A/N: Standard disclaimer applies to this story. Highlands Girl, thank you for working with me on this chapter. You're the best!
Chapter 7. People like us know how to survive
Stephanie was topping off her coffee when an electric current surged from the top of her spine into her toes. The fingers on her right hand froze, locked on the handle of the glass coffeepot that she was tipping over the rim of her mug. The hot liquid overflowed, burning her left hand, before splashing onto the counter. Jarred from her stupor, Stephanie jumped back and dropped the mug.
"Oh, crap!" Her voice cracked, and she bit on her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Shattered pieces of porcelain scattered all over and an intensely fragrant brown puddle spread on the once pristine marble floor of the kitchen. She didn't need to look behind her to know that Tank was standing in the doorway, a witness to yet another one of 'Bombshell moments'.
Her hope of having regained control of her body after a nap and late lunch vanished. Squeezing her eyes shut, she inhaled slowly, squelching the temptation of launching into the 'why me' tirade. Letting out a miserable sigh, she started reciting in her head I will not become my mother, like a mantra, until she was able to gain a semblance of control over her emotions. Opening her eyes, she reached for the paper towels on the counter, and then, tearing off a bunch, started mopping up the spill.
Concerned that his appearance had caused such an intense reaction, Tank cleared his throat. Bobby's idea of seeking help from Gwyneth Yates didn't seem as harebrained as it did when he had first brought it up. Watching Stephanie start cleaning up, he figured he'd given her enough time to regain her composure and said, "I'm sorry I startled you, Little Girl."
"Not your fault." She braved a glance at him, catching an oddly contrite expression on his face, as he made a move to help her. Raising her hand to stop him, she said softly, "I got it." Straightening up, she tossed out the remains of the mug and rinsed off her hands in the sink. Eager to divert Tank's attention from her mishap, she put on a happy face and said, "This coffee is amazing. I'm going to have another cup. Join me?"
He nodded, watching as she took the mugs from the top cabinet and set them on the counter to pour the coffee, and then asked, "You feelin' any better?"
Internally berating herself for nearly losing it in front of Tank, she almost dropped the pot, unprepared to hear his voice. Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his across the kitchen island. She never heard him move, yet he now stood less than three feet away. Sliding the pot back into the coffeemaker with a dull thud, she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to come up with a way to stretch the truth.
It was bad enough that Tank was stuck watching over her in Ranger's absence; she didn't want him thinking she was a basket case. Stealing another glance in his direction, she thought that trying to conceal her emotions would be futile, since he probably could read her face better than an open book. Truth it would have to be, no matter how weak it would make her sound.
"Not so much," she said, shaking her head in resignation, and handed him his mug.
His large hand closed over hers on the counter and gently squeezed her fingers before letting go. She looked up, unable to contain her surprise at the comforting gesture.
"Give yourself time, Little Girl. It'll get better." He gave her a warm smile and headed for the double doors, before waving for her to follow. "C'mon, fresh air'll do you good."
He led her through the rose garden onto the deck, overlooking the Shrewsbury River on one side and the Atlantic on the other. The sun was sinking into the ocean, its orange glow lighting up the water surface and darkening sky. Over the sound of the surf, she heard a few low clicks and turned to watch Tank light the gas fire pit in the middle of a coffee table and the torches around the deck. Then he settled his large frame over the better part of the lounger on the other side and took a sip of his coffee while she took in their surroundings.
"This view is incredible," she said softly, "but aren't we on lockdown?"
"Not that I'm aware of." He smirked, propping his feet up, and then added, "But I'd like to see someone try breaching this perimeter. Might be fun."
His idea of fun didn't appeal to her, so she sunk into the cushions of a wicker chair with an exasperated sigh and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore. Is it too much to ask for an evening of peace? I've had enough excitement to last me a few lifetimes… The thought brought back the anxiety over being immortal and the temporary shelter in denial land closed for business.
Time to pull up your big girl panties, Plum, and face the music. Look, Tank's right here… and he knows things. He'll probably share if you ask him nicely. What's the worst that can happen?
Not much of a coffee drinker, Tank was enjoying the smooth taste of the beverage while waiting for Stephanie to finish fighting one of her infamous internal battles. He caught her stealing surreptitious glances in his direction and muttering under her breath, so it was only a matter of time before she talked herself into asking him to satisfy her curiosity.
"What's on your mind? You know, you can just ask me whatever it is you want to ask me," he said, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile and saw her eyes widen in shock. That was fitting, considering that in the last hour she saw his smile more times than she did in the last few years.
"How did you die?" She covered her mouth at her outburst, horrified that of all the questions swirling in her head, this one popped out uncensored.
Tank's booming laugh carried over the deck, his eyes twinkling with unconcealed mirth over her reaction to her own question. Ranger's right, our girl never disappoints.
"I'm sorry, that was rude…" She averted her eyes, unsure what to make of his reaction.
"Stop apologizing, Little Girl. It's ancient history that I don't mind sharing." He sat the mug down on the table beside him and laced his fingers together over his stomach.
"Really?"
"Yeah." Her smile lit up her entire face, as though he had just given her a precious gift, and she scooted back into her chair to listen.
"I haven't been that guy for a long time…" His tone carried a wistful note, but then a shadow crossed his face and his expression sobered.
"Before the rise of the Ottoman Empire and the discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, the city of Cairo, where I was born, was at the crossroads of spice trade routes from Asia to Europe. My father, just like his father before him, was a caravan master, running camel trains across the Sahara desert. Coming of age, every male in my family was expected to join the business. But I had little interest in being a camel puller, so instead I trained to become a guard."
The awe with which Stephanie was listening to him talk about his past was humbling. Tank picked up his mug and took a sip to hold back a smile. After all the years that he had known her, he was still astonished that she didn't have a judgmental bone in her body, which was something short of a miracle, considering she was raised in the 'Burg.
Unbidden, a fleeting thought popped into his head. Ranger's a stubborn old fool. But as he wasn't about to share that thought with Stephanie, he dismissed it and went back to his tale.
"By the time I turned thirty-four, I knew the desert routes better than the back of my hand and had enough money to retire. My last trip from Cairo to Tunis was also my older brother's first as the new caravan master. His ambition was to prove to our father that he could run things better than the old man, so he took on too much cargo and not nearly enough men to protect it. When ambushed about a hundred miles southwest of Tripoli, we were greatly outnumbered by the nomadic robbers and didn't stand a chance. They didn't spare anyone."
She played with the hem of her shirt, and asked, looking up, "But you made it out?"
"Didn't have much of a choice, Little Girl. After I came to, I walked."
"You walked?" she repeated in a shaky voice. "All the way home? Without food or water?"
"No, not home. I had no idea what happened to me. I was alive when I was supposed to be dead… So I went to Tripoli. En route, I learned that while dehydration was unpleasant, it couldn't kill me. But I still didn't know why."
"How'd you find out?"
"I didn't have many options. After I arrived at the port, I figured that getting the hell out of dodge was a good idea to avoid questions I didn't have answers to. Without money or anyone to turn to for help, I had to fend for myself. I was in no position to be picky, so I joined the first crew that took me. I didn't give much thought to the kind of ship I got on, too busy learning everything I could about the trade. But there was no escaping the truth when we docked on the island of Tortuga."
Figuring she'd get a kick out of his own voyage into denial land, he fell silent, his eyes twinkling with mirth, and waited for her make the connection. His patience was rewarded with her impression of a goldfish, before she sputtered, "You became a pirate?!"
A slow smile spread across his face and he nodded. As she stared at him, wide-eyed, he couldn't help thinking that even though Hollywood romanticized the image of the pirates way too much for his liking, he didn't want to tarnish it for her.
"For a few decades. The captain, who showed me the ropes and helped me accept 'who' I'd become in the desert, was a French privateer by the name of Francis 'the Peg Leg' Le Clerc."
"Another immortal?"
"He was… Until he met his maker, hunting the Spanish galleons around the Azores Islands."
"But I thought…"
"You don't want to know the details, Little Girl, trust me. All I'm gonna say about it is, back then, beheadin' was much more common."
She gasped softly, flushing to her roots. "I'm sorry…" Having found her filter, she thought better of asking the question that she wanted. How did you survive? Asking instead, "Were you with him?"
"No, I was long out of the game, but word traveled fast, even in those days. Someone you know had made me see the error of my ways before Francis sailed up north." Unsure about giving her the details of his life as a pirate, he hesitated. After all, he had been a very different man back then…
"What happened?"
Her gentle voice interrupted his musings, making him realize that he wasn't going to sugarcoat the past. "Pillaging and burning down buildings wasn't my thing, so when I got good enough to command a crew of my own, I steered away from ransacking the Caribbean ports. Raiding the Spanish galleons at sea was another matter entirely. During one of those raids, when Francis was busy plundering the settlements along the coast of Panama, I went after a galleon that I thought had separated from a treasure fleet. It turned out to be a decoy full of well trained and armed men, who were charged by the Spanish Monarchs to protect the colonies from repeated looting.
The captain on that galleon, faithfully serving the Crown in ridding the islands of piracy by dishing out his own brand of justice, was none other than the man now known as Ranger. He gave me an option of joining his crew, and I figured it was better than walking the plank. Immortal or not, once the shark gets you..."
"Taaank," she whined, scrunching up her face in disgust. Last thing she wanted to think about was his becoming fish food. But then her mind rewound what he had said, his recollection of events didn't mesh well with the story she had heard from Ranger the previous night. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, "How the hell did he get back to Spain? He told me, he couldn't."
"Carlos Francisco de Mendoza sure couldn't, but his great nephew, Juan Carlos Mañoso, could. Creating a new identity then wasn't as difficult as it is now."
"Oh, right. Duh."
She studied her hands in her lap. Her nails were in need of a manicure – the polish had seen better days and the cuticles were a bit rough – though, in the grand scheme of things, she supposed it wasn't all that important.
While she wasn't entirely comfortable prying into Tank's private life, until he told her to butt out, she couldn't stop herself. Finally finding courage to meet his eyes, she looked up. "If you could take any name, why choose Pierre? Not like you ever use it."
"A token reminder of Francis. He was one mean mother fucker with a twisted moral code, but he took me in and gave me a name to call my own. Since then, I've always been Pierre Baptiste Arnaud, or a variation thereof. I just change the birth date every couple of decades."
"But how?"
"Fairly common name down in Louisiana." He gave her a noncommittal shrug. "And Hector is a really good with computers."
She chewed on her bottom lip, brushing off imaginary lint from the leg of her jeans, "I guess that's something for me to think about."
"Not right now. Other than the core team, no one knows what happened in that parking lot. If you stay in Trenton, you have at least another decade, without anyone being none the wiser."
She sighed, leaving decisions about her future for another day, seeking refuge in denial land once again. There was no reason to dwell on it tonight when it could wait until tomorrow.
"So Hector is…" Stumbling over the word 'immortal', she didn't have to continue, because Tank answered the unfinished question with a slight smirk.
"No, he isn't, as far as I know. Just the core team. Although, you might be in a better position to fill me in, after you see the rest of the guys yourself."
Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. "What? How?"
"Ranger thinks your ability to sense immortals is better than his." Tank gave her a meaningful look, and she picked up what he had left unsaid. Ranger can sense immortals before they've gone through the change. That means so can you.
"Oh. Right." She fidgeted in the chair. Maybe now I have ESP too."But if I wanted a new identity, Hector could help me?"
"C'mon, Little Girl. You know better than that!" He was about to say something else when his phone buzzed. Maritza was on the line, asking if they were ready for dinner.