SESSION 3

Water ran in rivulets down Spike's back. Hot droplets pummeled his dark green hair, dragging it down over his face. He didn't care. The sensation was such a relief after the stint of dive hotel rooms, many of which lacked a private bathroom. He hadn't dared to use a common shower in those circumstances. Too much of a chance of someone recognizing him, even if he had used a false identity. As little as he feared death with nothing left to lose, he had no desire to meet his end buck-naked.

It wasn't like he had never roughed it before, certainly not. But on the inside he had vast resources to tap. Working for a syndicate a plan could get shredded through a jet engine in an instant. Thinking on one's feet was critical to survival. Many died before their full initiation. It should have been a testament to his skill-set that Mao had his eye out for Spike to succeed him.

That laudation soured in Spike's mouth. Earned or not, the favoritism had brought him nothing but trouble.

For the first time in weeks luck seemed to be in his favor, at least at the moment. The Bebop turned out to be a refurbished fishing vessel with plenty of places to stretch out. Sure, the battered hull had seen better days, but one quick stroll through the decks and Spike admired Jet's enthusiasm for restoration. Patches of metal had been removed and replaced with meticulous welds fairly recently. The ship was clean and well organized. It had been easy enough to dock the Swordfish on board. He doubted for even a moment that Jet would try and shoot him in the shower, even if he did suspect Spike's past. Too much of a mess to clean up. Too much of a chance of bullet holes in his baby. At least for a brief interim, he was safe.

Spike watched the clear water spiral down the drain. Too bad his life wasn't that easy to clean up. Just stand still and wait for the grime to dislodge and vanish. But there was no shedding what he had been, what he had done. The moment rumor carried on the wind that he was still alive, the syndicate would stop at nothing to bury him for good. No one would be there at his back. If she could betray, than anyone would. How had he been so blind?

He leaned against the wall longing to feel her presence again, lost in the mystery that plagued his life. What was he going to do now? Gradually the hot water took on a chill. He turned the faucet off and grabbed a towel.

No sense in rushing things. They still had an accomplice to find before Jet would launch from Mars. The quicker they hunted down their target, the sooner Spike could breath without having to constantly glance over his shoulder wondering if there was a hit barreling down on him. A quick death would be the result if he was lucky. If they caught him alive, things would be considerably more visceral.

Dressed, Spike walked toward what he assumed to be the living room while still toweling his hair. Jet stormed by him, the briefcase in hand. Their shoulders collided on the way by. "Hey, pal," Spike grumbled, "watch it, will yah?"

Jet turned and snapped, "All my tricks, and I barely got a word out of him!"

He blinked slowly. The interrogation had started hours ago, when Spike had fetched the Swordfish from her hiding place. Jet had only spared a moment to open the flight hanger for him, hadn't even watched him maneuver in. "I can make him talk."

"You? I've been doing bounty hunting for four years now. What do you think you can do that I can't, kid?"

"Look, old man." Spike smirked. "I'm hardly a kid, in case you haven't noticed. Give me a few hours with him. He'll talk."

Jet waved a hand. "Fine. Have at him. I'll be working on getting this open in the workshop." And with that, he left.

Big ol' windbag. Kid, heh. Doesn't he know I hate children? Spike dropped down the stairs.

Firmly tied to a chair in the middle of the living room, Jeeters scowled at him. A crusty scab covered his chin and an enormous goose egg at the base of his skull pushed his hair in different directions.

Spike finished drying his hair with casual indifference. He spied some poker chips and cards spread out on the table. Oh, now this could be fun.

Pocketing a chip he grabbed the back of Jeeters's chair and hauled him over to the side of the stair's open railing. He hooked a trash can with his foot and slid it in front of Jeeters. "What's that for—whoa!" Jeeter's question was cut short as the chair leaned forward over the top of the can.

From his perch on the metal stairs, Spike looped the towel through the chair's back and around the railing, holding Jeeters at an awkward angle. "To catch the mess."

A bead of sweat plunked into the bottom of the can. "Mess?" Jeeters failed to quell the pitch change in his voice. "Wh … what mess?"

"You'll see." No doubt a small fry. Doubt he's seen any wet work … til now. Spike balanced the poker chip on his right thumb and lined up the shot. "That is, unless you talk."

"I ain't saying SHIT!"

At that precise moment Spike had delivered a sharp flick to the chip sending it right smack into the center of the goose egg. He caught it on the rebound in his left hand and reset the shot. Jeeters didn't even get two breaths in before the next impact rattled his eyes. He moaned.

Flick after random flick, Spike kept up the game cursing quietly whenever he was slightly off target. "Thanks for the practice. Looks like I needed to work on accuracy after all."

"Stop." Jeeters emitted a juicy belch, his complexion an unhealthy green.

Flick. "Sure, when you talk." Flick.

He gave a gurgling moan. "Please … I can't … they'll … "

"Kill you? Probably, that's what happens when you fuck up." Flick. "Shoot, that was a bit high." Flick. "There we go."

Jeeters flinched. A moment later he curled as much as the restraints would allow. A torrent of vomit spewed into the can. "oooooooooooooooooo ... "

"Told yah you'd see." Flick. Spike began to hum a jazz tune. This might take a while. But he'll crack. They always do.

He was right. Spike's fingers began to cramp, but he was eventually proven right. Four times he watched Jeeter's spill his guts before he, well, spilled his guts. "Alright … alright …," Jeeter's croaked, "stop and I'll tell you … just stop, please!"

Spike hung over the railing and ricocheted the chip off his victim's nose. "Good timing. I was about to find something that would make a bigger impact on you. You were saying?"

A few moments later, Spike walked into the workshop and slouched against the open door, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't smoke in here." Jet plucked it from him and extinguished it on the counter before dropping it in the trash. By the time he turned around Spike already had a fresh one lit as though nothing had happened. Jet scowled. "Ya give up?"

He blew out a smoke laden breath. "No point in going further."

With a short laugh, Jet jabbed him with a finger. "You admit defeat!"

"Jeeters has a rendezvous with his accomplice Topaz, actually his senior, at the abandoned ziptrain station. They split up to make it harder for them to be followed. Course, he won't be showing up for that. Anyway, he's to bring the case with him to the southern entrance."

"You got all that?" Jet's complexion paled. "How?"

Spike flipped the poker chip in the air. "Turns out he's not much of a gambling man. So what was he carrying?" He craned his neck to get a peek in the open case, the latches unscrewed from their housing. An odd assemblage of wires with medium sized two-pronged fork lay in the center of foam packing.

"I haven't a clue." Jet scratched his bald head. "A machine. Possibly a weapon? Maybe?" He pointed to the end with an unusual plug. "Looks like it's only half of it. You think they split it up?"

"Yup." Spike leaned back against the frame. "Certain they did. Topaz has the other half."

"Why?"

"In case."

"In case what?"

He pointed toward the living room. "In case someone got their hands on her patsy."

Jet shot to his feet. "Topaz is a woman?"

Spike shrugged. "Well, I didn't exactly lift up her dress and look last we crossed paths. Kinda took her word for it. Anyway, we better get moving if you want to catch her off guard. She likes to prepare. And knowing her, I doubt she'll be alone."

"Wait. Just who are you associated with?"

"No one." Spike replied flatly.

"Then how do you know all that? Spike, get back here!"

But he was already meandering down the hall whistling a jazz tune.

See you, Space Cowboy!