself a single, wonderful sip before slipping back out of the entertainment room, hunting down a different maid to put in the request. What was he? A butler? A servant? As much as he hated being at Charity's beck and call, it was part of his job description.
This time, he stayed in the cool hallway to wait for the sandwich where he could be comfortable. He was given five minutes of basking in the wonderful air-conditioning before the sandwich arrived and he had to return to the insufferable sauna. He set down the plate near Charity before returning to his position near the door and close to his glass of lemonade. He picked it up again and swallowed a few more mouthfuls.
By this time, the heat had started to affect him again, sweat soaking under his arms and other places. He loosened his collar and wished he could take off his jacket, but if he did that, his holster would be exposed, and that was a big no-no for a bodyguard.
He took another drink before the world began to spin. He shook his head, trying to fix things. What was the matter with him? While in the police academy, he had jumped walls and ran miles in warmer weather than this. Had he gone soft?
He took another drink, thinking it was just the heat. He stumbled backward, running into the wall.
"Drake, are you okay?" Charity asked, suddenly at his side.
"Yeah," he said automatically, knowing he really wasn't.
"You should come sit down," Charity said in a soothing tone. It wasn't flirtatious, but soft and comforting. She had never talked to him like that before. It was nice.
"No, I'm supposed to…stand by the door," Drake said, unsure what he was supposed to do.
"It's okay. Just sit for two minutes, and you'll feel better," Charity said, guiding him to the couch.
"Yeah, okay," Drake agreed, sinking into the plush seat. His head felt as if it were spinning like a carousel. His body wanted to sleep. That's when his instincts finally kicked in, telling him that something was wrong.
"Drink."
The glass was put to his beak, and cold, sweet liquid poured in. He sputtered, trying to warn Charity. There was something in the lemonade.
"Drink," Charity said again, softer. Her fingers caressed his face. "Everything is fine."
And rather than choke on the drink, Drake drank every drop before everything went black.
