chapter ELEVEN: Not Another Word Spoken

Daves looked at the newly-filled glass sitting before him, the Coke fizzing up to the brim. There was little conversation happening at the bar and that made him a little more comfortable, but, at the same time, uneasy. The silence left him wondering just what KING was doing at the counter…wondering if it had anything to do with his own mission. It was the first time the thought had come to mind. He hadn't seriously suspected that the man had any dealings with him, but there now seemed a good possibility that KING wasn't just there for a drink – maybe he was there for Daves.

It didn't take him long to convince himself that he wasn't safe there, anymore, but he couldn't deny that he had to take a leak. It had been slowly urging him out of his seat ever since he'd finished his first glass of Coke. And, he knew as he patted his side, he always had his gun to keep him company.

So, now convinced that if KING was to confront him he'd be as safe as he ever was, he stood up from his chair and went calmly to the restroom. It turned out that it was unisex – something he realized when he saw a woman step out of one of the stalls as he moved over to a urinal. She smiled, gave him a pleasant wave, and he said "hi" as she went to the sink and washed her hands.

He felt somewhat uncomfortable unzipping in front of her, but figured there wasn't any harm. And so, he proceeded, looking straight ahead as the woman giggled a little, turned off the water, and went out the door. 'Mmm mmm,' he thought to himself, recalling her image – the full breasts, the elegant curves, the tight shirt she wore that came up to expose her belly button. All perfect. It had been far too long since he'd had sex. He wasn't a pervert or anything of, but he was a man.

The door opened. The footsteps that entered the room called Daves back to the matter at hand, back to KING, and he looked out of the corner of his eye to catch a glimpse. But he could not. Then, making sure to stay calm and appear inconspicuous, he zipped up his pants, turned to the sink, ran the water for a second after rubbing on some soap, and started the hand dryer next to the door. Once his hands were nearly dry he shot a look over his shoulder at the urinals.

KING stood, arms at his sides, feet firmly planted on the tile, and silver handgun poking out from the waves of his jacket, watching Daves with a glint of red stinging in his otherwise steel-shaded eyes. Daves couldn't look away. Not now. He turned his body toward KING.

"Funny, seeing you here," Daves said, staying loose.

"No surprise on my part," KING answered, his voice husky and low. "I've been meaning to speak to you since you showed up at Khirshnoff's…and killed him."

Daves didn't know what to say – was about to crack a joke, but wasn't sure it was the time. "Well, it's part of the job," he laughed, deciding to crack a joke.

KING pulled forth his handgun in a swift motion and fired once. Daves hadn't had time to react. Just watched as KING stepped over to the stall door he'd shot straight through and opened it wide, exposing a bloodied woman slumped against the toilet – a bullet in her forehead. KING turned to him and raised his shoulders. "She was listening," he said, "part of the job," and smiled.

Daves looked stunned, but recovered quickly. "You've got a nice shot." And then, he pulled out his own gun. He held it level to the floor, aiming for KING's forehead. KING didn't seem moved or frightened. Just stood there as Daves spoke. "What're you doing here, KING?"

"KING?" he said, smiling. "Learned that from this, huh?" He pulled the folder Daves had gotten from Khirshnoff out of his jacket. 'Damn,' Daves thought. He'd left it at his table when he'd gone to the restroom.

"What the hell –" a man griped as he came into the room. Daves turned, pointed the gun at him, but another gun rang out – KING's gun – and a bullet pierced the man in the chest and sent him through the doorway. By the time Daves had turned back, KING had his aim on him too.

"What do you say you come with me?" KING said. "And drop that. You won't get a shot in before I've put one through your heart." Daves seemed disappointed, but nothing more. He tossed his gun over to KING, who caught it and slipped it into his belt.

The two were out the front door, customers seeking shelter behind the bar and under their tables when they saw the gun that KING held between Daves' shoulder blades. Daves started in the direction of his car, but KING grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "I'll drive. I think we're headed to the same place, anyway."

Daves looked at him, curiously. "Trinket?" he asked as he was forced into the back seat of a little black Jetta. KING went around to the driver's seat and got in.

"Is that what you call it?" KING asked. Daves looked at him strangely.

"Isn't that what it's called?"

"I'm sure that's what most people know it as. But," he paused, "it's a place I like to call 'home.'"

~*~

Desperado had made his way back to the White House and had quickly passed through the security – flashing his ID and swiping his key card time after time before reaching the door in the office area that he then disappeared behind. Like before, he took the narrow stairwell down to another door, swiped his key card, and went down to the end of the long hall where he was then surveyed quickly by a security guard and, after that, allowed into the last room. There, like the time before, he found the Vice President, Alex Moore, sitting patiently in the chair on the opposite end of the table that, aside from the chair Desperado proceeded to take a seat in, was the only furniture in the room.

Alex said nothing, just looked at Desperado with raised eyebrows like he was waiting for an answer. Desperado, though, said nothing. Alex sighed and scooted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. "So?" he said, "are you in?"

Desperado nodded. "The President plays second fiddle to the country," he remarked. Alex looked amused, smiled a little, and clapped his hands together.

"Good then! You spoke with Mr. Springfield?" Desperado nodded again. "And, how about Mr. Brant?"

"I spoke to him, but he didn't mention the status regarding Trinket."

"And, what did he mention?" Desperado looked up and sharply observed Alex whose eyes seemed heavy in shadow.

"Has Brant become a subject of interest?" Desperado started. The conversation was becoming much like an interrogation, and the Vice's prying questions were in a tone that Desperado did not care for. "I was under the impression that I was here for two things – to take care of a few suspected terrorists, while completely disillusioning the President of the United States," this, too, amused Alex, "and to tell you anything that I hear regarding the situation in Trinket. And, if you heard me wrong, I said that I know nothing new of the situation."

Alex leaned back a little in his chair, his eyes bright. "I can see you are a natural business man and very set in your ways, but while I applaud your strength, I must remind you that a clock is ticking," he paused, matching glances with Desperado, "and that I am the Vice President of the United States." He said the last few words with a great deal of authority, his voice meaning to intimidate, and Desperado nodded a couple times before pushing back his chair and standing up.

"You don't need to remind me of anything, Mr. Vice President," he said, and pushed his chair back under the table. "I am the one you called in for the job. So, come on, give me a little credit."

He smiled, but Alex could do nothing more than sneer an ugly sneer and say seven quick numbers: "675-8779. Call me, sometime."

Desperado gave him two thumbs up and turned swiftly to the door. "I'll be calling you, too!" Alex said. "Make sure you know something about the situation by then."

Desperado just grinned at the door as he put his hand on the knob, and murmured quickly under his breath: "Sure thing, boss."

~*~

Brant had tried several times to get a hold of Desperado after he'd been cut brief, but no connection could be made. And the very moment that he had put away his cell phone, it began to ring. He pulled into the turn lane and slowed at an intersection as the lights turned from yellow to red. Slowly reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled forth the phone and looked at the Caller ID. It read 'error,' but today he couldn't risk the call being a wrong number or anything like that. He had to take everything that he could.

"Hello?" he said, eyes glued ahead, the red light shining eerily through the cold, pitch morning and falling over the dashboard.

"Hello," a voice returned. It struck Brant as strange. Not automated or fake, but taunting…and he had no face he could pin to it.

"Who is this?" he ventured to say, his voice strong, but his insides churning a little, his heart speeding up.

"I am neither friend, nor enemy." That was it. That was all he said. And then, as strangely as the call had come it went away, ended, and the red light quickly receded. But when Brant finally returned to reality, a few moments later, and readied his foot on the gas, he just looked dumbfounded at the street lights. For, while the red light had gone, no green light had followed.

There was just the dark…and a face outside his window.

~*~

"Why do they call you KING?" Daves asked, breaking a silence that had gone on, despite the patter of the rain and the running of the engine, for nearly a half hour.

There was a long pause, one that made Daves think that he was being ignored, and then: "They don't. That's what they called my father." He seemed to be remembering. "They called me Mr. President."

And then, Daves saw it. In the eyes. In the hair. And he could hear it in the voice. "Sears."

Until the time when they would reach Trinket, there'd be not another word spoken.