4
As his teeth sank into the last of his fourth take-out burrito, Ron mumbled incoherently at the utter simplicity of the "station". It wasn't all it was cracked up to be; it looked like nothing more than a simple apartment owned by a well off couple. Cultural items of whatnot bejeweled the cramped quarters, either sitting near or hanging on walls splashed with the warm, summer colors of the Mediterranean.
That was all there was too it, nothing more. There were no secret rooms or slide out compartments; he pulled and tugged on every book with in his reach; and that fat, tanned cow of a station chief nearly bit his head off after the candelabra was ripped off the wall.
"Gee Rufus," he mumbled through his stuffed lips, "this station isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I mean, where's all the guns, the gadgets-- you know, all that top secret spy junk?"
"Hmm.!" his child twitched his whiskers in thought. The mole rat shook his head. ".Don't know!"
"This sanctioned crap blows!" he swallowed, audibly blowing air through his puckered lips. "Really blows."
"He-huh-ha-ha!" his son chuckled. "Yeah!"
"I thought real espionage would be fun." He said flatly. "It just turns out to be another nine-to-five job. except you--go places and stuff."
"Hmm--yep!"
"But what the heck does Kim really want out of this, Rufus?" he pondered aloud. "Is there really anything that this outfit can do that she can't by herself? I mean--she's *the* Lara Croft for Pete's sake!"
"Uh-uh!" the rat squeaked. "No guns!"
"Yeah--that's true." He nodded. "But it's not like she needs them anyway. If she wants this VSA group so badly, she can do it herself."
"Yep!"
"No I can't, Ron." Said that cool voice of his friend. He turned around, pushing his elbow behind him and letting it bend behind the back of the couch. A baggy shirt draped over Kim's shapely body as she stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if she was loitering. "But thanks for the ego boost."
"What do you mean you can't find these guys?" he blinked. "Did you forget your motto already?"
"Nope," she shook her head gently, "but after Escutcheon, our government has been sticking their noses into our business. Understandable, since they don't want an international incident on their hands, and we have to clear our operations through the State Department before we can proceed anymore."
"They never supported our actions before," he said, "why start now?"
"Seems it finally hit them that world peace can't be left to their own discretion." She said. "It's up to each and every one of us to make our world a better place. .And the government wasn't too happy with us after the UN condemnation over violating the Outer Space Treaty. Bad press, and all."
"To a degree, Kim." He said flatly. "Just don't say that peace stuff around my synagogue, or you'll end up in an argument with Rabbi Katz."
"Agreed." She yawned.
"So what were you and the Hershel lady talking about?"
"I'm trying to get us clearance through the Israeli government for our operations." She said. "It seems this VSA group has gotten lost within the civilian population. And since we don't want turf war on our hands, we might as well work through the Mossad."
"Okay, fine with us." He nodded. "As long as we get some new toys to play with. Right Rufus?"
"Yeah!" he squeaked.
"Highly unlikely we'll get any." She said. "But it's not a bad thing to hope for, isn't it?"
"Better than going out naked against an army, KP." He said.
"True." She noted. "But we manage without any fancy stuff."
"Sure Ms. Kimmunicator." He chuckled. "Whatever you say."
Her smooth, bare legs carried her over to the black duffel bag that sat on an elegantly crafted chair. Fortunately, Hershel was "kind" enough to let them retrieve their bags from their own hotel during the drive over. The cloth rippled and crinkled as her hands dug into the caving sack, and they came out with the bulky PDA in hand.
"Wade." She spoke as her finger touched a button. "Can you read me?"
"Loud and clear." The device seemingly crackled out. "Do you know what time it is here?"
"Do I look like a timekeeper to you?" she smirked. "Now let's keep focused here."
"Aw." the voice yawned. "How's that debriefing thing going for you? Was it painful?"
"Not at all." She said. "In fact, the station chief's on the phone with Tel Aviv right now. Looks like we'll be commissioned by the Mossad if all goes well."
"What pray-tell for?"
"If I work through these guys," she explained, "they might help me track down this new lead. I'd like you to run a continuous inquiry for me, over the course of this op."
"Ugh." the voice moaned, and the tiny speakers crackled. or tapped out in an irregular pattern. "What is it?"
"Run a bullion search for 'VSA'." She said. "And pay close attention for any articles written from the Middle East."
"Right." the PDA moaned. "Can I go to sleep now?"
"You may, Wade." She smiled. "Just get to it when your body's willing."
There was final cackle of static and a click, and her hand pushed the bulky device back into the depths of the bag. Kim was up to something else than tracking down leads; he could see it in that busy glance of hers.
"What was that about?" he inquired.
"You should know by now, Ron." She grinned, and he bounced gently on the fluffy cushion when she took a seat nearby. "I like to exhaust my resources when it comes to missions."
"Don't like playing a good soldier, do you?" he inquired astutely.
"There's not a whole lot of difference between soldiers and pawns in this day and age." She said. "War is nothing more than a game of chess to a government."
"Don't confuse Israel with the other uniformed countries." He said frankly. "They don't play games here, Kim. If you play them, you're worm food! This agency will make sure of it."
"And how do you know so much about what they'll do, Ron?" she crossed her legs indifferently, as if he was blowing nothing more than smoke. Her fingers laced together, pulling gently against her crossed kneecap. "It's not like they're at war or anything."
"Didn't I tell you?" he moaned at her apathy. "I used to live in Jerusalem before I moved to Middleton, just before the last uprising ceased."
"Really?" Her eyes lightened up. "No. you didn't tell me."
"Yeah--well, I did." He continued. "I don't remember much, other than what my Mom and Dad told me. But there was this one incident that I just couldn't get out of my mind."
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"I can't remember it well." He said. "But I distinctly remember walking down this narrow, winding path. For some reason, which I can't remember, I look up and--"
He closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. He remembered perfectly what he saw long ago in the West Bank, as a child looking up at the strange objects that dangled from a lamppost like it was a mobile. Never had he saw such epitomic cruelty sway in the breeze like a mere leaf.
"What did you--?"
"Bodies." He said quietly.
"Bodies?" she blinked. "What--like a cat's?"
"People--Kim--people!" he felt something roll down his cheek. "Hanging from. --freaking lampposts! Men, women, children--all of them!"
"Whoa!" the girl said. "Where was this?"
"Haven't you been listening!?" he yelled. "ISRAEL!!"
"Oh my God--!"
"Don't start with me, Kim!" He growled. "Yes, those--those *monsters* on the other side of the fence did this to their own people! These are the same monsters my people live with everyday, Kim!"
"God.!" she pressed a palm to her mouth, and then her eyes closed and her locks of auburn hair shook furiously. "No. --no! That can't be right!"
"It is, Ms. Possible." Replied the accented voice of Hershel. He turned his gaze at the doorframe again along with Kim. Hershel's tanned arms crossed her simple T-shirt, and her face played a plain expression. "Along with tribal clashes and suicide bombings that rock the region almost every other day. I can tell you, the world will be glad when this violence finally ends."
"This stuff goes on all the time?" the girl's emerald eyes blinked. "Then why hasn't anyone else--?"
"Heard, you ask?" the woman cut her off. "Because the media has a habit of covering up the truth of what really happens. Sure, networks like the BBC and the CNN put on a pretty face for the audience, but atrocities like that are the grim reality of it."
"Wait--!" she said. "How do I know this isn't some Israeli propaganda?"
"Note to self:" the woman shook her head slowly. "Give Ms. Possible a grand tour of Ramallah. If you don't want to believe the truth, Ms. Possible, the truth doesn't really care. Truth doesn't lie."
"Never mind--forget it then!" she rolled her eyes. She'd believe it when she sees it, so it seemed. "Any other nuggets of wisdom you'd care to share?"
"Just one." The tanned woman strolled over coolly to the high-backed chair across from them. She reached for the table, the tops of her fingers disappearing under the edge of the tabletop. Wood scraped together, and he could see a drawer pull out--all the way out, rollers and all. She upturned the drawer, and his eyes caught a lengthy, paper sheet taped onto the bottom. He could hear the scotch peel away as she gently pulled upon the paper. "If I can just. ah--there!"
"What's that?" he asked as she turned it onto its top. Her fingertips pulled a triangular flap open, and typed paper peeked out at him from inside. She pinched the paper inside and it slid smoothly out. They smacked onto the tabletop as she tossed the paper their way.
"Czech Republic?" A reddish eyebrow kinked on Kim's face.
"Indeed." Ariel nodded. "Recent intelligence down in Israel suggests that Mr. Bonnet has lost himself in Prague, Mr. Drazen's hometown I believe."
"What's he doing out there?" he couldn't help but let an eyebrow cock as his fingers ran over the smooth surface of the ticket, eyes a little boggled at the Spanish typed onto it.
"We have no idea," the woman said, "but we are not letting this opportunity pass us by. We'll take you to the airport and guide you to the right gate, since I heard your Spanish is sorely lacking."
"Yeah," he smiled weakly, "but I know food in every language!"
Hershel rolled her eyes. "Amusing."
"What the heck are we going to do in Prague?" Kim asked. "Unless someone speaks French or English, we're practically lost already!"
"We have a package waiting for you at the airport." The woman explained as her fingers dipped into the envelope again. Out with her digits came a small sheet of paper, no bigger than one in a fortune cookie. "This slip of paper has its location on it. You'll get it as soon as you board the plane."
"May I ask a simple request?" she asked.
"What is it?" the woman moaned.
"I'd like to bring someone else in on this operation--"
"For the love of God, Possible!" Ariel's palm drew down across her face. "You cannot expect me to fetch undisclosed people like they're sticks!"
"This is the last one, I promise." She said reassuringly.
"Ugh. who is it?"
"Yune Bin-Mok."
"Bin-Mok?" the woman gazed at Kim with a kink in her brow. "As in General Tseng Bin-Mok's only son?"
"I don't know about this Tseng person," she said, "but Yune was in league with Colonel Drazen's private army for sometime before his defection. And he knew Uzi from his days there."
"Hmm." the woman put one of her blue polished fingers to her chin in thought. "This could be--interesting at least. I'll go talk to the station chief again regarding."
"When does our flight leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon." Hershel said. "Intelligence says that Shia has arrived in Prague about two hours ago and he's planning to stay over a week. It gives us a pretty big window to work with, and if the Mossad agrees to it, then you can expect Yune to arrive the next day."
"Cool!" he nodded.
"Indeed." The woman yawned. "Now get some sleep. You guys have a big day tomorrow."
***
Tara pressed her palms into her face again for the forth time, her nose taking in deep whiffs of the scent of her hands. Yune and she spent a little time at the local target range, a few miles away from the outskirts of Middleton. It was the first time she willingly used a gun, and no matter how hard her fingers worked in the hand soap, that stinky sulfur- like smell just wouldn't wash away.
"How many times are you going to smell your fingers?" The Asian chuckled as he shifted. They had just left the range and they were on the way to back into town. It was a good thing, considering how that trigger- happy yokel emptied his magazines in no time at all. "There won't be anything left if you keep rubbing that gunk on."
"It's anti-bacterial hand cream, thank you very much!" she said as she dropped the tube back into her handbag. "I can't help it if gunpowder left a bad smell on my clothes."
"I told you to wear something you didn't care about." He shrugged. "But does anyone listen to me? No sir!"
"But I like my halter top!" she touched her chin to the top of her chest, eyes weakly gazing at the baby blue cloth that wrapped around her torso. "I bought it for summer days, and today was no exception."
"Out of all the gals at the range," he argued weakly, "you were the only one who should have been fashionably late. Did you see any of them flash Club Banana merchandise? I think not."
"Ugh." her eyes rolled as she sighed. "At least it's better than those rags you're wearing."
"What?" the Asian looked over quizzically. "I like this shirt!"
"Please!" she held up her hand. "It's nothing more than a coupon purchase at Smarty Mart, if you ask me."
"Funny," he argued playfully as he worked the stick all the way back, "I don't recall asking you either."
He chuckled as her weak fist met the bicep of his closest arm. "I'm a girl!" she said. "I can do that. It's my job, you know."
"No, it's not!"
"Is too!"
"Not!"
"Too!"
"Whatever, honey!" he sighed. "What would do you want for lunch?"
"Whatever it is," she frowned, recalling her trip to the Korean restaurant and the spice-induced illness of that dish he just had to recommend, "it'd better not be Korean. My gut can't stand those spices!"
"The German princess can't stand a little heat in her belly?" he blinked. "No.!"
"For the last time, Yune!" her lips pulled into a sneer. "I'm Austrian--not German!"
"There's not a whole lot of difference, from what I've read." He noted.
"Oh--don't tell my grandfather that." She waved a finger. "'Don't confuse your heritage with those Nazis, little lady!' At least, that's what he always says."
"Is that why every time I visit your home, it's virtually spotless?" he asked.
"Is what why?" she threw it back.
"Because I heard that your people hate a mess!" he laughed, to which her fist met his bicep again--a harder then what she had wanted. "OW! What was that for?"
"You don't see me making fun of your people," she narrowed her gaze at him, "so don't make fun of mine. My parents like you, Yune. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"
"Really?" he said. "Is that the truth?"
"Yeah." She nodded. "They wouldn't let us spend all this time together if they didn't."
"Strange," his thin lips pressed together, "'cause every time I see your dad, he always looks angry or preoccupied with something."
"He's just worried about work, don't sweat over it." She giggled. "He even thinks we make a good couple!"
"You didn't tell him about my. last line of work?" a thin black line kinked on his brow.
"What's done is done, Yune." She moved her hand over toward the stick, and she gently laid her palm down upon the back of his hand. "You can't change it. In fact, my grandpa has a saying, which he brought back from a trip in Sicily: 'I didn't see anything, I didn't hear anything, I wasn't there--and if I was there, I was asleep.'"
"Hmm." he nodded, and her hand seemingly caressed the crinkled leather as he moved the stick violently. "I think your phrasing is a little off, but I like it nonetheless. A lot better than what my grandfather used to say."
"Well." she pursed her lips gently, "care to tell me?"
"He used to blab on about Confucius teaching--or as I like to call him, 'Confuse Us.'" he said. "It's still common place in Korea, though you wouldn't know it if you walked down a street. And my father usually lectured me on Sun Tsu's classic work."
"What's that?"
"Art of War."
"Oh--barf!" she stuck out her tongue in disgust. "No wonder you wanted to get out of that military stuff!"
"Exactly." He nodded. "Though there are a few things I missed."
"Like what?"
"I happen to be a small weapon fiend of sorts, and so was my father." He explained. "We have a decent sized collection of blades and guns back at the house, but we never use them--just display them."
"Speaking of which," she grinned, and the leather let out a muffled squelch as she moved her back to the corner of the seat, "how'd you think I did on the range?"
"For a novice," he nodded, "I thought you did very well. Except you seem a little afraid of what your doing."
"What?" she blinked. "I'm not afraid."
"I'm not saying you are, but you do have a tendency to jerk the muzzle down and you jerk the trigger. If you were to practice more, the recoil wouldn't faze you."
Ah recoil: the blessed, split-second aftermath after a bullet has been shot--when the gun seemingly wanted to kick out of her grip every time she jerked the stubborn trigger back. It wasn't that bad after she emptied a full magazine for the first time. The pistol merely jerked her wrist back, and it wasn't that Daewoo that he carried around but rather a rented .22.
"But. it wasn't the case a month ago." She said. "I wasn't afraid of it back then, so what the heck changed?"
"You were simply lost in the chaos, Tara." He explained. "Or as the military calls it: 'combat high'. You didn't care what the weapon--what *you*--did, just as long as you got out safely. It happens a lot, and it wears off as the adrenaline begins to thin out of your blood."
"Hmm." she cocked her head back, the scalp scraping against the warm leather. "Anything I can do to rectify it?"
"Do what I do," he said, "don't think--just shoot."
"Pf." she snickered, "easy for you to say."
"It just takes practice." She felt the warm palm of his hand touch onto her shoulder, fingers shifting on it. Calm seemed to tingle throughout her body at his touch, almost burning in her chest and inching its way through. She didn't know why it did, and she wanted more of it like a child with candy.
"Except it's healthier," she thought aloud.
"What's healthier?" he asked.
Her eyes broadened, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Oh--nothing." she smiled awkwardly, "just thinking aloud. That's all."
"That's okay." He nodded, and she could see his tan ears twitch at a digital tune, almost a computerized whine for a minute before it dropped into an actual melody. It had seemingly whispered into her ears before, preformed beautifully on a classical CD when her dad didn't utilize it for a coaster.
"Fur Elise." she smiled warmly. "My favorite."
"Mine too." He shifted unpredictably in the seat, moving back and forth erratically--briefly before he managed to work the cell phone out from his pocket. The phone had ceased it's digitized bleats as he thumbed a button, the device letting out a muffled *click*.
"Hello?" half his face disappeared behind the piece of plastic. "Oh-- hey Ms. Possible, what's the sitch? He-he-ha-ha! I've always wanted to say that! So what's going on in Spain? .Really? What the heck do they want you for? What--hold on a sec!"
His fingers released the device, and it slapped onto his leg as it slid down his thigh, leaning against his groin. His legs moved quickly while his hand worked the shifter down literally a notch, and the other hand veered the Mustang onto the curb. She felt the very road beneath her seemingly disintegrate into gravel, all the little bumps blending together as the car crunched to a stop.
He grabbed the phone, the receiver pressing against his ear again. "Okay--I'm back." He said over the grinding sound of the parking brake lever. "What's that.? Well what do you want me for? You got Ron, don't you? What--!" His almond eyes grew as big as saucers. "He survived?? .Huh--? Shia Bonnet--what the heck's that Frenchman doing? .Yeah, I heard of him. I met him once back in France, though I didn't know it was him at the time. But he changes everything. Don't worry. I'll get packing as soon as I drop Tara off. Just stay out of Shia's way. He's as ruthless as Uzi was, and twice as. emotional. Take care."
The phone let out a lengthy beep, and the device clattered on its descent into the cup holder. The parking brake made a little click, and his thumb punched in the button while he guided the lever back down. His legs worked true to form as wrenched the stick into first, and her temple met the side of the cabin as Yune worked--no--*forced* the car back onto the road. Something about that conversation unnerved him; she could see it in how quickly he worked through the gears. Her eyes darted over to the speedometer, glued to the red needle and how it gracefully arced past 60 in no time at all.
"Yune, what's going on?" she asked, nervously wiggling her hand up to the handle overhead while her feet pressed flat against the firewall. Thank God she had her seat belt on.
"Sorry Tara." He literally slapped the stick up from fourth gear to fifth, the engine seemingly pausing its roar momentarily for the car's stubborn clutch. "Change of plans."
"No lunch, I assume?" she felt her heart pick up the pace by a few beats, catching sight of the multicolor smear that was the outskirts of Middleton as it whipped by.
"Correct." He nodded. "Kim wants my help for a mission of hers, involving some really dangerous men. Sorry, but I got to leave tomorrow morning. And judging by the look of things over there, I'll probably be gone for a week."
"Oh. okay." She nodded quickly. "But do you mind slowing down? I thought you hate speed!"
"Only when there's a novice in this seat." He smirked, passing an oncoming semi with bravado. The car shifted back into the lane, the tail possibly inching away from the truck's flat grill while she saw the Asian's leg sink deeper into the seat.
"Close.!" she gulped, and then seemingly out of the blue another tail end of a semi came upon them. Yune veered the car past the double yellow, into the opposite lane for another pass. His leg sank a little deeper in the leather seat, and the length of the semi shrank incredibly outside the windshield. Tan fingers strangled the steering wheel, shifting his gaze to the right and carefully guiding the Mustang back into the appropriate lane just as--
--She saw another semi barrel right for them!
"YUNE--" she screamed, "WATCH OUT!!"
He whipped his head back, and she could see both his legs snap and squeeze together--but the whole world upturned on a dime at the explosion of twisting, buckling metal. Through the cracked windshield and past the warped hood, she looked up and magically found the ground above her. It twisted quickly on a broken axis, and soon the ground was to the side of her, the left side, thousands of sparks flying past her like a million fireflies. The driver beside let out a loud cry of pain--real pain--before everything seemed to tumble around--
--And everything stopped, as quickly as it came like a sandstorm. Thick strands of her hair draped sideways on her face, and for some inexplicable reason her whole body just wanted to lean severely to the left like her hair.
"Ugh." she batted her eyes. "What happened?"
She got an answer, but not one she wanted period. Yune let out a groan, a loud and painful groan that shook her to the bone. The sheer sound sent shivers racing up and down her spine, her palms cold and clammy. Carefully she whipped the stray locks behind her crown, and her eyes slowly traversed down the crinkled, gnarled mess that was once a car cabin.
"Yune--!" she gasped when her eyes locked onto that heap of a body, curled into a fetal position. His features were twisted into a mask of pain--a shifting mask whose lips and eyes twitched wildly. "Oh my God-- Yune!?"
***
"Dude!" Shia exclaimed contentedly through the phone. "What's going on back in Israel?"
"Dude!" the lead guitarist--*err*--sitar player equally exclaimed in his ear. Good old Mark! The kid never failed to brighten his day when it seemed its darkest. Yet he couldn't give him that high five he so richly deserved now. The klezmer member was half a world away while he was stuck in Prague, on constant guard duty that a mere private should partake. "The klezmer's falling apart over here without you! We can't even get a simple gig at a nightclub when the dang bombers aren't tearing Tel Aviv a new one!"
"Ugh.!" his hair shifted as he shook his head. "Same damn story all over again! Where's Josh at?"
Ah Josh: the simple-minded filler for the tuba while he was away. Though he never really liked that kid, he did often wonder how the band-- his band held up with that blundering colossus.
"Pf--don't make me laugh!" the kid's chuckle was lost in the airspace. "He's nowhere to be found--as usual!"
"Stuffing his face at the McDonalds, I assume?" he rolled his eyes.
"When he's not working it off at the gym!" the kid continued. "The rest of the guys--myself included--were thinking about casting that tub of lard back into the Dead Sea. We can't take it anymore! No one could play a tuba like you, Shia!"
"I know." He smiled as his fingernails met his lips, the air from his mouth caressing them before they rubbed vigorously against his shirt. "I am the best!"
"Speaking of which, we also think the band needs a violinist!" the corners of his mouth dropped when the words clicked in his head. "Shia. um- -do you think that leader of yours is interested in our group?"
"Who--" he asked, "Uzi?"
"Yeah!" Mark said. "Mr. SMG himself!"
"I don't think he is, to tell the truth." He said coolly. "He's more of that artsy, symphonic. player type. He never really was a fan of that Brave Old World group."
"What??" the kid said. "What do you mean he never was into that group? It's Jewish for Pete's sake! It's the dang group that inspired us, remember?"
"Seriously!" he held up a hand. "He doesn't like klezmer music. Unless he finally gets that conductor's baton removed from his ass, I don't think he's interested."
"Put him on the phone!"
He blinked. "W--what?"
"You heard me!" Mark said sternly, like he actually discovered his balls for the first time. This was a first, given how much of the group was living in mortal fear of their powerless superior. "Put him on! No one insults the klezmer of Shmuck Avenue without an earful!"
"Are you VSA, Mark?" he said.
"What kind of stupid--"
"Are you?" he pressed.
"Of course not!" something slammed on the other end, like a pound and a quick clatter of metal a split-second after. "None of us are, except for you."
"You know his protocol." He said. "No civilian speaks with the Major, unless cleared through the normal channels."
"What channels?" he sighed as the kid threw it back. "You VSA aren't even recognized!"
"Recognized and disavowed don't have interchangeable meanings." He argued gently.
"T--whatever!" the kid yelled. "Do I sound like I give a damn? Are you going to put him on or not?"
"I couldn't even if I would." The plush carpet seemed to shift underfoot as he strolled toward the nearby window nonchalantly. His eyes wondered toward the far right of the pane, sailing over the darkening sea of ye-old architecture and landing ashore on the small, chocolate-colored box in the distance. It was almost hidden from him, the boxy building veiled by the thickening twilight. "He's. getting some replacement parts as we speak. A whole *mess* of them."
"Ugh.!" the kid sighed. "Has your precious general--"
"Major."
"Yeah--*major* pain gone AWOL or something?" Mark asked. "He's been gone for. about two days, right? How long does it take to get a replacement part around Prague?"
"I wouldn't know." The window met his back, pressing into it like it was one of the cream colored walls of the room. "I was lived in Paris until a month ago. Uzi's lived in this olden city for most of his life."
"You're French?" the kid asked. "You sound pretty American to me, my friend."
"Maybe because my parents are American, dumb ass!" his lips twisted into a sneer. "We maybe Jewish like you but we're American nonetheless!"
"Pf. whatever." Mark dismissed. "If your Uzi isn't there, fine with me. I got another violinist waiting in the wings. And I think you know her, if I'm not mistaken."
He blinked. "Wait a minute! You don't mean--!"
"Robin, I think it is?" the kid said with playful glee. "The black Jewess from Ethiopia, right? Oh--I think she'll make a fine addition, don't you agree?"
"Listen butt-munch!" he growled. "You'd better not touch her or--!"
"You'll what, Shia?" Mark said mockingly; almost as if he had slapped him in the face in person, glove fresh in hand. "Strangle me Boston style? Need I remind you that you're half a world away while your sweetie-puss and I are here on Shmuck Avenue? Tell you what, dude. We're going to see whom she chooses!"
"Oh!" his glare wondered aimlessly through the room, searching for something that his piano wire could take a nice, clean chunk out of. Mark had better spend some good, quality prayer time at the Wailing Wall, 'cause he's going to need a miracle. "You're on sucker!"
"A deal then!" the junior said. "We'll just see who gets the girl this time around."
"Uh-huh!" he clenched his fist so tightly that he could barely feel something trickle from his palm. "We'll see ass-wipe!"
"Glad you agree." Mark cooed. "Oh--and Shia?"
".What?"
"She's not that great. if you know what I mean--"
He didn't care what the junior meant as the phone just seemed to. fly out through the glass itself, and he could just see the yellow appliance explode into chunks on the cobblestone road. The wind assaulted his face, blowing into his batting eyes as it died down a moment after. The ancient cityscape seemed crooked somehow through the pane of broken glass, how the dim light seemed to zigzag through the twisted shards.
"Great!" he moaned. "Isn't this magical! Ugh--Where's the damn bar at?"
As his teeth sank into the last of his fourth take-out burrito, Ron mumbled incoherently at the utter simplicity of the "station". It wasn't all it was cracked up to be; it looked like nothing more than a simple apartment owned by a well off couple. Cultural items of whatnot bejeweled the cramped quarters, either sitting near or hanging on walls splashed with the warm, summer colors of the Mediterranean.
That was all there was too it, nothing more. There were no secret rooms or slide out compartments; he pulled and tugged on every book with in his reach; and that fat, tanned cow of a station chief nearly bit his head off after the candelabra was ripped off the wall.
"Gee Rufus," he mumbled through his stuffed lips, "this station isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I mean, where's all the guns, the gadgets-- you know, all that top secret spy junk?"
"Hmm.!" his child twitched his whiskers in thought. The mole rat shook his head. ".Don't know!"
"This sanctioned crap blows!" he swallowed, audibly blowing air through his puckered lips. "Really blows."
"He-huh-ha-ha!" his son chuckled. "Yeah!"
"I thought real espionage would be fun." He said flatly. "It just turns out to be another nine-to-five job. except you--go places and stuff."
"Hmm--yep!"
"But what the heck does Kim really want out of this, Rufus?" he pondered aloud. "Is there really anything that this outfit can do that she can't by herself? I mean--she's *the* Lara Croft for Pete's sake!"
"Uh-uh!" the rat squeaked. "No guns!"
"Yeah--that's true." He nodded. "But it's not like she needs them anyway. If she wants this VSA group so badly, she can do it herself."
"Yep!"
"No I can't, Ron." Said that cool voice of his friend. He turned around, pushing his elbow behind him and letting it bend behind the back of the couch. A baggy shirt draped over Kim's shapely body as she stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if she was loitering. "But thanks for the ego boost."
"What do you mean you can't find these guys?" he blinked. "Did you forget your motto already?"
"Nope," she shook her head gently, "but after Escutcheon, our government has been sticking their noses into our business. Understandable, since they don't want an international incident on their hands, and we have to clear our operations through the State Department before we can proceed anymore."
"They never supported our actions before," he said, "why start now?"
"Seems it finally hit them that world peace can't be left to their own discretion." She said. "It's up to each and every one of us to make our world a better place. .And the government wasn't too happy with us after the UN condemnation over violating the Outer Space Treaty. Bad press, and all."
"To a degree, Kim." He said flatly. "Just don't say that peace stuff around my synagogue, or you'll end up in an argument with Rabbi Katz."
"Agreed." She yawned.
"So what were you and the Hershel lady talking about?"
"I'm trying to get us clearance through the Israeli government for our operations." She said. "It seems this VSA group has gotten lost within the civilian population. And since we don't want turf war on our hands, we might as well work through the Mossad."
"Okay, fine with us." He nodded. "As long as we get some new toys to play with. Right Rufus?"
"Yeah!" he squeaked.
"Highly unlikely we'll get any." She said. "But it's not a bad thing to hope for, isn't it?"
"Better than going out naked against an army, KP." He said.
"True." She noted. "But we manage without any fancy stuff."
"Sure Ms. Kimmunicator." He chuckled. "Whatever you say."
Her smooth, bare legs carried her over to the black duffel bag that sat on an elegantly crafted chair. Fortunately, Hershel was "kind" enough to let them retrieve their bags from their own hotel during the drive over. The cloth rippled and crinkled as her hands dug into the caving sack, and they came out with the bulky PDA in hand.
"Wade." She spoke as her finger touched a button. "Can you read me?"
"Loud and clear." The device seemingly crackled out. "Do you know what time it is here?"
"Do I look like a timekeeper to you?" she smirked. "Now let's keep focused here."
"Aw." the voice yawned. "How's that debriefing thing going for you? Was it painful?"
"Not at all." She said. "In fact, the station chief's on the phone with Tel Aviv right now. Looks like we'll be commissioned by the Mossad if all goes well."
"What pray-tell for?"
"If I work through these guys," she explained, "they might help me track down this new lead. I'd like you to run a continuous inquiry for me, over the course of this op."
"Ugh." the voice moaned, and the tiny speakers crackled. or tapped out in an irregular pattern. "What is it?"
"Run a bullion search for 'VSA'." She said. "And pay close attention for any articles written from the Middle East."
"Right." the PDA moaned. "Can I go to sleep now?"
"You may, Wade." She smiled. "Just get to it when your body's willing."
There was final cackle of static and a click, and her hand pushed the bulky device back into the depths of the bag. Kim was up to something else than tracking down leads; he could see it in that busy glance of hers.
"What was that about?" he inquired.
"You should know by now, Ron." She grinned, and he bounced gently on the fluffy cushion when she took a seat nearby. "I like to exhaust my resources when it comes to missions."
"Don't like playing a good soldier, do you?" he inquired astutely.
"There's not a whole lot of difference between soldiers and pawns in this day and age." She said. "War is nothing more than a game of chess to a government."
"Don't confuse Israel with the other uniformed countries." He said frankly. "They don't play games here, Kim. If you play them, you're worm food! This agency will make sure of it."
"And how do you know so much about what they'll do, Ron?" she crossed her legs indifferently, as if he was blowing nothing more than smoke. Her fingers laced together, pulling gently against her crossed kneecap. "It's not like they're at war or anything."
"Didn't I tell you?" he moaned at her apathy. "I used to live in Jerusalem before I moved to Middleton, just before the last uprising ceased."
"Really?" Her eyes lightened up. "No. you didn't tell me."
"Yeah--well, I did." He continued. "I don't remember much, other than what my Mom and Dad told me. But there was this one incident that I just couldn't get out of my mind."
"Well, what is it?" she asked.
"I can't remember it well." He said. "But I distinctly remember walking down this narrow, winding path. For some reason, which I can't remember, I look up and--"
He closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. He remembered perfectly what he saw long ago in the West Bank, as a child looking up at the strange objects that dangled from a lamppost like it was a mobile. Never had he saw such epitomic cruelty sway in the breeze like a mere leaf.
"What did you--?"
"Bodies." He said quietly.
"Bodies?" she blinked. "What--like a cat's?"
"People--Kim--people!" he felt something roll down his cheek. "Hanging from. --freaking lampposts! Men, women, children--all of them!"
"Whoa!" the girl said. "Where was this?"
"Haven't you been listening!?" he yelled. "ISRAEL!!"
"Oh my God--!"
"Don't start with me, Kim!" He growled. "Yes, those--those *monsters* on the other side of the fence did this to their own people! These are the same monsters my people live with everyday, Kim!"
"God.!" she pressed a palm to her mouth, and then her eyes closed and her locks of auburn hair shook furiously. "No. --no! That can't be right!"
"It is, Ms. Possible." Replied the accented voice of Hershel. He turned his gaze at the doorframe again along with Kim. Hershel's tanned arms crossed her simple T-shirt, and her face played a plain expression. "Along with tribal clashes and suicide bombings that rock the region almost every other day. I can tell you, the world will be glad when this violence finally ends."
"This stuff goes on all the time?" the girl's emerald eyes blinked. "Then why hasn't anyone else--?"
"Heard, you ask?" the woman cut her off. "Because the media has a habit of covering up the truth of what really happens. Sure, networks like the BBC and the CNN put on a pretty face for the audience, but atrocities like that are the grim reality of it."
"Wait--!" she said. "How do I know this isn't some Israeli propaganda?"
"Note to self:" the woman shook her head slowly. "Give Ms. Possible a grand tour of Ramallah. If you don't want to believe the truth, Ms. Possible, the truth doesn't really care. Truth doesn't lie."
"Never mind--forget it then!" she rolled her eyes. She'd believe it when she sees it, so it seemed. "Any other nuggets of wisdom you'd care to share?"
"Just one." The tanned woman strolled over coolly to the high-backed chair across from them. She reached for the table, the tops of her fingers disappearing under the edge of the tabletop. Wood scraped together, and he could see a drawer pull out--all the way out, rollers and all. She upturned the drawer, and his eyes caught a lengthy, paper sheet taped onto the bottom. He could hear the scotch peel away as she gently pulled upon the paper. "If I can just. ah--there!"
"What's that?" he asked as she turned it onto its top. Her fingertips pulled a triangular flap open, and typed paper peeked out at him from inside. She pinched the paper inside and it slid smoothly out. They smacked onto the tabletop as she tossed the paper their way.
"Czech Republic?" A reddish eyebrow kinked on Kim's face.
"Indeed." Ariel nodded. "Recent intelligence down in Israel suggests that Mr. Bonnet has lost himself in Prague, Mr. Drazen's hometown I believe."
"What's he doing out there?" he couldn't help but let an eyebrow cock as his fingers ran over the smooth surface of the ticket, eyes a little boggled at the Spanish typed onto it.
"We have no idea," the woman said, "but we are not letting this opportunity pass us by. We'll take you to the airport and guide you to the right gate, since I heard your Spanish is sorely lacking."
"Yeah," he smiled weakly, "but I know food in every language!"
Hershel rolled her eyes. "Amusing."
"What the heck are we going to do in Prague?" Kim asked. "Unless someone speaks French or English, we're practically lost already!"
"We have a package waiting for you at the airport." The woman explained as her fingers dipped into the envelope again. Out with her digits came a small sheet of paper, no bigger than one in a fortune cookie. "This slip of paper has its location on it. You'll get it as soon as you board the plane."
"May I ask a simple request?" she asked.
"What is it?" the woman moaned.
"I'd like to bring someone else in on this operation--"
"For the love of God, Possible!" Ariel's palm drew down across her face. "You cannot expect me to fetch undisclosed people like they're sticks!"
"This is the last one, I promise." She said reassuringly.
"Ugh. who is it?"
"Yune Bin-Mok."
"Bin-Mok?" the woman gazed at Kim with a kink in her brow. "As in General Tseng Bin-Mok's only son?"
"I don't know about this Tseng person," she said, "but Yune was in league with Colonel Drazen's private army for sometime before his defection. And he knew Uzi from his days there."
"Hmm." the woman put one of her blue polished fingers to her chin in thought. "This could be--interesting at least. I'll go talk to the station chief again regarding."
"When does our flight leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon." Hershel said. "Intelligence says that Shia has arrived in Prague about two hours ago and he's planning to stay over a week. It gives us a pretty big window to work with, and if the Mossad agrees to it, then you can expect Yune to arrive the next day."
"Cool!" he nodded.
"Indeed." The woman yawned. "Now get some sleep. You guys have a big day tomorrow."
***
Tara pressed her palms into her face again for the forth time, her nose taking in deep whiffs of the scent of her hands. Yune and she spent a little time at the local target range, a few miles away from the outskirts of Middleton. It was the first time she willingly used a gun, and no matter how hard her fingers worked in the hand soap, that stinky sulfur- like smell just wouldn't wash away.
"How many times are you going to smell your fingers?" The Asian chuckled as he shifted. They had just left the range and they were on the way to back into town. It was a good thing, considering how that trigger- happy yokel emptied his magazines in no time at all. "There won't be anything left if you keep rubbing that gunk on."
"It's anti-bacterial hand cream, thank you very much!" she said as she dropped the tube back into her handbag. "I can't help it if gunpowder left a bad smell on my clothes."
"I told you to wear something you didn't care about." He shrugged. "But does anyone listen to me? No sir!"
"But I like my halter top!" she touched her chin to the top of her chest, eyes weakly gazing at the baby blue cloth that wrapped around her torso. "I bought it for summer days, and today was no exception."
"Out of all the gals at the range," he argued weakly, "you were the only one who should have been fashionably late. Did you see any of them flash Club Banana merchandise? I think not."
"Ugh." her eyes rolled as she sighed. "At least it's better than those rags you're wearing."
"What?" the Asian looked over quizzically. "I like this shirt!"
"Please!" she held up her hand. "It's nothing more than a coupon purchase at Smarty Mart, if you ask me."
"Funny," he argued playfully as he worked the stick all the way back, "I don't recall asking you either."
He chuckled as her weak fist met the bicep of his closest arm. "I'm a girl!" she said. "I can do that. It's my job, you know."
"No, it's not!"
"Is too!"
"Not!"
"Too!"
"Whatever, honey!" he sighed. "What would do you want for lunch?"
"Whatever it is," she frowned, recalling her trip to the Korean restaurant and the spice-induced illness of that dish he just had to recommend, "it'd better not be Korean. My gut can't stand those spices!"
"The German princess can't stand a little heat in her belly?" he blinked. "No.!"
"For the last time, Yune!" her lips pulled into a sneer. "I'm Austrian--not German!"
"There's not a whole lot of difference, from what I've read." He noted.
"Oh--don't tell my grandfather that." She waved a finger. "'Don't confuse your heritage with those Nazis, little lady!' At least, that's what he always says."
"Is that why every time I visit your home, it's virtually spotless?" he asked.
"Is what why?" she threw it back.
"Because I heard that your people hate a mess!" he laughed, to which her fist met his bicep again--a harder then what she had wanted. "OW! What was that for?"
"You don't see me making fun of your people," she narrowed her gaze at him, "so don't make fun of mine. My parents like you, Yune. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"
"Really?" he said. "Is that the truth?"
"Yeah." She nodded. "They wouldn't let us spend all this time together if they didn't."
"Strange," his thin lips pressed together, "'cause every time I see your dad, he always looks angry or preoccupied with something."
"He's just worried about work, don't sweat over it." She giggled. "He even thinks we make a good couple!"
"You didn't tell him about my. last line of work?" a thin black line kinked on his brow.
"What's done is done, Yune." She moved her hand over toward the stick, and she gently laid her palm down upon the back of his hand. "You can't change it. In fact, my grandpa has a saying, which he brought back from a trip in Sicily: 'I didn't see anything, I didn't hear anything, I wasn't there--and if I was there, I was asleep.'"
"Hmm." he nodded, and her hand seemingly caressed the crinkled leather as he moved the stick violently. "I think your phrasing is a little off, but I like it nonetheless. A lot better than what my grandfather used to say."
"Well." she pursed her lips gently, "care to tell me?"
"He used to blab on about Confucius teaching--or as I like to call him, 'Confuse Us.'" he said. "It's still common place in Korea, though you wouldn't know it if you walked down a street. And my father usually lectured me on Sun Tsu's classic work."
"What's that?"
"Art of War."
"Oh--barf!" she stuck out her tongue in disgust. "No wonder you wanted to get out of that military stuff!"
"Exactly." He nodded. "Though there are a few things I missed."
"Like what?"
"I happen to be a small weapon fiend of sorts, and so was my father." He explained. "We have a decent sized collection of blades and guns back at the house, but we never use them--just display them."
"Speaking of which," she grinned, and the leather let out a muffled squelch as she moved her back to the corner of the seat, "how'd you think I did on the range?"
"For a novice," he nodded, "I thought you did very well. Except you seem a little afraid of what your doing."
"What?" she blinked. "I'm not afraid."
"I'm not saying you are, but you do have a tendency to jerk the muzzle down and you jerk the trigger. If you were to practice more, the recoil wouldn't faze you."
Ah recoil: the blessed, split-second aftermath after a bullet has been shot--when the gun seemingly wanted to kick out of her grip every time she jerked the stubborn trigger back. It wasn't that bad after she emptied a full magazine for the first time. The pistol merely jerked her wrist back, and it wasn't that Daewoo that he carried around but rather a rented .22.
"But. it wasn't the case a month ago." She said. "I wasn't afraid of it back then, so what the heck changed?"
"You were simply lost in the chaos, Tara." He explained. "Or as the military calls it: 'combat high'. You didn't care what the weapon--what *you*--did, just as long as you got out safely. It happens a lot, and it wears off as the adrenaline begins to thin out of your blood."
"Hmm." she cocked her head back, the scalp scraping against the warm leather. "Anything I can do to rectify it?"
"Do what I do," he said, "don't think--just shoot."
"Pf." she snickered, "easy for you to say."
"It just takes practice." She felt the warm palm of his hand touch onto her shoulder, fingers shifting on it. Calm seemed to tingle throughout her body at his touch, almost burning in her chest and inching its way through. She didn't know why it did, and she wanted more of it like a child with candy.
"Except it's healthier," she thought aloud.
"What's healthier?" he asked.
Her eyes broadened, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Oh--nothing." she smiled awkwardly, "just thinking aloud. That's all."
"That's okay." He nodded, and she could see his tan ears twitch at a digital tune, almost a computerized whine for a minute before it dropped into an actual melody. It had seemingly whispered into her ears before, preformed beautifully on a classical CD when her dad didn't utilize it for a coaster.
"Fur Elise." she smiled warmly. "My favorite."
"Mine too." He shifted unpredictably in the seat, moving back and forth erratically--briefly before he managed to work the cell phone out from his pocket. The phone had ceased it's digitized bleats as he thumbed a button, the device letting out a muffled *click*.
"Hello?" half his face disappeared behind the piece of plastic. "Oh-- hey Ms. Possible, what's the sitch? He-he-ha-ha! I've always wanted to say that! So what's going on in Spain? .Really? What the heck do they want you for? What--hold on a sec!"
His fingers released the device, and it slapped onto his leg as it slid down his thigh, leaning against his groin. His legs moved quickly while his hand worked the shifter down literally a notch, and the other hand veered the Mustang onto the curb. She felt the very road beneath her seemingly disintegrate into gravel, all the little bumps blending together as the car crunched to a stop.
He grabbed the phone, the receiver pressing against his ear again. "Okay--I'm back." He said over the grinding sound of the parking brake lever. "What's that.? Well what do you want me for? You got Ron, don't you? What--!" His almond eyes grew as big as saucers. "He survived?? .Huh--? Shia Bonnet--what the heck's that Frenchman doing? .Yeah, I heard of him. I met him once back in France, though I didn't know it was him at the time. But he changes everything. Don't worry. I'll get packing as soon as I drop Tara off. Just stay out of Shia's way. He's as ruthless as Uzi was, and twice as. emotional. Take care."
The phone let out a lengthy beep, and the device clattered on its descent into the cup holder. The parking brake made a little click, and his thumb punched in the button while he guided the lever back down. His legs worked true to form as wrenched the stick into first, and her temple met the side of the cabin as Yune worked--no--*forced* the car back onto the road. Something about that conversation unnerved him; she could see it in how quickly he worked through the gears. Her eyes darted over to the speedometer, glued to the red needle and how it gracefully arced past 60 in no time at all.
"Yune, what's going on?" she asked, nervously wiggling her hand up to the handle overhead while her feet pressed flat against the firewall. Thank God she had her seat belt on.
"Sorry Tara." He literally slapped the stick up from fourth gear to fifth, the engine seemingly pausing its roar momentarily for the car's stubborn clutch. "Change of plans."
"No lunch, I assume?" she felt her heart pick up the pace by a few beats, catching sight of the multicolor smear that was the outskirts of Middleton as it whipped by.
"Correct." He nodded. "Kim wants my help for a mission of hers, involving some really dangerous men. Sorry, but I got to leave tomorrow morning. And judging by the look of things over there, I'll probably be gone for a week."
"Oh. okay." She nodded quickly. "But do you mind slowing down? I thought you hate speed!"
"Only when there's a novice in this seat." He smirked, passing an oncoming semi with bravado. The car shifted back into the lane, the tail possibly inching away from the truck's flat grill while she saw the Asian's leg sink deeper into the seat.
"Close.!" she gulped, and then seemingly out of the blue another tail end of a semi came upon them. Yune veered the car past the double yellow, into the opposite lane for another pass. His leg sank a little deeper in the leather seat, and the length of the semi shrank incredibly outside the windshield. Tan fingers strangled the steering wheel, shifting his gaze to the right and carefully guiding the Mustang back into the appropriate lane just as--
--She saw another semi barrel right for them!
"YUNE--" she screamed, "WATCH OUT!!"
He whipped his head back, and she could see both his legs snap and squeeze together--but the whole world upturned on a dime at the explosion of twisting, buckling metal. Through the cracked windshield and past the warped hood, she looked up and magically found the ground above her. It twisted quickly on a broken axis, and soon the ground was to the side of her, the left side, thousands of sparks flying past her like a million fireflies. The driver beside let out a loud cry of pain--real pain--before everything seemed to tumble around--
--And everything stopped, as quickly as it came like a sandstorm. Thick strands of her hair draped sideways on her face, and for some inexplicable reason her whole body just wanted to lean severely to the left like her hair.
"Ugh." she batted her eyes. "What happened?"
She got an answer, but not one she wanted period. Yune let out a groan, a loud and painful groan that shook her to the bone. The sheer sound sent shivers racing up and down her spine, her palms cold and clammy. Carefully she whipped the stray locks behind her crown, and her eyes slowly traversed down the crinkled, gnarled mess that was once a car cabin.
"Yune--!" she gasped when her eyes locked onto that heap of a body, curled into a fetal position. His features were twisted into a mask of pain--a shifting mask whose lips and eyes twitched wildly. "Oh my God-- Yune!?"
***
"Dude!" Shia exclaimed contentedly through the phone. "What's going on back in Israel?"
"Dude!" the lead guitarist--*err*--sitar player equally exclaimed in his ear. Good old Mark! The kid never failed to brighten his day when it seemed its darkest. Yet he couldn't give him that high five he so richly deserved now. The klezmer member was half a world away while he was stuck in Prague, on constant guard duty that a mere private should partake. "The klezmer's falling apart over here without you! We can't even get a simple gig at a nightclub when the dang bombers aren't tearing Tel Aviv a new one!"
"Ugh.!" his hair shifted as he shook his head. "Same damn story all over again! Where's Josh at?"
Ah Josh: the simple-minded filler for the tuba while he was away. Though he never really liked that kid, he did often wonder how the band-- his band held up with that blundering colossus.
"Pf--don't make me laugh!" the kid's chuckle was lost in the airspace. "He's nowhere to be found--as usual!"
"Stuffing his face at the McDonalds, I assume?" he rolled his eyes.
"When he's not working it off at the gym!" the kid continued. "The rest of the guys--myself included--were thinking about casting that tub of lard back into the Dead Sea. We can't take it anymore! No one could play a tuba like you, Shia!"
"I know." He smiled as his fingernails met his lips, the air from his mouth caressing them before they rubbed vigorously against his shirt. "I am the best!"
"Speaking of which, we also think the band needs a violinist!" the corners of his mouth dropped when the words clicked in his head. "Shia. um- -do you think that leader of yours is interested in our group?"
"Who--" he asked, "Uzi?"
"Yeah!" Mark said. "Mr. SMG himself!"
"I don't think he is, to tell the truth." He said coolly. "He's more of that artsy, symphonic. player type. He never really was a fan of that Brave Old World group."
"What??" the kid said. "What do you mean he never was into that group? It's Jewish for Pete's sake! It's the dang group that inspired us, remember?"
"Seriously!" he held up a hand. "He doesn't like klezmer music. Unless he finally gets that conductor's baton removed from his ass, I don't think he's interested."
"Put him on the phone!"
He blinked. "W--what?"
"You heard me!" Mark said sternly, like he actually discovered his balls for the first time. This was a first, given how much of the group was living in mortal fear of their powerless superior. "Put him on! No one insults the klezmer of Shmuck Avenue without an earful!"
"Are you VSA, Mark?" he said.
"What kind of stupid--"
"Are you?" he pressed.
"Of course not!" something slammed on the other end, like a pound and a quick clatter of metal a split-second after. "None of us are, except for you."
"You know his protocol." He said. "No civilian speaks with the Major, unless cleared through the normal channels."
"What channels?" he sighed as the kid threw it back. "You VSA aren't even recognized!"
"Recognized and disavowed don't have interchangeable meanings." He argued gently.
"T--whatever!" the kid yelled. "Do I sound like I give a damn? Are you going to put him on or not?"
"I couldn't even if I would." The plush carpet seemed to shift underfoot as he strolled toward the nearby window nonchalantly. His eyes wondered toward the far right of the pane, sailing over the darkening sea of ye-old architecture and landing ashore on the small, chocolate-colored box in the distance. It was almost hidden from him, the boxy building veiled by the thickening twilight. "He's. getting some replacement parts as we speak. A whole *mess* of them."
"Ugh.!" the kid sighed. "Has your precious general--"
"Major."
"Yeah--*major* pain gone AWOL or something?" Mark asked. "He's been gone for. about two days, right? How long does it take to get a replacement part around Prague?"
"I wouldn't know." The window met his back, pressing into it like it was one of the cream colored walls of the room. "I was lived in Paris until a month ago. Uzi's lived in this olden city for most of his life."
"You're French?" the kid asked. "You sound pretty American to me, my friend."
"Maybe because my parents are American, dumb ass!" his lips twisted into a sneer. "We maybe Jewish like you but we're American nonetheless!"
"Pf. whatever." Mark dismissed. "If your Uzi isn't there, fine with me. I got another violinist waiting in the wings. And I think you know her, if I'm not mistaken."
He blinked. "Wait a minute! You don't mean--!"
"Robin, I think it is?" the kid said with playful glee. "The black Jewess from Ethiopia, right? Oh--I think she'll make a fine addition, don't you agree?"
"Listen butt-munch!" he growled. "You'd better not touch her or--!"
"You'll what, Shia?" Mark said mockingly; almost as if he had slapped him in the face in person, glove fresh in hand. "Strangle me Boston style? Need I remind you that you're half a world away while your sweetie-puss and I are here on Shmuck Avenue? Tell you what, dude. We're going to see whom she chooses!"
"Oh!" his glare wondered aimlessly through the room, searching for something that his piano wire could take a nice, clean chunk out of. Mark had better spend some good, quality prayer time at the Wailing Wall, 'cause he's going to need a miracle. "You're on sucker!"
"A deal then!" the junior said. "We'll just see who gets the girl this time around."
"Uh-huh!" he clenched his fist so tightly that he could barely feel something trickle from his palm. "We'll see ass-wipe!"
"Glad you agree." Mark cooed. "Oh--and Shia?"
".What?"
"She's not that great. if you know what I mean--"
He didn't care what the junior meant as the phone just seemed to. fly out through the glass itself, and he could just see the yellow appliance explode into chunks on the cobblestone road. The wind assaulted his face, blowing into his batting eyes as it died down a moment after. The ancient cityscape seemed crooked somehow through the pane of broken glass, how the dim light seemed to zigzag through the twisted shards.
"Great!" he moaned. "Isn't this magical! Ugh--Where's the damn bar at?"