20
"You know what I see, Missy?" Bile oozed up Hershel's throat, but a quick swallow easily shoved it back down to her stomach, where it belonged. Why she drove through the shortest route, back to her boring, sterile office, she didn't know. Her cell had let out a sharp, purring ring from her pocket, as soon as her shoe had touched down upon the tile, past the front door.
"No," she sighed, loud enough so the deaf ears of the strange, bitter man could catch easily, "but I have a feeling that you'll tell me, Mr. Ambassador."
"Very good, Missy!" the bitter man chuckled. "I tell you, I look out the window in my embassy office right now--even as we speak--and you know what I see blossoming to the west of us?"
The wheels beneath squeaked like mice as the cool leather enveloped her back firmly on her descent, rolling gently away from the desk. Thank the good Lord, she did, for a quality, leather chair, because she was going to need all the comfort she could get.
"Not sure, Mr. Ambassador." Bones popped as she rolled her head around, pressing the back of her skull against the plush cushion halfway on the second roll. "Some pretty flowers, fig trees, or even some acacia wood perhaps?"
"What?" the bitter man's growl was like a bulldog's, possibly with the bite to match. "You think you're some kind of comedienne, Hershel? Think you're the next Mel Brooks, eh?"
"Maybe." She shrugged. "I do like his movies. Have you ever seen 'History of the World", Mr. Ambassador? I think it's more realistic than anything I've read in a text, Sir. Though I do have to disagree with the Jews-in-Space shtick--!"
"ENOUGH!!" the man barked. "I'll--just--tell--you!"
"If you please...!" she capped a hand over her stretched lips, keeping in the laugh that desperately wanted freedom.
"If it's not enough that you have vigilantes running around, doing whatever the hell they want, killing who they want," the ambassador exclaimed, "now it seems that they, and their lunatic of a leader wants to torch the entire West Bank!"
The laughter sank back into her throat; her hand arm lowered down to its rest.
"What?" she said.
"What do you mean what!?" the grouch threw it back. "You heard exactly what I said!"
"Maybe you can calm yourself down a few minutes, if your super-id doesn't mind taking the back seat." She said. "Can you reiterate, please?"
"Fine!" the bulldog growled. "One minute, all's well with the land for a rare change. Next thing we know, your 'Major' showed up, and blew a block sky high behind the fence! I still see a nice, thick cloud of black burning several miles away!"
"And...?"
"*And... *" the bulldog replied, "I wonder how long till I call the President, Missy! It's clear as day the Knesset won't do anything to stop these terrorists--!"
"As opposed to your government's appeasement with the 'militants', Mr. Ambassador!?" the taste became suddenly bitter. "It was the United States that started this whole Temple Mount turnover crap in the first place--even so far as withholding loans from us if we didn't cooperate!"
"Damn straight, Missy!" the bulldog barked. "We let your whole fence drop off the Road Map, clean and clear! But don't you dare think you can weasel your way out of this, Missy! We won't let it!"
"Like the way you weaseled out of your government's 'Gladius' fiasco?" her lips bittersweet, smile flush with the utter contempt for that arrogant American. "Or like how the PA came out strong of another tongue lashing? Please, do clear this up for an incompetent Jewess like myself, hmm...?"
The bulldog's retort came in a low, soft growl.
"What?" she asked. "Too much of a challenge?"
"You know what I just got word, less than an hour ago, of?" he dismissed.
"Nope," she shook her head, "sure don't."
"I just received a phone call, stateside, from the Middleton branch of the FBI." He said strongly. "A certain Webmaster and known hacker, by the name 'Wade', had been arrested just recently. It seems this kid had broken his probation."
She felt her heart jump. "So...?"
"He hacked into your computer network, using some new fangled-techno- gizmo-crap." He grumbled. "He claimed he knew you as the police dragged him away. I don't know; all I *do* know is that it strictly went against the terms of his probation! And for that, the feds will personally make sure he gets the stiffest sentence the DA can throw at him! Consider this a second strike, Missy!"
"Second strike...?"
"Yes, Ms. Hershel!" the bulldog said. "Your second strike! Letting these terrorists have carte blanche was your first. Reel them in, and don't suffer the children to do it! Clean up your house, Missy!"
"Or you'll what?" her back unrolled from her slouch, as she sat up straight.
"Or... we'll do it for you--!"
A crackle of static invaded her ear, and all went silent inside the receiver. She let out a sigh, and her phone made a little *click* when she closed its halves like a castanet. It was like a rock, pulling at the flap of her jacket as she let it drop into the pocket. Her body too felt like dead weight, as she wanted sleep to overwhelm her like the leather of her comfy chair.
"Ms. Hershel?" there came a small rapping at her office door, before the knob rattled and the man behind the familiar voice pushed it ajar.
"Ms. Hershel--?"
"I'm here, Tuvia." Her fingers were like teeth of a pick, combing through her locks of hair, shifting them to an overall presentable arrangement. "Come in."
The heavy man strolled inside, his button-down chest wobbling a tic with every move of the neatly pressed legs of his pants. His full, dark hair shifted side to side. Several pieces of paper were pinched in his pudgy hand, and a look full of apprehension twisted his face.
"What do you want?" she sighed. "And what's the look for? It's not like you found a forty-pound watermelon in you colon, did you?"
"No, ma'am." The dark man shook his head. "But after reading these.... Damn!"
"What?" she sat up.
"We just received a report from one of our contacts in the West Bank." The man explained. "It seems that Major Drazen's Apache had been shot down over a refuge camp. No prizes for guessing whom though."
"Kim actually took him out!?" her hands clenched on the armrests, leaning her chest out from the chair back.
"Well, yes-and-no." he gave a shrug. "She succeeded in taking the 'copter down, but it looks like Drazen crawled out of his dirt nap once again. Blew the wreckage sky high, and took out a chunk of the refuge camp with him. And..."
"This is the business, Tuvia." She rolled her eyes. "Just say it!"
"It looks like they captured this Kimberly girl also." She frowned. "We don't know how they did it, but this report clearly shows it. 'Approximately 2PM, two VSA soldiers shot down a petite woman with flush, auburn hair, before a huge explosion rocked the camp. Possibly caused by the crazed Major, but there's no way to prove it. About 10 minutes later, an olive Hummer with VSA markings rolled up to the two soldiers. They piled inside after the pushed their prisoner into the back.'
Now who do we know with flush, auburn hair? Hmm...?"
"Okay, I get it!" she frowned.
"Question is, what the hell are we going to do?" he asked.
"Ten to one," she thought aloud, "they wouldn't kill her, just yet. Not till Drazen has his go around."
"And his gruesome brother." The heavy man added. "Maybe, there might be something left to save after his turn. But even that's doubtful."
"There's no proof that a twin even exists, Tuvia." She shook her head. "Don't concern yourself over rumors. But she might have that locator card."
"And...?" Tuvia leaned, twisting his head around so that an ear took the lead. "I'm listening."
"I can see that!" she growled. "Just scan the frequencies until I say. Search for anything out of the ordinary, and report it at once."
"How long?"
"Till I say, Tuvia!" she pushed herself to her angled feet, wobbling a bit. "Now move!"
"Just one more thing, ma'am." His pudgy fingers rustled through the papers, the white, blackened sheets atop found themselves at the bottom of the stack. The rustling came to a crescendo that abruptly ended with one last whip of the papers by the flick of the wrist.
"Yes?" she said.
"Our S&T department cracked the contents on that ZIP disk you recovered." He said. "The offices were at a standstill when we figured out what exactly we had. In fact, you can probably still hear a pin drop over there, if you hurry."
"What's on it?" she asked.
"To put it simply," the large man shrugged, "they're activation codes for a nuke."
"What?" she blinked.
"Yep!" he nodded. "The power of the sun, right in our hand. Then again, how's that different than any other day? When our 'neighbors' aren't coaxing us to give them up, that is."
"A nuke?" she said. "What kind of nuke?"
"There's reason to believe strongly it's the American Gladius system." He said. "The numbers, algorithms--hell--everything matches perfectly."
"But..." she was at a loss for words, "how...?"
"Looks like Drazen gets around." He shrugged. "Should we call the Ambassador regarding this?"
"No." she said. "We keep this inside the building for now."
"But what the hell are we going to do with it?" he asked. "Gladius has been dismantled--!"
"Bah!" she interjected. "Knowing the current American administration, they probably kept up and running, despite the uproar."
"But why bother--?"
"Is it really *that* hard to comprehend, Tuvia?" she said. "As of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, they've been the dominant superpower. And given the sheer amount of nuclear knockoffs turning about over the last half century, to maintain their own policies of deterrence, they need a weapon of overwhelming power. It's not that difficult to understand."
"That makes sense, somewhat." He shrugged.
"Remember, Tuvia," she said pointedly, "this is to be kept within this building. Issue a memo, or hold a meeting--whatever! Just make sure everyone knows it!"
"But of course, ma'am."
He bowed pompously, turning on the heels of his cheap loafers. His trunk wobbled as he went for the door, but he turned his head back as he reached for the knob.
"Ms. Hershel?" he said.
"Yes...?" she sighed, folding her arms in a huff.
"How long, do you think, this team of yours will take, ma'am?" he asked.
Her eyebrow kinked. "Excuse me?"
"You know what I mean, Ariel." He said. "These are some bright people you got under your thumb. Don't think you can keep the truth from them forever."
"Once again," her eyes took a lap around, as did her head, "I have no idea what you're babbling about. What truth? What are you talking about?"
"About the *real* Drazen." He said. "About his little ragtag team, and whatnot."
Her heart skipped a beat; her arms dropped to their respectable sides, and her back met the comfy seat of the chair once more.
"They're going to find out about it sooner or later, Ms. Hershel." The man continued. "And when they do, the good Lord only knows what'll happen."
"Then let's hope that they don't." she said.
"Wishful thinking." He sighed, and door pressed against his backside by his own will as he strolled out the door. "I don't blame you."
The knob made a racket, as the nameless part latched back into the frame. She jammed her hands into her armpits, folding her arms, laying her fingers flat against her ribs. The chunky heels of her pumps dug into the carpet, scraping her to a stop as her body wanted to slip right off the chair. With her head bowed, she closed her eyes. Kimberly, the refuge camp, Gladius, Drazen; the burdens lifted themselves off her tired form, as slumber's gentle hands carried her off to dreamland.
*God, * she thought transiently, *watch over Kim this day. Please keep her safe, for me... and for Ron. Please.... *
***
Amazement. Sheer amazement, it was, how three trashed vehicles, a wrecked 'copter, estimated well over 30 million dollars worth of damage lead to the end of a great day.
The good Lord knew how many went to meet Him that day, only to be shunned off into the eternal darkness, foul of death and that sulfur-like stench that polluted their dismal grounds for over an hour. But when the dust settled back onto their bloodied, pebbled streets and the smoldering fires burnt themselves away; his prize--his trophy--waited for him a block away, bruised and broken on the street at the end of the afternoon.
It bounced and bobbed before him now, its extremities hogtied, hanging deliciously on a stick as two of his nameless men carried it along like pork on its way to the burning, rotating scaffold. It probably wouldn't taste as good as Babe, not that he ever ate of the unclean animal, but his brother would predictably beg to differ.
"Well, Major Drazen." The fore-grunt made a sound like his crude title. "What should we do with her, Sir?"
"We just got back home..." He yawned. "We're beat, plain and simple! I'm sure we'll figure something out, sooner or later."
"Maybe we'll let the Tank Man have his way." The second grunt replied. "She'll squeal like a little piggy then!"
"Later." He sighed. "First, hand her over to the Doc. Have her patched up and whatnot. Later tonight, she's going to need all the TLC she can get."
"Ha!" the fore-grunt laughed. "Right, Sir...."
"Damn right I'm right!" he affirmed.
"That's a laugh, Drazen!" his trophy laughed.
"Shut up, Bitch!" the fore-grunt yelled. "Or we'll do it for you!"
"Can't do much when you're playing Miss Piggy on a rotisserie stick!" the second grunt interjected, as though to punctuate his buddy's words properly with useless embellishment.
"Well what do you know!" she claimed irreverently. "You're astute! Some one break out the champagne!"
Though he relished in the sweet reward in the earning of his trophy, it had such a hateful shine that hurt his eye just by looking at it. Then again, it didn't glare at him as much as it did, didn't helplessly poke at him after a swift hook its scratchy crown. The glare seemed to fade and it dimmed out of sight.
"Thank--you, Sir!" the fore-grunt made with another suitable noise. "I'd thought she'd never shut up!"
"You're welcome." He said.
"Man, why the fuck do we got to carry this *shikse* for?" the second grunt whined. "Shouldn't this be that newcomer's job?"
"I hear that!" the fore-grunt rejoined enthusiastically. He lifted his end of the dowel, pulling more of its thick length over his shoulder. "That little shit needs to get broken in, jammed in the trenches like me. Still remember what the Major over here put me through."
"You were being an ass." He shrugged. "What else could I do?"
"I know!" the fore-grunt said. "Just thought you were a *putz* with a head full of hot air and big dreams, result of some old fashioned nepotism from old man Drazen. But after working here for a while now, and especially after today, I read you wrong! Then again, how is your old man anyway?"
"Ask Ben about it." He said. "He's dead too, and enjoying his little patch of Hell like Dad to boot. Hell--they'd be reaming this wench's ass together, if the Havoc crash finished the job for me!
"I still remember how he always told me I was the greatest of his sons, even the unstoppable man mountain, Deutsche! Until the day it just... stopped."
He gazed impassively at the trophy that hanged on the dowel, silently for the first time since the few women under his wing had stripped it almost bare. Humbled was an understatement. Dignity was fleeting, a joke as it hanged broken and contused in a dark sports bra and matching panties, a burlap bag staring back at him vacantly. Kimberly Possible, hero of teens and men, champion of this disgusting mud ball of errant creation, clutching weakly to the lowest rung of the ladder over the course of an afternoon.
"It--right here--decided to stop it." He pointed indifferently. "Stole my father and my brothers, all in a single day. Almost killed me too."
"Uh..." the grunts were speechless, "right--Sir!"
"Like King Solomon!" he smirked. "A time to sow, and a time to reap! And boy, won't this harvest be sweet! Won't be as sweet as Hershel, the queen *shikse* herself, but still! Right, guys?"
"You bet, Sir!" they enthusiastically replied.
"Good answer!" he smiled.
The huge blast door towered over them as the rusty catwalk ended. Uzi was more than obliged to cram his odd face into the biometric scanner. The walk over the oil vats took too long, he thought every time he passed them over, and the thick fumes of oil were overwhelming. Thankfully, that didn't stop the huge, impassive door from doing its job without a hint of protest. It howled open, it slow journey smooth in large part by the thick slab of a counterweight dangling beside the walk. The two, armed guards behind the door jumped to their feet, gracing him with a salute.
"Sergeant Jude is entertaining our guests along with Lieutenant Bonnet." He gave a half salute back. "Have their tribute brought down before them. I'll be in my quarters if you need me."
"What about you, Sir?" the fore-grunt asked.
"I'll be calling... *family*, if you'd call him that." He replied. "Then I'll join you. I feel some gloating coming on!"
"Hah...!" the second grunt rejoined. "You got it, Sir!"
***
"You see, Junior?" the old, Spanish coot waved a wrinkled finger at that pretty boy of a progeny. How did the feral art of genetics worked? That was a million-shekel question Shia had no answer to. "A proper villain always follows up on his investments or his loans!"
"Pf...!" the beefcake's dark eyes rolled along with his own. "Whatever! I'm late for a session at the tanning salon!"
"Junior!" the old father snapped.
"What?"
"Junior, Junior, Junior...!" the pelt of salt-and-pepper tresses shifted as the coot shook his head. He blinked; he saw a nice piece of it move--*slip*--further than what surely should have been the roots natural range. Yet he couldn't have been too certain as the coot's weathered fingers ran through the slicked-backed mat. "I tried taking the back seat, I tried a tutor, heck--I tried every piece of advice from The Book of Evil! My son, what am I to do with you?"
"Well, you could find me another decent pair of trousers!" the beefcake angled his thin waist oddly, the dark eyes glued to his behind. "Is this material supposed to lose its sheen so quickly?"
"I say you hand him over to the Major's brother." Shia shot a dirty grin. "I'm sure he'll give this pretty boy a nice *chit-chat* in the art of villainy. Or is it cannibalism? I'm not exactly sure, but I am sure it should do the trick!"
"Mind your own beeswax, Louis Stevens person!" the pretty boy's look was strange mixture between a bitter frown and a pout.
He rolled his eyes. "Why does he keep saying that?"
"Not my fault you look like that goofy kid on the Even Stevens show!" the beefcake folded his arms. "Same voice, same face, same everything!"
"Bah!" he scoffed.
"Bah yourself, tacky curly top!"
He felt his knuckles pop as his fingers curled themselves into the palm tightly. A hand dove into his pocket, fingers plunging blindly into the soft, scratchy depth for his bloodied tool.
"Tacky!?" the hard discovery ran up his fingers, up the length of his arm, digits clamping around one of the stubby broom handles. "Why you little--!"
"Lieutenant Bonnet!" a voice called out from behind. A loud *CLANG* swallowed the voice during its boisterous ring. He spun around, on his heels, towards that annoying lift the mechanics had yet to work the kinks out of.
Two grunts in typical olive drab, guys he was overall certain he had seen scampering about before, hunched on the settling platform, a long dowel crowned with knots of rope clenched in their hands. Both lumbered out of the shaft like Neanderthals, hauling that thick stick as though it had dinner strapped on.
It must have been the Tank Man's dinner; he felt his gut churn as his eyes flanked the length of the dowel. A female hanged from the dowel hogtied like the very animal the knots suggested, a shapely body of pinked, white flesh wrapped skimpily in dark undergarments. A rough, scratchy looking sack enveloped what should have been the head.
"Yes men?" his hand retreated out of the pocket empty, and both went behind to the small of his back, fingers of one hand grasping the wrist of the other lightly. "Can't you see that I'm entertaining guests here?"
"We do, Sir!" the grunt at the front replied. "The Major himself sent us down here, just for the sake of your guests."
"That's all well and good, Private--!" "Corporal... Sir!"
"Yes...!" he sneered gently, though muscles ached to tug his lips a little more. "Of course...! But if you're delivering Tank Man his lunch, might I suggest you take a different path?"
"Lunch...?" the beefcake said like a squeak.
"Yes!" he nodded, and his body made the pretty boy whip into view, courtesy of his legs. "Lunch, Senor Senior Junior, it is lunch--for the good Major's brother. I bet this girl dangling from the stick was a wannabe villain, just like you. Ten to one, I bet she worked here in the Organ Grinder--!"
"Uh... 'Organ'... 'Grinder'?" It was one heck of a cringe; the large boy's face twisted, his dark eyes wide and shimmering, while he crammed three limbs into his body. The old, Spanish coot's lips pulled into a smile, giving his a quick nod for some reason.
"Yes, Junior, the whole reason why the Major gave this facility that very moniker." He smirked. "You see, all the villains who are lazy, and don't do their job are sent here, hogtied like the very wench you see before you! Soon, they're hand delivered to Mr. Organ Grinder himself, for one... final... meal!"
"B-Bah...!" the hunk of putty stuttered. "Bacon and Eggs...?"
"Even if there was such a course," he shrugged, "let's just stay that the wannabe's couldn't enjoy it for very long."
Not even in a blink of an eye, the honking beefcake was down on his skinny, shiny knees, on the slick, dirty cement, his large tanned fingers laced together above his head. His eyes were closed, the lids furrowed and wrinkled as the brows threatened to overlap them.
"Please, Father!" the putty shook his hands furiously. "PLEASE! Don't leave me here to die!"
"You know, you are getting your expensive pants a little soiled, my son." the coot smiled warmly, serenely as though all was well with the world.
"They are going to be more dirty in a few minutes!" the son cried. "Don't leave me here to die! PLEASE!! I swear I'll be a better villain! I'll even memorize every word in The Book of Evil! PLEASE FATHER!!"
"Well, since you show such promising enthusiasm," the coot shrugged, tapping his cane on the cement, "why not?"
"Oh--thank you--THANK YOU, FATHER!!" the son's eyes popped open, glistening beautifully in the hot, bright light of the halogens above. The beefcake took the coot's closet hand into his own, where his lips... engulfed--for lack of better word--the shiny, rotund ring on the gnarled finger. The coot's weathered face twisted into a cringe.
"*Uh...! *" The coot groaned, turning his face away in disgust. Shia laughed.
***
"Robin," Ron shrugged, fingers curling weakly around the shiny handle of the Peugeot's door, "I have to say it's been fun, but I've got to jet. The dang SUV probably blew a gasket about now!"
"I would have to agree with you, Mr. Head." The black girl jerked the lever impaling the steering column up into its "P" position. "It has been fun, has it not?"
"It has." He nodded, and the door beside squeak ajar with a clunk. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime?"
"Who actually knows, Mr. Head?" the girl sighed. "Will my Shia ever return my calls? Did his terrible employer finally bite the dust? Will peace ever know this tiny nation? We must be thankful to the good Lord for His great knowledge, for I do not have the answer to those questions."
"Good point." He lifted his leg, shifting it toward the crack between the door and the car, and letting gravity tug it down to the ground.
The Western Wall was quiet. The large expanse before it empty, he noticed while he faced the door, all of the worshipers gone home for the evening, security gates closed and locked tight. The sun winked its goodbyes in the deep orange sky, twilight creeping toward the west with grand, practiced bravado. Sadie, Ms. Audacity herself, might as well have been a ghost. The gas-guzzler was nowhere to be seen.
"And it looks like my ride isn't here." He noted. "Where is she?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, my friend." Robin said. "Maybe she is late?"
"I don't think so." He shook his head. "I may be a few minutes late, but it's not her style. Something might be up with Jane."
"Maybe," she said, "maybe not. Who knows? But do not wait in the cold for a long. Keep warm with me. This car has the air conditioning, you know."
"Yes, I do know." He nodded, flopping his foot back onto the matted carpet, the car rocking with a wham of the door closing. "It maybe a French car, but its better than kick in the ass!"
"Indeed it is." Her dark fingers fiddled with the primitive console, three drumming on the buttons while the others twisted the knobs. The car let out its mighty breath into his face, a warm and pungent stench that smelled like feet for some reason. Robin's body sank into the chair, her rump carrying her body into a slouch while her arms folded tightly into herself.
"Relax and enjoy yourself, Mr. Head." She said. "We might be here for a time. Care to listen to some radio while we wait?"
"No thanks." He replied. "After that odd, little air stunt this morning, I'd rather not know the details."
"Dress yourself then!" she shrugged. Ron blinked.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I said you can dress yourself." She said.
"Oh--!" he blinked again. "I think you mean *suit*, Robin--as in 'suit yourself'. That's how it's said."
"Ah--right!" she nodded.
"Of course I am!" his lips pulled into a wide smile, teeth peeking from behind them. "It's good to be right once in a while."
Something honked nearby, a loud and boisterous one that blasted into his ears as if someone took a nap on the steering wheel. Thankfully, the still quiet of dusk flowed into his ears swiftly (or was it the AC?) as the mystery person must have taken a hint. Loose bits of solid earth grinded together softly, loudening as a hollow purr engulfed the munching.
Out the nearby window, a vehicle--a large soiled vehicle--flanked the small Peugeot as it rolled slowly beside. Above the driver's side door floated a little head, blonde; the wavy, platinum strands dirty and in a frayed, tangled mess. Blue eyes dotted the face, saddened eyes that struck him deeply as though they pierced straight into his soul.
"Ron?" the blonde called. "Is that you?"
It was Tara; it had to be, just by the sheer timbre of the girl's voice. The dirty door creaked open; crumbs from the mud that caked the panel fell onto the street, losing themselves amongst the loose bits of earth. Her slender feet smacked onto the ground, the blue lacquer on the nails soiled with a light coat of grime, the flesh brownish at the arches.
"Oh, thank God!" she hopped closer by the balls of her feet. Her hand took the lead, disappearing beneath the horizon weather-stripping and up the length of her forearm a bit. The Peugeot's door clunked open for the second time, and slender arms wrapped him tightly in their embrace around the neck. "I was worried."
"Tara?" his hands cupped over her shoulders gently, easing her away. He nearly lost himself in her blue gaze, eyes broken and glistening in the car's safety lamp. "What's going on? Where's Yune?"
"I'm right here, Ronald." His ears tingled, catching that accent over the crunching of the Asian's intense footsteps. He slipped out from behind the caked vehicle, his clothes grubby as those of his girl, black cap of hair an array of messy, curly points trained everyway possible. A small, chunky revolver aimed itself straight to the ground inside a weak grip. "Lucky to be here, in fact."
"Who are these people?" Robin asked. "Are these friends of yours?"
"Of course!" he nodded. "Couldn't wait to see them again too."
"And why do they call you, Ron...?" she said suspiciously.
"He'll explain to you some other time, Miss." Yune shook his head gravely. "And after this, I don't think you'll ever want to hear from us again."
"Are you guys okay?" he asked. "You two look like hell! Barely look like you can stand on your own two feet."
"Believe me, its true." The Korean said.
"What's going on, you guys? I thought Tara was on a flight back home. And where's Kim? Wasn't she supposed to be with you?"
The blonde moved herself away a few steps, her back unrolling as she moved her body out of the cab. The wind caught up loose strands of hair, locks floating in the soft breeze. Her eyes dropped to the dirty ground, her arms held each other up gently by the hands out of a certain shame, glowing from her like the faint reflection off her skin by the fleeting daylight.
"Go ahead, Yune." She said softly. "Tell him."
His brow cocked out habitually; his heart jumped, something indescribable tugging at it callously while it upped its pace. Then only did he realize how the crass vehicle beside let her purring engine do all the talking.
"Why do you have Kim's pistol?" he said.
The Asian walked at him sullenly. The shiny pistol in his grasp mooned him as the man let the plastic grip flip out his hand, hanging by his finger through the trigger guard. Three fingers flipped it upright, the frame resting awkwardly in his closing palm, his thumb steadying the gun by the saddle joint.
"Here..." he said flatly. "We found in the glove box a few minutes ago. I think Kim... might've wanted you to have it."
His heart felt as though it were being squeezed to death, longing to escape through the thick bars in his chest, reaching that critical, frantic thrashing prior to its arrest. Fingers twitched erratically, weak palms dragged toward the ground when cold, molded steel chilled the flesh. He gazed blankly at his own morphed reflection in the steel, yearning for that kind, emerald eyes to stare back at him--
--Just somehow.
"You know what I see, Missy?" Bile oozed up Hershel's throat, but a quick swallow easily shoved it back down to her stomach, where it belonged. Why she drove through the shortest route, back to her boring, sterile office, she didn't know. Her cell had let out a sharp, purring ring from her pocket, as soon as her shoe had touched down upon the tile, past the front door.
"No," she sighed, loud enough so the deaf ears of the strange, bitter man could catch easily, "but I have a feeling that you'll tell me, Mr. Ambassador."
"Very good, Missy!" the bitter man chuckled. "I tell you, I look out the window in my embassy office right now--even as we speak--and you know what I see blossoming to the west of us?"
The wheels beneath squeaked like mice as the cool leather enveloped her back firmly on her descent, rolling gently away from the desk. Thank the good Lord, she did, for a quality, leather chair, because she was going to need all the comfort she could get.
"Not sure, Mr. Ambassador." Bones popped as she rolled her head around, pressing the back of her skull against the plush cushion halfway on the second roll. "Some pretty flowers, fig trees, or even some acacia wood perhaps?"
"What?" the bitter man's growl was like a bulldog's, possibly with the bite to match. "You think you're some kind of comedienne, Hershel? Think you're the next Mel Brooks, eh?"
"Maybe." She shrugged. "I do like his movies. Have you ever seen 'History of the World", Mr. Ambassador? I think it's more realistic than anything I've read in a text, Sir. Though I do have to disagree with the Jews-in-Space shtick--!"
"ENOUGH!!" the man barked. "I'll--just--tell--you!"
"If you please...!" she capped a hand over her stretched lips, keeping in the laugh that desperately wanted freedom.
"If it's not enough that you have vigilantes running around, doing whatever the hell they want, killing who they want," the ambassador exclaimed, "now it seems that they, and their lunatic of a leader wants to torch the entire West Bank!"
The laughter sank back into her throat; her hand arm lowered down to its rest.
"What?" she said.
"What do you mean what!?" the grouch threw it back. "You heard exactly what I said!"
"Maybe you can calm yourself down a few minutes, if your super-id doesn't mind taking the back seat." She said. "Can you reiterate, please?"
"Fine!" the bulldog growled. "One minute, all's well with the land for a rare change. Next thing we know, your 'Major' showed up, and blew a block sky high behind the fence! I still see a nice, thick cloud of black burning several miles away!"
"And...?"
"*And... *" the bulldog replied, "I wonder how long till I call the President, Missy! It's clear as day the Knesset won't do anything to stop these terrorists--!"
"As opposed to your government's appeasement with the 'militants', Mr. Ambassador!?" the taste became suddenly bitter. "It was the United States that started this whole Temple Mount turnover crap in the first place--even so far as withholding loans from us if we didn't cooperate!"
"Damn straight, Missy!" the bulldog barked. "We let your whole fence drop off the Road Map, clean and clear! But don't you dare think you can weasel your way out of this, Missy! We won't let it!"
"Like the way you weaseled out of your government's 'Gladius' fiasco?" her lips bittersweet, smile flush with the utter contempt for that arrogant American. "Or like how the PA came out strong of another tongue lashing? Please, do clear this up for an incompetent Jewess like myself, hmm...?"
The bulldog's retort came in a low, soft growl.
"What?" she asked. "Too much of a challenge?"
"You know what I just got word, less than an hour ago, of?" he dismissed.
"Nope," she shook her head, "sure don't."
"I just received a phone call, stateside, from the Middleton branch of the FBI." He said strongly. "A certain Webmaster and known hacker, by the name 'Wade', had been arrested just recently. It seems this kid had broken his probation."
She felt her heart jump. "So...?"
"He hacked into your computer network, using some new fangled-techno- gizmo-crap." He grumbled. "He claimed he knew you as the police dragged him away. I don't know; all I *do* know is that it strictly went against the terms of his probation! And for that, the feds will personally make sure he gets the stiffest sentence the DA can throw at him! Consider this a second strike, Missy!"
"Second strike...?"
"Yes, Ms. Hershel!" the bulldog said. "Your second strike! Letting these terrorists have carte blanche was your first. Reel them in, and don't suffer the children to do it! Clean up your house, Missy!"
"Or you'll what?" her back unrolled from her slouch, as she sat up straight.
"Or... we'll do it for you--!"
A crackle of static invaded her ear, and all went silent inside the receiver. She let out a sigh, and her phone made a little *click* when she closed its halves like a castanet. It was like a rock, pulling at the flap of her jacket as she let it drop into the pocket. Her body too felt like dead weight, as she wanted sleep to overwhelm her like the leather of her comfy chair.
"Ms. Hershel?" there came a small rapping at her office door, before the knob rattled and the man behind the familiar voice pushed it ajar.
"Ms. Hershel--?"
"I'm here, Tuvia." Her fingers were like teeth of a pick, combing through her locks of hair, shifting them to an overall presentable arrangement. "Come in."
The heavy man strolled inside, his button-down chest wobbling a tic with every move of the neatly pressed legs of his pants. His full, dark hair shifted side to side. Several pieces of paper were pinched in his pudgy hand, and a look full of apprehension twisted his face.
"What do you want?" she sighed. "And what's the look for? It's not like you found a forty-pound watermelon in you colon, did you?"
"No, ma'am." The dark man shook his head. "But after reading these.... Damn!"
"What?" she sat up.
"We just received a report from one of our contacts in the West Bank." The man explained. "It seems that Major Drazen's Apache had been shot down over a refuge camp. No prizes for guessing whom though."
"Kim actually took him out!?" her hands clenched on the armrests, leaning her chest out from the chair back.
"Well, yes-and-no." he gave a shrug. "She succeeded in taking the 'copter down, but it looks like Drazen crawled out of his dirt nap once again. Blew the wreckage sky high, and took out a chunk of the refuge camp with him. And..."
"This is the business, Tuvia." She rolled her eyes. "Just say it!"
"It looks like they captured this Kimberly girl also." She frowned. "We don't know how they did it, but this report clearly shows it. 'Approximately 2PM, two VSA soldiers shot down a petite woman with flush, auburn hair, before a huge explosion rocked the camp. Possibly caused by the crazed Major, but there's no way to prove it. About 10 minutes later, an olive Hummer with VSA markings rolled up to the two soldiers. They piled inside after the pushed their prisoner into the back.'
Now who do we know with flush, auburn hair? Hmm...?"
"Okay, I get it!" she frowned.
"Question is, what the hell are we going to do?" he asked.
"Ten to one," she thought aloud, "they wouldn't kill her, just yet. Not till Drazen has his go around."
"And his gruesome brother." The heavy man added. "Maybe, there might be something left to save after his turn. But even that's doubtful."
"There's no proof that a twin even exists, Tuvia." She shook her head. "Don't concern yourself over rumors. But she might have that locator card."
"And...?" Tuvia leaned, twisting his head around so that an ear took the lead. "I'm listening."
"I can see that!" she growled. "Just scan the frequencies until I say. Search for anything out of the ordinary, and report it at once."
"How long?"
"Till I say, Tuvia!" she pushed herself to her angled feet, wobbling a bit. "Now move!"
"Just one more thing, ma'am." His pudgy fingers rustled through the papers, the white, blackened sheets atop found themselves at the bottom of the stack. The rustling came to a crescendo that abruptly ended with one last whip of the papers by the flick of the wrist.
"Yes?" she said.
"Our S&T department cracked the contents on that ZIP disk you recovered." He said. "The offices were at a standstill when we figured out what exactly we had. In fact, you can probably still hear a pin drop over there, if you hurry."
"What's on it?" she asked.
"To put it simply," the large man shrugged, "they're activation codes for a nuke."
"What?" she blinked.
"Yep!" he nodded. "The power of the sun, right in our hand. Then again, how's that different than any other day? When our 'neighbors' aren't coaxing us to give them up, that is."
"A nuke?" she said. "What kind of nuke?"
"There's reason to believe strongly it's the American Gladius system." He said. "The numbers, algorithms--hell--everything matches perfectly."
"But..." she was at a loss for words, "how...?"
"Looks like Drazen gets around." He shrugged. "Should we call the Ambassador regarding this?"
"No." she said. "We keep this inside the building for now."
"But what the hell are we going to do with it?" he asked. "Gladius has been dismantled--!"
"Bah!" she interjected. "Knowing the current American administration, they probably kept up and running, despite the uproar."
"But why bother--?"
"Is it really *that* hard to comprehend, Tuvia?" she said. "As of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, they've been the dominant superpower. And given the sheer amount of nuclear knockoffs turning about over the last half century, to maintain their own policies of deterrence, they need a weapon of overwhelming power. It's not that difficult to understand."
"That makes sense, somewhat." He shrugged.
"Remember, Tuvia," she said pointedly, "this is to be kept within this building. Issue a memo, or hold a meeting--whatever! Just make sure everyone knows it!"
"But of course, ma'am."
He bowed pompously, turning on the heels of his cheap loafers. His trunk wobbled as he went for the door, but he turned his head back as he reached for the knob.
"Ms. Hershel?" he said.
"Yes...?" she sighed, folding her arms in a huff.
"How long, do you think, this team of yours will take, ma'am?" he asked.
Her eyebrow kinked. "Excuse me?"
"You know what I mean, Ariel." He said. "These are some bright people you got under your thumb. Don't think you can keep the truth from them forever."
"Once again," her eyes took a lap around, as did her head, "I have no idea what you're babbling about. What truth? What are you talking about?"
"About the *real* Drazen." He said. "About his little ragtag team, and whatnot."
Her heart skipped a beat; her arms dropped to their respectable sides, and her back met the comfy seat of the chair once more.
"They're going to find out about it sooner or later, Ms. Hershel." The man continued. "And when they do, the good Lord only knows what'll happen."
"Then let's hope that they don't." she said.
"Wishful thinking." He sighed, and door pressed against his backside by his own will as he strolled out the door. "I don't blame you."
The knob made a racket, as the nameless part latched back into the frame. She jammed her hands into her armpits, folding her arms, laying her fingers flat against her ribs. The chunky heels of her pumps dug into the carpet, scraping her to a stop as her body wanted to slip right off the chair. With her head bowed, she closed her eyes. Kimberly, the refuge camp, Gladius, Drazen; the burdens lifted themselves off her tired form, as slumber's gentle hands carried her off to dreamland.
*God, * she thought transiently, *watch over Kim this day. Please keep her safe, for me... and for Ron. Please.... *
***
Amazement. Sheer amazement, it was, how three trashed vehicles, a wrecked 'copter, estimated well over 30 million dollars worth of damage lead to the end of a great day.
The good Lord knew how many went to meet Him that day, only to be shunned off into the eternal darkness, foul of death and that sulfur-like stench that polluted their dismal grounds for over an hour. But when the dust settled back onto their bloodied, pebbled streets and the smoldering fires burnt themselves away; his prize--his trophy--waited for him a block away, bruised and broken on the street at the end of the afternoon.
It bounced and bobbed before him now, its extremities hogtied, hanging deliciously on a stick as two of his nameless men carried it along like pork on its way to the burning, rotating scaffold. It probably wouldn't taste as good as Babe, not that he ever ate of the unclean animal, but his brother would predictably beg to differ.
"Well, Major Drazen." The fore-grunt made a sound like his crude title. "What should we do with her, Sir?"
"We just got back home..." He yawned. "We're beat, plain and simple! I'm sure we'll figure something out, sooner or later."
"Maybe we'll let the Tank Man have his way." The second grunt replied. "She'll squeal like a little piggy then!"
"Later." He sighed. "First, hand her over to the Doc. Have her patched up and whatnot. Later tonight, she's going to need all the TLC she can get."
"Ha!" the fore-grunt laughed. "Right, Sir...."
"Damn right I'm right!" he affirmed.
"That's a laugh, Drazen!" his trophy laughed.
"Shut up, Bitch!" the fore-grunt yelled. "Or we'll do it for you!"
"Can't do much when you're playing Miss Piggy on a rotisserie stick!" the second grunt interjected, as though to punctuate his buddy's words properly with useless embellishment.
"Well what do you know!" she claimed irreverently. "You're astute! Some one break out the champagne!"
Though he relished in the sweet reward in the earning of his trophy, it had such a hateful shine that hurt his eye just by looking at it. Then again, it didn't glare at him as much as it did, didn't helplessly poke at him after a swift hook its scratchy crown. The glare seemed to fade and it dimmed out of sight.
"Thank--you, Sir!" the fore-grunt made with another suitable noise. "I'd thought she'd never shut up!"
"You're welcome." He said.
"Man, why the fuck do we got to carry this *shikse* for?" the second grunt whined. "Shouldn't this be that newcomer's job?"
"I hear that!" the fore-grunt rejoined enthusiastically. He lifted his end of the dowel, pulling more of its thick length over his shoulder. "That little shit needs to get broken in, jammed in the trenches like me. Still remember what the Major over here put me through."
"You were being an ass." He shrugged. "What else could I do?"
"I know!" the fore-grunt said. "Just thought you were a *putz* with a head full of hot air and big dreams, result of some old fashioned nepotism from old man Drazen. But after working here for a while now, and especially after today, I read you wrong! Then again, how is your old man anyway?"
"Ask Ben about it." He said. "He's dead too, and enjoying his little patch of Hell like Dad to boot. Hell--they'd be reaming this wench's ass together, if the Havoc crash finished the job for me!
"I still remember how he always told me I was the greatest of his sons, even the unstoppable man mountain, Deutsche! Until the day it just... stopped."
He gazed impassively at the trophy that hanged on the dowel, silently for the first time since the few women under his wing had stripped it almost bare. Humbled was an understatement. Dignity was fleeting, a joke as it hanged broken and contused in a dark sports bra and matching panties, a burlap bag staring back at him vacantly. Kimberly Possible, hero of teens and men, champion of this disgusting mud ball of errant creation, clutching weakly to the lowest rung of the ladder over the course of an afternoon.
"It--right here--decided to stop it." He pointed indifferently. "Stole my father and my brothers, all in a single day. Almost killed me too."
"Uh..." the grunts were speechless, "right--Sir!"
"Like King Solomon!" he smirked. "A time to sow, and a time to reap! And boy, won't this harvest be sweet! Won't be as sweet as Hershel, the queen *shikse* herself, but still! Right, guys?"
"You bet, Sir!" they enthusiastically replied.
"Good answer!" he smiled.
The huge blast door towered over them as the rusty catwalk ended. Uzi was more than obliged to cram his odd face into the biometric scanner. The walk over the oil vats took too long, he thought every time he passed them over, and the thick fumes of oil were overwhelming. Thankfully, that didn't stop the huge, impassive door from doing its job without a hint of protest. It howled open, it slow journey smooth in large part by the thick slab of a counterweight dangling beside the walk. The two, armed guards behind the door jumped to their feet, gracing him with a salute.
"Sergeant Jude is entertaining our guests along with Lieutenant Bonnet." He gave a half salute back. "Have their tribute brought down before them. I'll be in my quarters if you need me."
"What about you, Sir?" the fore-grunt asked.
"I'll be calling... *family*, if you'd call him that." He replied. "Then I'll join you. I feel some gloating coming on!"
"Hah...!" the second grunt rejoined. "You got it, Sir!"
***
"You see, Junior?" the old, Spanish coot waved a wrinkled finger at that pretty boy of a progeny. How did the feral art of genetics worked? That was a million-shekel question Shia had no answer to. "A proper villain always follows up on his investments or his loans!"
"Pf...!" the beefcake's dark eyes rolled along with his own. "Whatever! I'm late for a session at the tanning salon!"
"Junior!" the old father snapped.
"What?"
"Junior, Junior, Junior...!" the pelt of salt-and-pepper tresses shifted as the coot shook his head. He blinked; he saw a nice piece of it move--*slip*--further than what surely should have been the roots natural range. Yet he couldn't have been too certain as the coot's weathered fingers ran through the slicked-backed mat. "I tried taking the back seat, I tried a tutor, heck--I tried every piece of advice from The Book of Evil! My son, what am I to do with you?"
"Well, you could find me another decent pair of trousers!" the beefcake angled his thin waist oddly, the dark eyes glued to his behind. "Is this material supposed to lose its sheen so quickly?"
"I say you hand him over to the Major's brother." Shia shot a dirty grin. "I'm sure he'll give this pretty boy a nice *chit-chat* in the art of villainy. Or is it cannibalism? I'm not exactly sure, but I am sure it should do the trick!"
"Mind your own beeswax, Louis Stevens person!" the pretty boy's look was strange mixture between a bitter frown and a pout.
He rolled his eyes. "Why does he keep saying that?"
"Not my fault you look like that goofy kid on the Even Stevens show!" the beefcake folded his arms. "Same voice, same face, same everything!"
"Bah!" he scoffed.
"Bah yourself, tacky curly top!"
He felt his knuckles pop as his fingers curled themselves into the palm tightly. A hand dove into his pocket, fingers plunging blindly into the soft, scratchy depth for his bloodied tool.
"Tacky!?" the hard discovery ran up his fingers, up the length of his arm, digits clamping around one of the stubby broom handles. "Why you little--!"
"Lieutenant Bonnet!" a voice called out from behind. A loud *CLANG* swallowed the voice during its boisterous ring. He spun around, on his heels, towards that annoying lift the mechanics had yet to work the kinks out of.
Two grunts in typical olive drab, guys he was overall certain he had seen scampering about before, hunched on the settling platform, a long dowel crowned with knots of rope clenched in their hands. Both lumbered out of the shaft like Neanderthals, hauling that thick stick as though it had dinner strapped on.
It must have been the Tank Man's dinner; he felt his gut churn as his eyes flanked the length of the dowel. A female hanged from the dowel hogtied like the very animal the knots suggested, a shapely body of pinked, white flesh wrapped skimpily in dark undergarments. A rough, scratchy looking sack enveloped what should have been the head.
"Yes men?" his hand retreated out of the pocket empty, and both went behind to the small of his back, fingers of one hand grasping the wrist of the other lightly. "Can't you see that I'm entertaining guests here?"
"We do, Sir!" the grunt at the front replied. "The Major himself sent us down here, just for the sake of your guests."
"That's all well and good, Private--!" "Corporal... Sir!"
"Yes...!" he sneered gently, though muscles ached to tug his lips a little more. "Of course...! But if you're delivering Tank Man his lunch, might I suggest you take a different path?"
"Lunch...?" the beefcake said like a squeak.
"Yes!" he nodded, and his body made the pretty boy whip into view, courtesy of his legs. "Lunch, Senor Senior Junior, it is lunch--for the good Major's brother. I bet this girl dangling from the stick was a wannabe villain, just like you. Ten to one, I bet she worked here in the Organ Grinder--!"
"Uh... 'Organ'... 'Grinder'?" It was one heck of a cringe; the large boy's face twisted, his dark eyes wide and shimmering, while he crammed three limbs into his body. The old, Spanish coot's lips pulled into a smile, giving his a quick nod for some reason.
"Yes, Junior, the whole reason why the Major gave this facility that very moniker." He smirked. "You see, all the villains who are lazy, and don't do their job are sent here, hogtied like the very wench you see before you! Soon, they're hand delivered to Mr. Organ Grinder himself, for one... final... meal!"
"B-Bah...!" the hunk of putty stuttered. "Bacon and Eggs...?"
"Even if there was such a course," he shrugged, "let's just stay that the wannabe's couldn't enjoy it for very long."
Not even in a blink of an eye, the honking beefcake was down on his skinny, shiny knees, on the slick, dirty cement, his large tanned fingers laced together above his head. His eyes were closed, the lids furrowed and wrinkled as the brows threatened to overlap them.
"Please, Father!" the putty shook his hands furiously. "PLEASE! Don't leave me here to die!"
"You know, you are getting your expensive pants a little soiled, my son." the coot smiled warmly, serenely as though all was well with the world.
"They are going to be more dirty in a few minutes!" the son cried. "Don't leave me here to die! PLEASE!! I swear I'll be a better villain! I'll even memorize every word in The Book of Evil! PLEASE FATHER!!"
"Well, since you show such promising enthusiasm," the coot shrugged, tapping his cane on the cement, "why not?"
"Oh--thank you--THANK YOU, FATHER!!" the son's eyes popped open, glistening beautifully in the hot, bright light of the halogens above. The beefcake took the coot's closet hand into his own, where his lips... engulfed--for lack of better word--the shiny, rotund ring on the gnarled finger. The coot's weathered face twisted into a cringe.
"*Uh...! *" The coot groaned, turning his face away in disgust. Shia laughed.
***
"Robin," Ron shrugged, fingers curling weakly around the shiny handle of the Peugeot's door, "I have to say it's been fun, but I've got to jet. The dang SUV probably blew a gasket about now!"
"I would have to agree with you, Mr. Head." The black girl jerked the lever impaling the steering column up into its "P" position. "It has been fun, has it not?"
"It has." He nodded, and the door beside squeak ajar with a clunk. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime?"
"Who actually knows, Mr. Head?" the girl sighed. "Will my Shia ever return my calls? Did his terrible employer finally bite the dust? Will peace ever know this tiny nation? We must be thankful to the good Lord for His great knowledge, for I do not have the answer to those questions."
"Good point." He lifted his leg, shifting it toward the crack between the door and the car, and letting gravity tug it down to the ground.
The Western Wall was quiet. The large expanse before it empty, he noticed while he faced the door, all of the worshipers gone home for the evening, security gates closed and locked tight. The sun winked its goodbyes in the deep orange sky, twilight creeping toward the west with grand, practiced bravado. Sadie, Ms. Audacity herself, might as well have been a ghost. The gas-guzzler was nowhere to be seen.
"And it looks like my ride isn't here." He noted. "Where is she?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, my friend." Robin said. "Maybe she is late?"
"I don't think so." He shook his head. "I may be a few minutes late, but it's not her style. Something might be up with Jane."
"Maybe," she said, "maybe not. Who knows? But do not wait in the cold for a long. Keep warm with me. This car has the air conditioning, you know."
"Yes, I do know." He nodded, flopping his foot back onto the matted carpet, the car rocking with a wham of the door closing. "It maybe a French car, but its better than kick in the ass!"
"Indeed it is." Her dark fingers fiddled with the primitive console, three drumming on the buttons while the others twisted the knobs. The car let out its mighty breath into his face, a warm and pungent stench that smelled like feet for some reason. Robin's body sank into the chair, her rump carrying her body into a slouch while her arms folded tightly into herself.
"Relax and enjoy yourself, Mr. Head." She said. "We might be here for a time. Care to listen to some radio while we wait?"
"No thanks." He replied. "After that odd, little air stunt this morning, I'd rather not know the details."
"Dress yourself then!" she shrugged. Ron blinked.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I said you can dress yourself." She said.
"Oh--!" he blinked again. "I think you mean *suit*, Robin--as in 'suit yourself'. That's how it's said."
"Ah--right!" she nodded.
"Of course I am!" his lips pulled into a wide smile, teeth peeking from behind them. "It's good to be right once in a while."
Something honked nearby, a loud and boisterous one that blasted into his ears as if someone took a nap on the steering wheel. Thankfully, the still quiet of dusk flowed into his ears swiftly (or was it the AC?) as the mystery person must have taken a hint. Loose bits of solid earth grinded together softly, loudening as a hollow purr engulfed the munching.
Out the nearby window, a vehicle--a large soiled vehicle--flanked the small Peugeot as it rolled slowly beside. Above the driver's side door floated a little head, blonde; the wavy, platinum strands dirty and in a frayed, tangled mess. Blue eyes dotted the face, saddened eyes that struck him deeply as though they pierced straight into his soul.
"Ron?" the blonde called. "Is that you?"
It was Tara; it had to be, just by the sheer timbre of the girl's voice. The dirty door creaked open; crumbs from the mud that caked the panel fell onto the street, losing themselves amongst the loose bits of earth. Her slender feet smacked onto the ground, the blue lacquer on the nails soiled with a light coat of grime, the flesh brownish at the arches.
"Oh, thank God!" she hopped closer by the balls of her feet. Her hand took the lead, disappearing beneath the horizon weather-stripping and up the length of her forearm a bit. The Peugeot's door clunked open for the second time, and slender arms wrapped him tightly in their embrace around the neck. "I was worried."
"Tara?" his hands cupped over her shoulders gently, easing her away. He nearly lost himself in her blue gaze, eyes broken and glistening in the car's safety lamp. "What's going on? Where's Yune?"
"I'm right here, Ronald." His ears tingled, catching that accent over the crunching of the Asian's intense footsteps. He slipped out from behind the caked vehicle, his clothes grubby as those of his girl, black cap of hair an array of messy, curly points trained everyway possible. A small, chunky revolver aimed itself straight to the ground inside a weak grip. "Lucky to be here, in fact."
"Who are these people?" Robin asked. "Are these friends of yours?"
"Of course!" he nodded. "Couldn't wait to see them again too."
"And why do they call you, Ron...?" she said suspiciously.
"He'll explain to you some other time, Miss." Yune shook his head gravely. "And after this, I don't think you'll ever want to hear from us again."
"Are you guys okay?" he asked. "You two look like hell! Barely look like you can stand on your own two feet."
"Believe me, its true." The Korean said.
"What's going on, you guys? I thought Tara was on a flight back home. And where's Kim? Wasn't she supposed to be with you?"
The blonde moved herself away a few steps, her back unrolling as she moved her body out of the cab. The wind caught up loose strands of hair, locks floating in the soft breeze. Her eyes dropped to the dirty ground, her arms held each other up gently by the hands out of a certain shame, glowing from her like the faint reflection off her skin by the fleeting daylight.
"Go ahead, Yune." She said softly. "Tell him."
His brow cocked out habitually; his heart jumped, something indescribable tugging at it callously while it upped its pace. Then only did he realize how the crass vehicle beside let her purring engine do all the talking.
"Why do you have Kim's pistol?" he said.
The Asian walked at him sullenly. The shiny pistol in his grasp mooned him as the man let the plastic grip flip out his hand, hanging by his finger through the trigger guard. Three fingers flipped it upright, the frame resting awkwardly in his closing palm, his thumb steadying the gun by the saddle joint.
"Here..." he said flatly. "We found in the glove box a few minutes ago. I think Kim... might've wanted you to have it."
His heart felt as though it were being squeezed to death, longing to escape through the thick bars in his chest, reaching that critical, frantic thrashing prior to its arrest. Fingers twitched erratically, weak palms dragged toward the ground when cold, molded steel chilled the flesh. He gazed blankly at his own morphed reflection in the steel, yearning for that kind, emerald eyes to stare back at him--
--Just somehow.