Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Eight: Seeing Red

I've been thinking (again). If Sands and Lyn had wanted to make things easier, they could've just broken into Mrs. Demio's summer pad. It would've saved them a lot of time, if you think about it, and it would've seemed more like the Lyn-and-Sands-thing to do. (shrug) But then that thing about the petunias came up in my mind (honestly, I have no idea where from) so there ya go. u.u

The house was lovely. It was more of a cottage, actually, but it had a quaint, cozy look about it.

'Dear Lord, cozy?? I did not just say that.'

Nooo, but you sure as hell THOUGHT it.

Lynné tucked the voice's comments away and gazed up at the home. It had a way of looking like something out of a summer greeting card and someone's expensive retreat at the same time. The house was made of dark wood and red brick with a porch that surrounded the entire building, which was nice because Lyn had always had a fondness for porches like that. It was surrounded by trees but not too many because the building was set on the edge of a field. People, Lyn figured, had planted the trees, there. They had certainly not grown naturally given their location.

Nevertheless, the many boughs and leaves, while not exactly camouflaging the cottage, provided the kind of privacy they would need. The house had many windows, but it would be hard to see anything through the foliage of the pine and maple trees.

Frowning at the heavily falling rain outside, Lynné began rummaging through the SUV looking for an umbrella. On her right, she saw Zebbidy ferreting around, undoubtedly on the same hunt. Up front, Liam had pulled his jacket up over his head.

"I'll get the bags." He started to open the door, then stopped, twisted around in his seat, and gave Lynné a quizzical look. "Do we have a key?"

"Demio said there was one under the welcome mat – very original," she added sarcastically, "but if there isn't, then we can always pick the locks." She gave Liam a smile, which he returned, albeit, weakly.

It was after her partner left to retrieve their baggage and head up to the house that Lyn noticed her brother's absence. Sands was still in the car, right beside her, but he hadn't said a word in quite a while. Arms folded lightly over his chest, head tilted slightly to one side, Lynné realized just by his posture alone. He was asleep.

Lyn shook her head, a look of amused disbelief on her pale face. Although she knew she shouldn't have been surprised. It was close to five in the morning, after all, and Sands never slept well especially when he was on a mission. The events of the Day of the Dead had all but depleted his chances of a good night's rest.

So when Liam returned to tell them that the house was unlocked, Lyn knew she would need to take care in waking her brother.

"Sands," she stated.

No response. Lyn rolled her eyes.

"Sands."

"Dunno if you're gonna have much luck," Zebbidy said, gazing at Sands with concern. "He looked nothing short of exhausted when I ran into his room."

"Couldn't keep your hands off him, huh?" Lyn smirked coyly when she saw the appalled look on the other woman's face. Zebbidy quickly covered her startled appearance with a cool mask of calculated calm.

"Not exactly, though I'd believe you if you told me that other women find it hard not to."

"Y'know . . . you two should really check more carefully the next time you assume someone's asleep."

Sands lifted his head and smiled at them politely.

"I'm flattered."

Neither women jumped, but they did look momentarily stunned. Lynné was the first to recover and she shoved her brother in annoyance.

"Ass. D'you know if there are any bumbershoots in here? I'd rather not get wet, if it's all the same to you."

"Bumbershoots?" Sands arched his eyebrows at her to which Lyn responded by rolling her eyes.

Waving an impatient hand she explained, "Umbrellas."

"No, no, I know what they are, but I thought it was bumpershoot. With a 'P.'"

Lyn answered in the negative. "It's bumber. Look it up in the dictionary if you don't b –"

"I believe you, I believe you, here." He shoved an umbrella into her hands and pushed her car door open. "Out ya go."

Liam let out a low whistle. "Nice place, though I should have expected this from you, right?" he inquired to Lynné as he held the front door open for her and Zebbidy.

"Of course," Sands said as he strode through the door after Zebbidy. "Lyn has to stay at some swanky, lace curtain place or else she gets her undies in a bunch. And one day that blueblood in her is gonna get her killed." He glared pointedly at his sister.

"And when it does, you have every right to say 'I told you so' as I have already stated," she replied. She turned back to examining the posh living room that was filled with Stickley furniture. Ornate little objects seemed to peek out from every corner, earning them a look of distaste from Lynné.

"Jesus, I've never seen so many tchotchkes (pronounced: choch-keez)," she murmured, picking up a small vanilla scented candle and examining it with abhorrence.

"Haven't heard you use that term in a while," Sands said, walking over to her.

"Just because I've abandoned my religion doesn't mean I can't use its jargon."

Liam gave them a curious look but said nothing. Zebbidy was taking in the room as well and seemed not to have noticed Lyn's retort.

It was raining even harder now. Water crashed against the many windows of the house, rattling them threateningly. Lynné let out a harsh breath. No sleep for her tonight. She looked over at Sands who was already testing the overstuffed couch for softness. Clearly he had made plans to sleep there the rest of the night. Fine by her.

'But they didn't have to make the couch out of leather.'

Oh, don't start this, the voice groaned.

'I'll start whatever I damn well want,' Lyn told it determinedly. 'If you don't like it, then you can get the hell out of my head'

Now, now, the voice said as if talking to an overreacting child whose temper tantrum was about to go off. There'll be none of that, I assure you.

'Of course not,' Lyn thought bitterly. 'How many cows died, d'you think, to make that couch? Too many.'

Oh, shut it. It's probably that plastic-leather crap, anyway.

'For the Demios? No, not a chance. It's leather all the way, baby, no question.'

Outside, the thunder rolled, but no one gave it the attention it was calling for. Somewhere off in the distance, lightning cracked through the sky like a brilliant white whip. Liam jumped, but other than that, nothing.

"I'm," he began nervously, "I'm going to bed. I mean, I'm already in my night clothes." He gestured to his navy blue pajama bottoms and plain white T-shirt, then made a timid motion toward the ceiling. "Upstairs?"

"Go and find out," Lynné said with a shrug. "I'm gonna check out the rest of the house."

That said, she left. Zebbidy turned to face Liam.

"Guess I'll go with you. Doubt I'll be able to sleep, though."

Taking a suitcase in each hand, she followed Liam up the stairs. Now only Sands was left in the living room, left in the dark save for one dim lamp Lynné had turned on. As soon as he was certain that he was alone in the living room, he pulled the afghan off of the back of the couch, threw it around himself, and all but collapsed on the piece of furniture. The leather of the couch was surprisingly warm beneath his body.

Outside the lightning pierced through the thick clouds that blanketed the sky and the thunder growled threateningly, but Sands heard none of it. In a matter of seconds after he had laid down on the couch, he had become lost in a fitful sleep.

"No, listen, you don't understand, the mission has been compromised . . . . . . . ."

"What do you mean compromised, Lynné?" said the bored voice on the other end of the phone.

"Compromised, what the hell do you think it means, fuckmook?" Lynné spat at the man, Agent Harrington, her so-called 'superior.' "They know, the cartel know, okay? Do you hear me, dumbass? . . . . . ."

"They know?" Harrington gasped, though he didn't sound completely convinced.

"Yes, yes, that's right. Good boy, you figured that out all by yourself?"

"Yes, Lynné, I think it's obvious that I DID."

"Aww . . ." Lyn cooed at him before becoming serious again. "So listen, I need people out here."

"Lynné, I don't think that –"

"The team you sent me with is worthless," Lyn continue, "and you know it. So I'm gonna need some more guys out here, get me weapons, tanks, the whole nine yards – "

"That might not be possi –"

"This is gonna be D-Day all over again unless you get your rears in gear and do something -- Hello?"

The line was dead.

"He-hello?"

Snapping her cell phone shut, Lyn stared out at the crowded Mexican street. The people around her went about their business, not knowing that these were the last moments of their lives – the last moments of HER life if she didn't get the hell out of there.

'Goddamn it, why the fuck would they DO that!?' she all but screamed in her mind. The voice let out a mirthless cackle.

Well I don't know why you're surprised. They probably just figured that this was it. They're big chance to get rid of you.

'No.' She shook her head, refusing to believe it. The voice was baiting her, that was all.

"Okay . . . stay calm, breathe . . . breathe . . . just . . . don't . . . freak . . . out." She took in a deep breath. "Okay . . ."

Face it, Lynnie, they wanted rid of you. And this is just a prime chance to do it.

'No, they sent me to Mexico where they could get me out of their hair, but keep me happy because I could have total control of the country And I do. I can do whatever the hell I want, which is just fine by me.'

No it isn't. It isn't, Lynnie. You hate Mexico. You could leave right now. Run away and never look back.

But here's the thing: The CIA . . . they KNOW that. They know what you're like, Lynné. And they knew that you weren't going to stay here for long. Whether you did your job or not, you weren't going to stay here . . . and they KNEW that.

'They don't want me back,' she thought in hushed tones. 'They know I'm nuts, that I don't play by the rules --'

-- you play to win. There's nothing WRONG with that --

'— but the Cleavage Inspection Agency will have none of that. They want an obedient, LOYAL agent, not a dangerously psychotic, sociopath one who wouldn't think twice about turning her back on them.'

But since they really couldn't do anything about that --

'They sent me to Mexico . . .'

But you couldn't stay in Mexico forever.

'So when the Barillo cartel found out about me . . .'

And what you were going to do . . .

'. . . the CIA had a fuckin' field day.'

Probably jumped for joy, the bastards.

'Oh my Christ . . .I've been . . .'

She could not go on, so the voice finished for her.

Burned, baby, burned.

Then the long black limousine rolled to a stop in front of her, and Lynné knew it was all over.

An odd tapping sound was what awoke Liam from his sleep. He tried to see where it was coming from, but the world around him was blurry, as though he was looking through a camera that was badly in need of focusing. He felt dazed and strangely exhausted, although the clock on the nightstand said it was well past eight o'clock in the morning.

The light tapping was back and this time he found it. Lynné was sitting on the end of his bed, drumming her fingernails along the baseboard. Liam stared. Strands of his dark blonde hair had escaped from the secure ponytail that held them back, falling in his face, but he didn't bother to brush them away.

"Umm . . . Lynné?" he asked uncertainly.

After a moment of tapping her nails, she responded.

"I'm meeting someone at the Louvre Museum . . . and Sands has an engagement as well, however . . . he needs to sleep, you and I both saw that. So . . . I want you to meet his client."

That couldn't have been all she wanted to tell him. If she had wanted to make sure he knew he had a job to do, she would have told him later. It would have come as more of a shock that way. But then Lynn's words sank in, causing Liam's eyes to grow large.

"What? Lynné –"

"Sands isn't going anywhere until he's had at least four more hours of sleep, and I'm not leaving until I've made sure of that. You'll have plenty of time to get ready, so don't you worry.

"Besides, it won't be for long," she assured him with a little roll of her eyes. "All you have to do is make sure they're willing to provide their services. And don't freak out because this guy . . . he'll feed on that. He'll feed on it, Liam, so don't bait him."

"I, um, all right, sure," he said finally. He could do this. After all, HE had lived with Lynné for three years and he had survived that. And Sands' former contact was only human, how bad could they be?

"Sands is staying with Zebbidy, then?" he wondered out loud.

Lyn nodded.

"Where are they?" Liam asked curiously.

"Still asleep, I imagine . . . unless she's getting into my stash." Her eyes suddenly widened in concern. "I'll be right back."

With that, Lynné immediately flew from the room, leaving Liam alone to wonder if she had been kidding or if she was serious.

The hot sun of Egypt glared down at all life, but the small patch of shade that the towering pyramid provided protected him from the damaging rays. Grains of sand swirled around him, kicked up by the miniature tornadoes of wind that rolled along the ground.

Sands closed his eyes behind his dark glasses. Dust continued to churn, making him long for a drink of water, alcohol, anything just as long as it was liquid. Sands wiped the sweat off of his brow and dropped his hand to the ground soon after, almost as if he couldn't have held it up for much longer.

He felt tired and he didn't know why. He had gotten a decent night's sleep last night, hadn't he? Yeah, the bed had been uncomfortable but it had been tolerable. Four and a half hours was enough to get him through the day, right?

No. It wasn't.

The sunglasses protected his eyes from the ever-spiraling sand, but they still stung. It was close to unbearable pain, but he stuck through it. For how long he leaned against the side of the pyramid, he didn't know. It could have been minutes, hours -- Christ, even days for all he cared. All he knew was that when the sun rotated and he was no longer in the shade, it was hell on Earth from then on out.

Everything was red. That was the strangest thing. Not black, not white, or any color in between just . . . red. Red, rouge, roja, whatever you wanted to call it, it didn't matter. It was still red. RED. Now THAT made sense.

Maybe it's a sign.

The words were quiet, plain, bland even. It was if the voice was merely making a suggestion. Perhaps it was even trying to help. Hey, this was a dream after all, why not?

He was sick of sitting there in the heat. His body was past the point of being stiff (now if just ached) and he wanted to leave. But for some reason, the goddamned voice wouldn't let him.

Fine then. If that's the way it wanted to be, then fine. He'd go along with it, play its game, and when they were finished and he had won, he'd get the hell out of there.

'What makes you think that?' Sands tested, trying to sound bored though, much to his irritation, his thoughts came out weary.

Welllll . . . think about it. It's RED.

'Red . . .' Sands echoed hollowly. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asked aloud.

You like red.

'Who doesn't? The color red is the same as pie – everybody likes it.'

Zebbidy doesn't like red.

'Don't.'

The pain behind his eyes was greater now, throbbing every other second. Tilting his head back against the rough wall of the pyramid, Sands closed his eyes. When he opened them, the red was still surrounding him.

' Don't start on that again. You know as well as I do that there wasn't going to be anyone after That Bitch, so do us a favor and drop it like a bad habit cuz that's what I did a long time ago.'

He was itching for a cigarette, jittery even, but if he thought his optics hurt now, it was nothing compared to what the smoke would do to them.

What would happen, he wondered mildly, if he touched his eyes . . . ? If he took of the glasses, and just . . . reached up . . . and touched them . . . would that throw him into even more pain, or would he find relief?

Probably the former.

But still . . . the thought WAS tempting . . .

Tentatively he lifted an arm. It felt like a dead weight attached to his body and was an increasing effort to raise, but still . . . he lifted it. He was so close now . . . his fingers had just brushed against the rim of the sunglasses when something suddenly caused his hand to jerk away. His arm hanging limply at his side, he heard the voice speak.

You like redheads . . . don't you?

'Shut the fuck up . . .'

You do, though . . . don't you? Seems to me you've dated more of them than anyone else.

It was true. He did. But he wasn't about to admit anything to the voice; that's just how he and the voice were. When one of them was right, the other refused to admit it, even if they knew it. Just like that the subject was changed and the topic was only brought up once in a blue moon.

Funny how the blue moon looked red tonight.

'I don't really have a favorite, you know. True I've been with more redheads than brunettes and more brunettes than blondes but their hair color wasn't the reason. Hey, as long as their tits are to my liking, who cares what color their hair is?'

Fickle.

'Bite me,' Sands hissed.

The temptation was too strong now. He had to do it, had to know. Why wasn't important. Maybe he just wanted to know if they were still there, still intact. He didn't know. And frankly, he didn't care. But action was the enemy of thought, however, so maybe this would finally silence the voice.

With that single thought in his mind, he ripped the sunglasses from his face and plunged his hand into the raw, gaping holes in his head.

All around him, the world was silent. Not a sound was made except for his own screams.

He was falling down into an endless pit of darkness. And he was screaming all the way down.

Or at least he had been.

When he hit the hard wooden floor, Sands felt sure he heard something crack. But perhaps he was just being paranoid. Nonetheless, when he sat up, he almost immediately went over again when the underside of the glass coffee table met the top of his head. A sickening crack filled the room as Sands reached up to grab the injured area. Meanwhile, the sharp sting of a growing bruise shot through his left arm and shoulder.

Outside, rain pelted the windows, bouncing off of them with the force of bullets. Sands paid them no mind.

Carefully, he massaged the sore limb, his eyes closed in pain. He let out a small gasp as he gripped his aching shoulder. How long he remained in his hunched over position he didn't know. But a sudden cry from above sent him leaping to his feet and flying up the stairs. He now knew that he wasn't the only one who had been screaming.

Just incase anybody's wondering, 'tchotchkes' is a Yiddish term, use mostly by those of Jewish decent. A hint towards Sands and Lynn's religion, perhaps? Ya never know. I just always thought the concept of those two being Jewish was funny. (shrug) Don't know why. Plus, even though it's against the religion to eat pork, I figured Sands would anyway simply because he wanted to defy tradition. Besides, I think I had him say somewhere in this story that he really doesn't have a religion anyway. Like I said, it struck me as funny for some reason so I went with it. (nervous glance) Uhh . . . I really AM going somewhere with this – I swear! o.o;;

Author's Thanks and Review Responses:

vanillafluffy: I know he has a place in the south of France, but I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that he's got a house in Paris as well. I DO know for a fact that he took my fantasy and bought his own island in the Caribbean. Lol, and you SHOULD capitalize the pronoun because he IS a divine being, after all. u.u

SavvyTBird: lol, thanks, glad ya liked the reference – I should've known people would've figured it out. D

DragonHunter200: Try as I might, I can't get that boy to stop smoking! .o I think he's actually smoking more in this story than the last one. 9.9;;;; Keith Richards (snicker) I read somewhere that he's gonna play Captain Jack's father in the next movie but it might just be a rumor. Like I said, it's hard fitting in childhood memories into this story, but I'm trying! )

Dawnie-7: lol, the petunias are probably what saved Lyn and Sands from the trouble of breaking into Mrs. Demio's summer place. Really, I don't know what Lyn did to them, but in all honesty I don't wanna know. o.o' Some things are best kept buried (no flower-pun intended u.u).

o