(Author's Notes: I can't believe I last posted in June. I didn't realize time had gone by that quickly. I really do want to finish this story, especially since I could probably finish it in ten or so more chapters. I promise I won't let so much time lapse between chapters.)
The Hit
Chapter 8
Even with Charity in the middle of a life threatening mission, she couldn't help thinking once they sat down in the sports bar that thank goodness she was finally going to be able to eat a giant cheeseburger with bacon and a beer. She was sick and tired of ordering salads and fruit smoothies all the time to keep up appearances. If it wasn't for her stocking up on her favorite snacks inside her apartment, she would have starved on the diet of a socialite.
Although she was going to miss those fruity little drinks with the umbrellas.
After they ordered and Charity had calmed her stomach by mentally telling it, Just a few more minutes, baby, she handed over the memory stick to Martha.
"Yatzee," Martha said, snatching it up and plugging it into her tablet. Her fingers danced a jig across the touch screen.
"Please tell me we have enough information so that I can break cover," Charity pleaded. "I don't know how long I can keep up with this disguise." The first thing she was going to do was burn all those high-heeled shoes. No, considering how often she had sucked face with Negaduck, she was going to take a scorching shower. No, wait. She was going to fire Drake to his face. Yes, that would feel so good.
"All the files are encrypted," Martha said. "I won't know if we have anything until I work for a couple of hours."
Charity sighed but brightened up once her burger and fries arrived. She grabbed the ketchup bottle and poured sauce all over her burger and fries, making a giant, gooey mess.
"Ew," Sunny said, scooting away as if Charity's eating habits were contagious.
With Martha concentrating on her tablet, Sunny criticizing Charity's lack of keeping appetizers and sauces logically separated for dipping purposes, and Charity relishing in her meal, nobody noticed the green-feathered duck approach their table, reaching into her purse with a purpose.
"Get down!"
Charity nearly choked on a french fry as Drake dove at the female duck dressed in black.
There was a flash of metal and a loud bang. Several patrons of the sports bar screamed or shouted, most dropping to the floor.
Charity cursed. In all the craziness in the past few days, she had dropped her guard. The crack of the gunshot that was meant for her sharpened her senses. She pushed Sunny down on the plastic seats. Crouching under the table, she watched as Drake wrestled with the unknown assassin for the gun.
Dang, that woman was strong if she was giving Drake a run for his money.
She reached into her purse for her glock, taking aim. It would be easy to hit the assassin in the leg, but there was always a chance that Drake would get in the way. Plus, how would she explain why she was carrying around a gun.
"Pst, the fire alarm," Martha hissed, jerking her head to the wall near their table.
Charity glanced at the fight to make sure Mallard was doing his thing before she sat back up on the seat, reached out and pulled the alarm. "Everyone, out the back," she shouted, hoping all the people inside the restaurant would do as she said. And it was a good thing she did.
Drake had just wrestled the gun away from the assassin and shoved her to the ground, pulling her arms behind her back to restrain her.
The woman smirked before saying, "Poe."
Before anyone could figure out what she meant by that, a man walked along the sidewalk of the restaurant, stopped in front of the large, tinted windows and turned, showing the gun he had hidden: a submachine gun.
Drake only had a few seconds to turn around and dive at Charity and her friends, turning the table over just in time to protect all of them from the volley of projectiles.
Sunny screamed, grabbing onto Drake.
Charity gritted her teeth, wanting to do something. She glanced at Martha, who was obviously in the same position, but they had to keep up their cover. Once again, having Drake around was a complete inconvenience. Except for the fact that he did save their lives, so she had to give him that.
Their backs were against the wall. Charity saw no other way but to break cover. She reached into her purse, her hand curling over the grip of her gun. Martha saw her do this, and shook her head. But what else could they do? Charity just couldn't put her life in Mallard's hands.
"This guy's going to run out of bullets," Drake told the girls, pulling out his gun, heedless of Sunny's death-grip on him. "When he does, I'll give you some cover, and you go out the back. Get to the car and drive to the police station."
Yeah, that ain't happening, Charity thought.
"Get ready," Drake ordered.
"Come on, Sunny," Martha said, pulling on the cockatiel.
Sunny shook her head, holding on tighter.
Charity dropped her head close to Sunny's. "We could all die," she hissed. "And we both know you aren't scared. You just want to feel up Drake."
Sunny gave a sheepish grin but hesitantly let go.
The second that the gunfire stopped, Drake stood up and fired his gun at the two assassins. The pair of green ducks ran for cover, barely dodging out of the way.
Charity and Martha sprinted for the back exit sign, Sunny in their wake. As they burst through the backdoor, Charity stopped and looked back. Drake only had one gun, and his magazine would eventually run out of bullets. What then? Did he have more ammo? Not likely.
She should just leave him. He was a nuisance. There was more at stake than the life of one man.
"Damn it," she shouted, sprinting after Martha and Sunny.
When she caught up, she pointed out a car in the back alley, a tired, brown-colored sedan from the 80s that looked like it was held together with wire and duct tape. She threw her elbow at the driver's window, shattering the glass. Pushing the swan and cockatiel into the back seat, she quickly hotwired the car. She hoped that it would roar to life on the first try, but instead she got a whine and a few coughs, but that was good enough. Pushing down the clutch, she forced the car into first gear then slip-shifted into third as she gained speed, ignoring the grinding and moaning of the engine as she slammed down the gas. The vehicle jumped jerkily for a few seconds before running smoothly down the alley.
Hardly touching the break, Charity turned onto the main road, then again to drive down the street in front of the restaurant. Seeing that the male green duck was loading new ammunition into his gun, she aimed at the assassin. The guy barely jumped out of the way as Charity drove the car through the shattered window into the sports bar.
"Drake, get in," she shouted, keeping an eye out for the female assassin.
Drake peered around the table riddled with bullet holes before dashing to the piece of junk that Charity had accosted. He barely made it in when the female assassin took a few shots with her revolver from wherever she was hiding.
Even before Drake could close the door behind his tail feathers, Charity had shifted the car to reverse and backed up at the same speed she entered the restaurant, once again, missing the male assassin by a wingtip as she screeched by.
On the road, Charity realized that she hadn't felt this good in a long time. Driving that car had really made her feel alive.
"Ahhhhh! Drake, what is going on?!" Martha screamed, cowering in the back seat. "Charity, slow down!"
Charity glanced back in her rearview mirror, confused. Those kinds of hysterics didn't sound like Martha. Sunny, maybe, if she really wanted something. But not Martha. One look in her friend's eyes told her everything.
Get in character!
Charity grabbed a handful of feathers from her arm and yanked them out, bringing tears to her eyes. "I can't believe we almost died back there!" Charity screamed, making her hands tremble on the wheel. She swerved a little, crossing the main line and causing a few cars to honk at her.
"Uh…maybe I should drive," Drake suggested, his voice calm.
"Don't slow down, Charity," Sunny yelled, gripping the seat in front of her. "Those crazy people might be right behind us."
Charity saw in the rearview mirror that Sunny didn't even hide her smile. She was getting a kick out of acting afraid.
"What are we going to do?" Charity shouted, hyperventilating. She made sure that every time Drake reached for her, she yanked the wheel to the side, knocking him against his door. "What are we going to do?"
"Maybe we should pull over and think things through," Drake said, this time sounding a little afraid.
Charity took a right, feeling the car drift into the turn and leaving a nice set of skid marks. Hopefully Drake didn't notice how expertly she handled the car.
Sunny screamed for real and grabbed Drake around the neck. Martha pretended to faint.
Feeling as if she had milked the moment enough, Charity turned into a parking garage, running into and breaking the unmanned tollbooth arm as the coup de grace of her wild ride before parking perfectly between two SUVs. The look on Drake's face would be remembered fondly until the day she died.
Sunny's screams had now turned to sobs with her face buried into Drake's neck.
Charity didn't point out how few tears the cockatiel shed. Let her have her fun.
"Okay, okay," Drake said calmly, as if he were talking to wild animals. "I think we're safe. No need to panic…anymore."
Charity kept up the pretense a bit more before pretending to calm down. She then went to Martha to help "wake" her up while Sunny kept Drake distracted. As she patted the swan's cheeks and talked to her friend, Martha lifted up her tablet to show wanted pictures of the two assassins. Leave it to Martha to take the time in a life-or-death situation to do her research.
Charity read the information. Magica and Poe de Spell. Charity's eyes popped. A brother and sister duo and were almost as nasty as Negaduck. It was a miracle that they had escaped with their lives.
Charity clicked her tongue subtlety, and Sunny stopped distracting Drake—or flirting with him, it was hard to tell with Sunny.
"What do we do?" Sunny asked, sniffling away non-existent tears.
"What we should do is go to the police," Drake said, tucking his gun back into his shoulder holster.
Yeah, that's the last thing we want to do, Charity thought. Not only would Jim Starling get all paranoid and twitchy by involving the police and thus bringing in more security to his compound, or the police will ruin Charity's whole operation.
"No, we go back to Jim's," Charity said firmly. "He'll know what to do." And we can hide out there until he deals with these two assassins and whoever sent them. It must be one of Negaduck's enemies. For once, she had to hand it to her fiancé for having enough foresight to give her a bodyguard.
Just as she started backing out the car, Drake reached out as if to grab the key, but instead his hand brushed the wires, causing the car to stall. Strangely, he didn't seem to have noticed that the care was hotwired.
"Listen to me," Drake said in all seriousness, addressing Charity. "You cannot go back to Starling's home. Not ever."
Charity frowned. "And why should I not go to my fiancé's?" Charity asked. Nothing would have made her happier than to never see Jim Starling again, but the way that Drake was bossing her around, she would have done it just to spite him.
"Because he's the one who wants you dead," Drake said. "He's the one who sent the assassins."
There was a pregnant pause inside the car as the girls stared at him. Drake hadn't meant to blurt it out. He was supposed to let Charity down slowly, but after the adrenaline rush of dodging bullets and living after Charity's driving, his senses had left him in a lurch.
Unexpectedly, Charity and her friends burst out laughing, Sunny even falling back and kicking her short legs wildly.
"I'm serious," Drake said, pounding a fist on the dashboard.
"Why would Jim want to kill his own girlfriend?" Martha asked, the first to stop laughing.
Drake was about to reply when his cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. If they didn't believe him now, what would they think when he said Charity was a target because she had been flirtatious with her bodyguard? He knew what they would say. Was he so vain and arrogant that he thought he could trick them with such a lie? There was absolutely no way that Charity would admit to flirting with anyone, let alone a lowly bodyguard.
"Look, you just have to trust me," Drake said. "Your boyfriend isn't…there's more to Jim Starling than what you see."
Was it his imagination or did Charity exchange meaningful looks with her friends? No, it was Drake's imagination. He doubted that prissy, Miss Charity had ever done anything meaningful in her life.
"Please. Let me take you to one place. I have proof, someone who can tell you everything," Drake said. If he could just get the girls to Fenton, he could show them his badge and take it from there. Then Drake could wash his hands of the whole thing, and he and Launchpad could look after themselves, either get into witness protection or skip town, find someplace they could remain anonymous.
"Wait, if Jim really does want Charity dead, and you work for him, why wouldn't you just kill Charity yourself?" Sunny asked, pointing a perfectly manicured hand at Drake.
Drake growled. "I may work for him, but I'm not party to his decision to kill you. I didn't know. All I did was answer an ad, and here I am. And believe me, if my contract had any sort of escape clause, I wouldn't be here at all."
"I'm flattered," Charity snorted.
Drake glared at her. "Please, just one place. And if you don't like what you see, then I'm out of your life. I'll leave and you'll never see me again."
Charity narrowed her eyes. "Fine. But I'm driving."
Drake's shoulders tensed. "Can we renegotiate?"
"No," Charity said, turning the car back on with a little difficulty. Either the lovebird was still in shock from almost being killed or something was wrong with the engine.
Drake quickly gave instructions to the hotel where Launchpad was—and hopefully Fenton had made it back by this time. Ignoring the looks he got from the guy at the front desk for bringing in three beautiful and nicely dressed girls, Drake took them up to his room.
"I brought Charity and her friends," Drake called out. "I think they're open to listening to what we have to say."
Launchpad popped up from one of the beds where he watched TV. "Miss Charity, you're alive! Drake got to you in time."
Charity's eyes widened at the sight of Launchpad. She looked back at Drake. "You two are working together?" There was something in her face that was very concerning.
"Let me explain," Drake said placatingly. Things were going wrong all too quickly.
"Oh, good," Fenton said, stepping out of the bathroom. In his hand was his gun, but to Drake's trained eye, it was unloaded and taken apart as if Fenton were cleaning it.
But Charity, Sunny and Martha only saw the gun, their faces full of panic.
"YOU!" Charity shouted, pointing at Fenton.
"Easy now," Drake said. "This isn't what it seems. Let's just calmly—" But he didn't get to finish his sentence.
In an instant, Martha kicked out at Fenton, knocking the gun out of his hands. She then grabbed his wrist and in an impressive display of martial arts, twisted and locked Fenton in a painful hold, pushing him against the wall while pressing a gun she pulled out of her purse to the underside of Fenton's bill.
At the same time, Sunny leapt at Launchpad, wrapping her legs around his neck and performed a complex body slam that most professional wrestlers would have been envious of. She then yanked on his legs until he cried out. She kept him in check by only loosening her grip a little and pushing his face into the hotel room's carpet with one foot.
Drake had little chance to help out the others as Charity attacked him so quickly, he had little time to react. She had the element of surprise on her side as she punched him several times in the gut, then to the face before sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He ended up looking up at her with a gun aimed at his face and one of her stiletto heels pressed to his throat.
All of this happened in just a few seconds.
"So…do you girls want a drink from the minibar?" Launchpad asked.