Chapter 12: Tying Up Loose Ends
Five suitcases clacked open. Largo slid one over to the other side of the table. "There," he said. "Just as we agreed."
The Colonel gave him the evil eye. "Count it!" he ordered.
One of his bodyguards stepped forward and did so. The other 12 or so armed men in the warehouse fingered their guns nervously. The Colonel glared at a passing roach suspiciously. Several minutes passed.
"Is everything to your satisfaction, Colonel Jarvis?" asked Mr. Porquillion, at the head of the table.
The guard examined a bill with a magnifying glass, then held a hurried conference with his boss. "What!?" The Colonel leapt to his feet. Safeties clicked. "HA! I KNEW IT!"
"Knew what, Colonel?" said Porquillion. Largo's hand crept towards an inside pocket.
"Perfectly legitimate!" spat the Colonel. "No tracers, ink packs, explosives, counterfeits, or bills cleverly soaked in exotic blowfish toxin! Just as I suspected!"
There were sighs of relief all around. Largo pulled out a cigar. "Like I said, just as planned."
Jarvis smiled pleasantly, then noticed what his guards were doing. "What the hell are you doing?" he said to them. "Put your weapons down; these are our guests!" The guards blinked, shrugged, and did as he said. "Now," he continued, still smiling. "the name and address."
"Whoa, there, Lone Ranger," said Largo. "I've shown you my cards, now it's your turn."
The Colonel nodded, and snapped his fingers. Twelve men with automatics stepped from the shadows and took aim at the cowboy and his party. "HA!" said the Colonel. "Full house! You did not expect the mighty Jarvis to play fair now, did you?"
Largo shrugged. "Well, no, actually."
"What?!" Jarvis sputtered. "But, but, I was all fiendish and evil and…never mind. Now, hand over the money and walk away, or we'll shoot you in the face instead of the back!"
Largo turned to his associate. "Any suggestions, Mr. Negotiator?"
Porquillion shrugged. "No, it's over to you, I'm afraid."
Largo nodded, and cleared his throat. "Boys?"
Men with infrared goggles leapt from the shadows. Guns clicked. Red dots danced over The Colonel's chest. "Interpol!" shouted one of them. "Freeze!"
Largo lit his cigar and winked. "Royal flush, boy. And you're in the bowl."
Jarvis snarled. "Curse you, Richards! None may defeat Doom! PHASE TWO!"
Yet more men with infrared goggles leapt from the shadows and took aim at Largo. "HA!" cried the Colonel. "YAHTZEE!"
Porquillion gave him a look. "That's a completely different game, you oaf," he said. "Although I suppose that is what this has become, isn't it, Mr. Largo?"
"Yeah," said the cowboy, slowly raising his hands. "Sorry, Porky, should've brought more men." He motioned for his men to stand down.
The Colonel laughed heartily. "You thought you could defeat the legendary Aardvark of Afghanistan! Well, you thought wrong!" He grinned, nastily. "But before I kill you in an extravagant fashion, Mr. Bond, there is something I must know." He turned to Porquillion. "Why you, Pork? Why? I thought we had an understanding?"
Porquillion shrugged. "We did. You understood that I was harmless, and I understood that you were a maniac."
"Why you —" The Colonel levelled a pistol at him, then nearly dropped it in shock as he calmly plugged the barrel with a finger.
The man gave him a cold, level stare. "And though I die this night," he continued, "I die knowing that you and your kind are doomed. I cannot stop you, Colonel Jarvis. I miscalculated, and I apologize to you and your men for that, Mr. Largo. But someone else will. For there are still some good and just people in this world, yes, even here, in this city, my city, despite all your efforts to make it into a pit of despair and corruption. And if there is a just God in heaven, Colonel, He shall send someone to save this city…and end you."
"Blah, blah, blah," said the Colonel, "time to die." He cocked the hammer —
The moonlit skylight shattered. Out of the night sky fell a black, monstrous winged thing, surrounded by spinning shards of glass. It crashed, hard, onto the meeting table, scattering cash and men alike, and lay still.
"Holy spit!" said a guard. "It's Batman!"
"Curse you, Detective!" roared the Colonel. "I swear, every time I'm about to shoot someone, it's always crash, bang, zap, pow with you!"
Just then, the doors to the warehouse burst open. A small mob trampled several of Interpol's finest. "She's in here boys!" cried Greaser, leading his gang. "I swear I saw her — sweet candy apples, that's a lotta guns!"
Porquillion paled. "Gerald! Get out of here! This doesn't concern you!"
"Can't do that, boss," said Greaser, who secretly really, really wanted to. "Us boys gotta to stick together." And there're 20 guys with machine guns in front of the exit, he added, mentally. "Uh, okay fellas? We don't mean any trouble. Just, ah, give us the girl and Mr. Pork and we'll pretend none of this never happened, 'kay? Please?"
"Girl?" said the Colonel. "What girl?"
"Ugghh…" Her face jig-sawed by cuts and blood, the dark, shredded mass that was Chloe lurched to her feet and looked Jarvis right in the eyes.
He screamed. "Iä! Iä! C'thulu freakin' f'taghn! Aagh! Get her! Shoot her! Kill her! Use the bullets! That's what they're for!" The guards turned as one.
"Open fire!" ordered Largo, drawing his gun.
"Run, Gerald!" said Porquillion.
"Aw, spoon it," said Greaser, "waste 'em, boys!"
"Eh?" said Chloe.
Just then, a half-dead, half-mad Taiwanese assassin in bullet-riddled armour bearing twin machine guns happened to smash through the wall.
Hu took aim, took a deep breath, and said, "DIE, CHLOE, DIE!"
At this point, Chloe did the one thing she could do.
She ducked.
And then it was Omaha Beach, Hamburger Hill, the first day on the Somme. Hell burst forth from almost a hundred thundering trumpets, shattering men and metal alike. Wood splintered. Lead flew. Brass tinkled on the ground in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. A flock of white doves appeared from nowhere and was immediately blasted into pillow stuffing. Soldiers, special-forces, and gang-bangers fired wildly, their death screams lost in the painful pandemonium. A white cowboy hat disintegrated. Greaser was greased. The Colonel shook spasmodically, shouting "I'm TONY!" as the bullets took him down. Hu fell in a blaze of gory. And Porquillion hid his face in shame.
An eerie calm settled upon the land. Blood and mist mixed with smoke and cordite. One last shell spun slowly through the air, bounced off someone's cold, dead hands, and landed with a soft, angelic, "ting."
Then the Colonel's rockets ruined the effect by exploding.
Fire and ash rained upon the dead, and landed on a small hand. "Ow," said its owner.
Chloe sat up. She looked exactly like Hell. "Why am I still alive?" she thought. "Maybe if I…" She blacked out. "Nope," she thought, as she woke up seconds later. "Didn't work. Darn."
Something black and bullet-ridden landed on her. No, wait, it was green. Well, it was green; now it was kind of that colour you get when you take green and spill a lot of blood and ash and fire on it — y'know, green-with-blood. Eventually, Chloe's overwrought, concussed brain realized that it was the lower half of her cloak. "Thread," she thought. "Yeah, green thread. Lots of it. Still got some. At home…home?"
She gasped. Home! Altena! The mission! She felt frantically for the precious cargo. Gone! Where? Where was it? She spotted a sooty bag a few meters away. She crawled over the dead, reached out, and grabbed it.
It was full of holes. Chloe watched in horror as the last of the milk dribbled from the stricken container, splashed to the floor, and pooled into a small, sad, puddle.
She slumped, staring at nothing. Something was stinging her eyes, she realized after a moment. Blood? No, this was wet, but clear. Tears? "Am I crying?" she wondered. "Over…over spilled milk? That's so incredibly stupid!"
"Let's not go through that again," said the voice in her head. "Uh, Chloe? You can stop crying now. Chloe?"
She couldn't. What started as a few tears became a rush of despair, and wracked her body with waves of sobs. "It's not fair!" she said. "I tried! I tried so hard, really I did!"
She wept. The voice in her head, after a moment's hesitation, patted her on the back. "Um, there, there?"
"Why does this have to happen every time I go to the store!?" she wailed.
"That doesn't matter, Chloe," soothed the voice. "Look, there's a deluxe first-aid kit over there by the dead guy. Let's drag our carcass over there and use it before we die of blood loss, internal injuries, massive cranial trauma and woe, 'kay?"
"Why?" she sobbed. "What's the point? I've lost. I've failed her! Her hopes were with me, and I failed her!"
"You're talking to yourself, again… cripes, it's only milk! Geeze, just go to the store and get another jug or something!"
That's right! A faint fire flickered in her eyes. There was hope yet! All she had to do was stop her guts from spilling out, find a pint of blood, go to a store, pull out her purse and…blast! "I have no money!" She swore (in a ladylike manner) and pounded the earth in frustration.
Click. Her fist bounced off an attaché case, which opened. She blinked, and then inspected one of the bundles of cash within. "Huh," she thought. "That's a lot of money. Now all I need is —"
Chloe looked out the window and blinked again. "Wow," she said. "That really is convenient."
