Chapter Two: It's Too Late Baby
It started two weeks ago . . .
"And it's too late, baby, now it's too late. Though we really did try to make it. Something . . ."
"Will you stop with the singing already!"
"You just don't appreciate good music."
"I appreciate good music just fine. It's your howlin' that's gonna raise the dead."
"SOMETHING INSIDE ME HAS DIED AND I . . ."
"Oh for Pete's sake, will both of you!" I yanked the transmitter out of my ear, shaking my head to get rid of the echo left behind by all the shouting. But I wasn't alone. I looked up into Tomax's eyes. I could feel his amusement at my predicament. He held out his hand, not even having to ask. I handed over the transmitter.
Tomax raised the device to his lips. "Gentlemen, this conversation is strictly off the record. I assure you that no harm shall befall Lady Jaye and she'll let you know when we are done." Tomax paused and winked at me. "I would strongly advise you, however, to remain where you are. Although I will not harm her, I cannot say the same for you." Tomax squeezed the device between his fingers, searching for an off switch. He'd be searching for a while. This was a J.T. special. I assume he came to that conclusion when he dropped the transmitter to the floor, smashing it under his perfectly polished loafer with a shrug.
Chuckles and Beach Head, the voices still echoing in my head, were not going to take too kindly to this turn of events. Scratch that. Beach Head was not going to take too kindly. I was counting on Chuckles to understand and keep the ranger at bay. A rampant Beach Head would end this adventure before it even began. What that adventure was, I couldn't say. Sure, on the surface it was easy to explain. Meeting the enemy and standing in harm's way for the greater good. But underneath, it was the things below the surface where the true purpose lay. And that was the thing I didn't know. Why was I there? Was it for the team? Or was I there for me? I think I was there for me.
No, not think, know. I know I was there for me.
Because I was there for me, it was my show. Tomax sensed as much. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for me to go first. Although he was the one who initiated the contact, I answered. It was the answering that was the bigger deal. I closed my eyes, regrouping my thoughts, losing the cover and getting into the here and now.
The here and now was the lair of the beast (how melodramatic of me), Extensive Enterprises' Midtown Manhattan headquarters. A few weeks prior, I had received an e-mail from Tomax. He didn't hide his name or his intent. The e-mail with his name as the sender and "Meeting?" as the subject line was difficult to ignore. I replied, receiving nothing in return. All I had was his initial one-word missive. Not a lot upon which to build a mission. My curiosity was piqued. I tried to put myself in his head. I'd been there once before, fluttering around the edges. What could he want? What could he gain was the better question. I stayed up all night running scenarios with paper and pen. Sometimes the best way to clear your thoughts is to write it out the old-fashioned way. After plowing my way through a ream of paper, I wasn't any closer to a solution. He used my military address, which would seem to point to something he would have in common with the Joes. Trouble is, if that was his aim, there were better ways to arrange something. And reaching out to me directly seemed to point to wanting to see me, the civilian me. If that was the case, however, then there were a heck of a lot better ways to do that and not raise any red flags with the Joes. Tomax was familiar with the Hart-version of me. He could contact me that way. He didn't.
That left me back to the starting question, what did Tomax want? Why bring the Joes into it? I suspected he wanted to toy with us a bit – to cast some shadows and plant the seeds of discontent. Flint wasn't happy about it and maybe that was the answer. Tomax never hid his dislike of Flint. This was bigger than Flint. I could feel it. But missions were never sold on feelings. Hard cold data and solid facts, that's what drove missions. It took me another night to come up with those. When it came time to present, I made my best case and buried my doubts.
Apparently I needed another night. From the moment I pulled up the first chart, I lost Duke. He just stared as the data scrolled across his screen, face unresponsive. I reached my conclusion and went through the pros of arranging a clandestine meeting. Duke leaned back in his chair, chewing absently on the end of a pencil. I finished my presentation and he had no questions, merely nodding for me to take my seat while moving to the next item on the agenda. I was crushed. I would never know what Tomax wanted without doing it on my own. To do it on my own would risk far too much. My curiosity wasn't enough to risk a reprimand, or worse. Now was the time to stay off the radar and keep a clean record.
I stewed the rest of the meeting, going over my words. There was nothing to give me away, nothing that revealed my doubts. I played my part well. Maybe too well. I should have been more human, less confident. Duke probably saw right through my act. There was no getting around it. Duke didn't trust Tomax and I wasn't the person to dissuade him from that opinion. To Duke, Tomax was the enemy. Commander of the Crimson Guard and founder of the Fred Series, Tomax was a key mastermind behind Cobra's attempt at world domination and the puppeteer of Cobra's corporate machinations. Tomax dealt in subterfuge. Looking at Tomax's body of work, there was nothing redeeming in Duke's eyes. Tomax was in for whatever Tomax could get. Duke probably thought the same of me. I wasn't changing Duke's mind.
Duke didn't see what I did. And before I go on, I know people don't change overnight. Tomax can't suddenly go from evil nemeses to white knight. Yet who's to say he was ever really the evil nemeses, that there aren't shades to his personality? There is pushback – and rightly so – to the idea of the noble enemy, truly good at heart. I didn't see Tomax that way. I did see him in a way more nuanced than that. I had direct experience with the man Tomax could be. He didn't choose it, but he couldn't deny it was there. Tomax was more than the sum of his actions.
I knew it because I felt it for a time. A few years ago, a lifetime it seems, we partnered with Tomax. That mission worked because of the brief time that Tomax had let me in to see him as he was. We connected in a way I still don't understand. If Duke was in charge, instead of Flint, I'm not sure it would have worked. Duke wouldn't have made the same decisions as Flint. Flint let go of his mistrust for Tomax because I did. That wasn't Duke. He views things through the lens of good and bad, black and white. He pretends to be such a boy scout. He acts as if he doesn't understand. What a joke.
It's a joke because I know what Duke's done with his own life. Being a glorified secretary to General Hawk has some advantages. Sure I get ribbed by the boys, and I swear I will slug the next man who puts in a coffee order. I take the good with the bad. I'll take a few hound calls for the access Hawk grants me. Hawk doesn't censor the files as many other generals would. I have the clearance and Hawk trusts me to keep everything in line without opening my mouth. As a result, I know things. And I know about Duke and his Black Ops. I know how he's desperate to get Flint involved. Flint hasn't said yes, but he hasn't said no. At least I'm prepared either way. I want to ask, but I can't. Hawk has placed more trust and faith in me than I deserve. I would never jeopardize it. I could never earn it back, even if it means this waltz around the closed door meetings between Duke and Flint. It means yet another part to play. I digress.
Sometime after the meeting, Flint found an excuse to stop by Hawk's office as I was filing. He heard a preliminary assessment from Duke. It wasn't positive. Looking at the bottom line, Duke saw the bottom line to my proposal as a bad public relations disaster on an epic scale if something went wrong. The Joes actively seeking to engage with a Crimson Guard Commander? Scandalous! Thankfully, I had Flint on my side. Flint understood. Flint defended me when Duke questioned my motives behind closed doors. Knocking on my door later that night, Flint sported a fresh bruise on his right cheek. The next morning at briefing, Duke wore a similar mark on both cheeks. Flint wouldn't tell me what Duke had said that set him off. All he would say was that Duke approved the mission, but it would be on Flint's terms. I couldn't ask for more than that.
Flint's terms were not as draconian as one would expect. He only wanted to be in charge, except he couldn't. Flint was knee-deep in his responsibilities on base and couldn't afford to leave. No one was going to put me in charge by proxy. You call one audible and suddenly your competency to make judgment calls that "impact the team mission parameters" gets called into question. Never mind the fact that your fast-thinking audible retrieved way more useful information than the by-the-book mission would have provided. But I told Flint I wouldn't dwell, and I'm not. Not really. Flint, therefore, picked his own proxy, the one person he knew could keep me in line, Beach Head. Beach Head is about as by the book as you can get without having the actual book with you. He's a soldier's soldier and not down for the games of cloak and dagger. Unfortunately for him, he's exactly the person you want around when cloak and dagger is to be had. If all hell breaks loose, Beach Head will be there. I've come to appreciate him over the years. I just wish the feeling was mutual. Every once in awhile he offers me glimpses of the human he hides inside, but that human doesn't jibe with his role as keeper of the flame of tradition. I guess we all have our parts to play.
Next up for Flint's team – really my team, but who's counting – was Chuckles. Chuckles is a covert operative with the humor of a late night talk show host. He also sports the loudest Hawaiian shirts known to mankind. He says people constantly underrate him because of his choice of attire. I'm always fighting against being underrated and it's always his aim. Unlike my relationship with Beach Head, we get along fine. In analyzing the past mission, Flint believed a critical error was sending me in alone. Flint wasn't making that mistake again. Although Chuckles wasn't exactly the guy you called on to keep others in line, he was experienced and could get in anywhere. I mean anywhere. Flint meant for Chuckles to keep close.
To round out the team, Flint went for some outside help. The Joes are the best of the best, but when it came to keeping tabs on me, there was one man Flint trusted beyond all others, an FBI Special Agent named J.T. Hill. J.T. was a big Texan with a loveable heart and an incredibly powerful hug. He was probably the best surveillance operator alive. It was scary thinking about the things J.T. could listen in on. There was also another advantage to picking J.T.; Flint knew I couldn't act against him. I did it once and promised J.T. I would never do it again. We had an understanding, J.T. and I, partners all the way. Flint was aware of this arrangement and it was exactly why he went with the special agent when he could.
With the proper team in place, Flint gave his blessings and I once again found myself trying to swipe a poor excuse of an ID through an unforgiving turnstile. Thankfully the security desk attendant was preoccupied with the baseball game on his monitor. I puckered up and the magic of Wet and Wild Cherry Firebomb lip lacquer eased me in through. With a tug on my ever-receding hemline, my high-heeled ankle boots noisily clacked across the marble floor to the elevator bank. I hit the up button, trying to feel normal walking around dressed as a Kit Kat Club dancer. For my cover, we dipped into the well and back went my picture into the database of the Maid Brigade, an upscale cleaning service employed by the twins for their private offices. Maid Brigade's focus wasn't really on how well its employees could clean an office but rather on how well its employees could just clean up. Lots of make-up and the ability to tolerate skintight spandex riding up into all sorts of uncomfortable places was what it took to be a member of the Maid Brigade. As of 4:46 pm, Cheryl Tiegs once again had what it took.
I glanced over to my left as I was joined by a man dressed in khakis and a denim shirt with a "Wilson Electrical Engineering" patch on his left breast pocket. The man had short dark brown hair and sunglasses, even though the sun was beginning its descent to the west. I tried not to stare in envy as I pulled at the shirt barely covering my midriff. The man tipped his glasses in my direction, giving the up button another jab while humming, "I wear my sunglasses at night," over and over again.
"While she's deceiving me, she cuts my . . ." suddenly piped up in my left ear. I wouldn't have pegged J.T as a Corey Hart fan.
And then, even louder, "Will y'all cut the chatter! This isn't American Idol auditions!" I reached up and rubbed at my ear, trying to glare daggers at Chuckles. The polished silver elevator doors slid open. Showtime.
Chuckles got off two floors below me, hitching up his pants as he strolled off. Ha Ha funny man. He was the lucky one. He got to go in as a contractor "working" on that suite's electrical systems. Easier to try and tap into Extensive Enterprises' servers if it became necessary. As for Beach Head, I had no idea where that man was. He could be right above my head hanging out in the elevator shaft for all I knew. The whole point of the exercise was that I wasn't supposed to know where he was. Even with all the bases covered, Flint still had his doubts that I might try and get resourceful and call an Omaha. Even if I managed to elude Chuckles, the ranger would be one step ahead of me. Or so Flint thought.
In this case, Flint should have put more thought into his selection of Chuckles. Chuckles and I've worked on many missions together. Orthodox and we don't always go hand-in-hand. With a simple request, Chuckles became part of my Omaha. He understood the need to escape from underneath the vice grip of J.T.'s receivers and Beach Head's protocol. Chuckles didn't question my hunch that Tomax would only speak with me, no outside ears allowed. All we needed then was a little diversion to get Beach Head and J.T. off my back. The first takedown was easy. Chuckles was the agitator and Beach Head the agitated. One can only take so much Carole King before losing it. Beach Head lost it and that was my cue to pull the transmitter out of my ear in a reflexive moment. Or at least that's how I would explain it in debriefing. The next part – ditching J.T. – relied solely on Tomax. Fingers crossed, I hoped he wouldn't let me down.
I opened my eyes, centering myself, ready for the here and now. I scowled at Tomax, willing him to pick up on my intent. He didn't disappoint.
"Where's the other one?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh come off it. Like they're really going to send you in with that obvious piece of junk."
I lifted my right foot and pointed down toward my heel. Come on Tomax understand. "Piece of junk? Don't think you're going to feel that way after Uncle Sam sends you the bill."
"Send it to my lawyer."
I raised my eyebrows. "You are your lawyer."
"Technicality. I'm sure I would have a few things to say to the government about the office window I had to replace. That was not inexpensive. Not to mention the fact that you charged in here without consent, viciously attacked me, and then shot me. Just because we didn't press charges, doesn't mean that we won't." As he spoke, he motioned me over to the seats in front of his desk. I tried my best to sit down ever so nonchalantly, but who was I kidding. I tugged and pulled at the rectangle of fabric wrapped tightly around my hips, trying to position it so I didn't give Tomax a show. This thing was supposed to be a skirt? And one you could clean in no less? Right. I managed to perch on the edge of the seat, my knees clenched tight, and my hands gripping the edge. It wasn't easy. One false move and everything would be on display.
Tomax shook his head, a smile plastering his face, as he walked around his desk. I couldn't help it; I stuck my tongue out at him. Talk about kick a girl when she's down. He rolled his eyes. I could hear him mocking me in my head. He leaned down and I couldn't see him anymore. Flashbacks of barreling guns and broken windows crossed my mind. Thankfully he wasn't going there, at least not yet. He stood back up, a shiny black box cupped in the palm of his hand.
He seemed pleased; I had no clue. I shrugged, merely a participant in his plans.
Coming around the desk, Tomax placed the black box at my feet. I reached down and he swatted my hand away "Don't touch. It's a little something R&D cooked up to scramble signals." He glanced down toward my feet. "J.T.?"
I nodded.
"Knowing J.T., he'll have a multichannel receiver to cycle through the channels and prevent me from blocking any one signal. With this I can scramble his entire reception. He'll pick up bits and pieces – mostly static and garble – without ever knowing that I've been blocking him. He'll think it's the equipment or maybe something in the building's structure interfering with his relay. He'll be stuck on this one for a long time."
"You're not very nice."
"I'm not trying to be." He pointed at my boots. "Any way you can take those off and leave them here? I think it would be much nicer to sit over there." I followed his gaze toward a darkened corner of his office. He'd done some rearranging since last time I was there. I hadn't noticed it when I first walked in, probably because I was too busy tugging at this infernal skirt. Previously, when you walked into his office, you were met by a wall of books. Tomax took great pride in his library. He'd moved the shelves of books over to a quiet corner, creating a bit of a library-feel to the space. One side opened up into his office, two sides were bookshelves, and the third side was the New York skyline. A couch faced the glass wall, a leather ottoman in front, perfect for drinks with clients, wooing women, or a moment's solitude. I wasn't sure where I fit into the equation. I chuckled inside. Maybe this was it. Perhaps I was about to be wooed. I suppose that would be one way for Tomax to get at Flint.
I slipped off the ankle boots, flexing toes grateful to be free from the constricting leather and towering heel height. I was then presented with my next problem – getting up. I didn't want to admit to being stuck, but that's exactly what I was. I tried to shimmy my bottom away from the seat's edge, but in leaning over to take off my shoes, my skirt had in fact skirted into the danger zone. No matter which way I moved, I'd be giving Tomax quite the view. You see, when I go undercover, I go all the way. You can't pretend to be Cheryl Tiegs, god's gift to cleaning, while sporting Spanx. Less is more; or rather in this case, less is a lot less. I truly hated Maid Brigade and gave up. "I'm stuck."
Tomax smirked. "You're choosing now to be modest? Wearing that?"
"Hey!" I snapped back. "It's not like I had a choice. You honestly expect someone to work in this thing?" It was hard to be holier than thou looking up into his laughing eyes while trying to cover up my private bits.
"You could have made an appointment." Tomax closed the distance between us.
I tried tugging down on the skirt, but it was made for a young wisp of a thing, all straight edges. I had a few more curves with which to contend. "Like that was a realistic option."
"It was nevertheless an option."
I rolled my eyes; there was no use in getting into this pseudo-argument with him. I attempted to salvage some dignity and popped up for a moment, pulling down at the skirt. Each and every action, however, has an equal and opposite reaction. In pulling down at the skirt, the oversized neck hole of my shirt fell off my shoulder and got caught up with my elbow. I tried to maneuver it and only succeeded in having it drape open, exposing my bra up front while still having the problem of the incredibly shrinking skirt. This was becoming the most unsexy strip tease ever. I exhaled a sharp breath of air. Maybe this was the epic failure foreseen by Duke. Joe agent gets naked in front of Crimson Guardsman, story at 11. I tried to ignore Tomax's presence. This wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't here. Even with him being here, I should just do what I needed to do, right?
Pride. It made a resurgence at exactly the wrong time. When you find your clothes slowly disintegrating before the enemy, pride will surely do the rest. Feeling Tomax's pity as his head tilted to take in my condition just magnified the situation. Biting my lip, I couldn't look at him. I didn't want his pity. I didn't want to have to put on this show just to speak with him. I know we were supposed to be enemies. Tomax didn't feel like it to me. Unfortunately I seemed to be the only one to feel that way and I couldn't sell a mission on my feelings. That would be too girl-like. Men planned, women felt. I needed less feeling, less hoping, and more attitude. Pride be damned. I had to own this crappy disguise. I lifted my chin and summoned up what I thought to be a most defiant look. Tomax raised an eyebrow. Damn. I truly was pitiful.
Tomax must have picked up on my thoughts. His eyes softened as he knelt down in front of me. He kept his gaze front and center, never looking down. I know because my eyes were locked with his. "Here." He slid off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders in one crisp movement. It became a barrier between us, protecting my body. Dignity restored. He leaned his head forward, lips slightly brushing my forehead. His breath burned hot against my skin. A gasp caught in my throat. Something was set off inside me, this closeness to him. I closed my eyes, praying to keep my body, this temple of betrayal, in check. It wasn't like that between us. I didn't think of him in that way. Sure he was an attractive man. At least I thought he was attractive; Courtney thought I was nuts. She, however, didn't have the experience of dangling 56 stories above the ground, supported only by his chiseled arms. She wasn't a part of his thoughts. Despite the horrors he committed on the outside, there were some beautiful things contained in his mind. My whole body was on edge, waiting for him to make his next move even though the moves should have been mine.
He said nothing, poised there in suspended animation, our bodies barely making contact. It wasn't the melding of bodies in a passionate and romantic embrace. It was two troubled souls drifting toward their equal, seeking solace in the comfort of one who understood innately without words. I had my answer at that moment. While it was the Joes with whom he wanted to speak, it was me he needed to speak to. He lifted his head slightly, pulling his blazer tightly around my body. He whispered, "I can't concentrate with you in that." That cut through the weight.
A small laugh escaped my throat. I grabbed his arms before they could slip away, holding them tight for a moment, grateful. His blazer was cut long and straight. It hid all the things I wanted to hide. We could both concentrate.
He pulled away, allowing me some privacy to tug and pull fabric into place underneath the blazer. I buttoned it up for good measure. I followed him across his office to the couch, running my fingers across the silken fabric, accepting Tomax's invitation to sit. I sunk down, cradled by the soft cushions, pulling my legs up underneath me. Tomax had paused before the window. The sun was starting to set and the soft purple glow of dusk illuminated his body, erasing the hard edges. He turned his head back to look at me. "How long before I have to start to worry?"
"An hour, maybe two tops. After that even Chuckles will start to get nervous."
"I can send someone down to speak with him."
I cocked my head to the side.
"Lady Jaye, dear, sweet Lady Jaye. Never underestimate me."
"Still gets you only two hours."
"Fine. Reach into the right pocket of my blazer."
I obeyed, my fingers brushing against a hard plastic cylinder.
"Let's get our business out of the way shall we? That drive contains a list of the remaining Cobra warehouses. I imagine most of them are empty by now, but the FBI still may find something of interest that will assist in its search."
"How many?" I sat up a little straighter. Years ago when I had worked with Tomax, it was to stop Cobra from developing and employing a terrible biological agent. Cobra Commander had allowed Dr. Mindbender to experiment on hundreds of Cobra's foot soldiers, the majority who lost their lives in Mindbender's quest to perfect his concoction. I thought of the mutated and decomposed bodies stacked on pallets as if they were no more than empty containers to be discarded. I probably would have died during that mission if it hadn't been for Tomax. To complete the mission, I had to be captured. In being captured, the Commander had injected me with the agent. In a strange turn of events, Destro had provided me with the cure. It was enough for myself and a woman named Michelle Parke. Michelle was a woman Tomax loved. Cobra Commander had discovered Tomax's secret and sought revenge on Tomax, using Michelle as his bait. But there wasn't enough serum to save us both. I made the choice to save her hoping I could hold on. I couldn't. Instead, Tomax saved me.
The FBI was also involved in that mission – thus my previous work with J.T. – and had instigated a nation-wide search for the remaining warehouses used by Cobra to stockpile the biological agent. It took years but we believed it had found them all. There were more warehouses than we could comprehend – almost one in every state. I think Delaware and Rhode Island were the only states spared. Never sure if I was one of those states how I would take that. Relieved? Disappointed? Snubbed like Susan Lucci at the daytime Emmys? Regardless of the two states left out, the fact that there was a depot in every other state meant that Cobra Commander was planning to go big and hit the United States with one massive strike. Fortunately Tomax and Destro were repulsed by his method and came to our aid. Otherwise, I didn't even want to think of what could have happened, how many lives could have been lost. I thought it was over.
"Only about 11. Not enough to do what he wanted before, just enough to make a point."
A cold chill worked its way down my spine.
"Relax, it won't happen. We won't let it. Cobra's in shambles anyway." Tomax turned back to the window, his body starting to distinguish itself from the darkness, the hard edges returning. "So, two hours then?"
"Two hours." I settled back down, wrapping my arms around my chest, contemplating my next move. Two hours. What could happen in two hours? A lot, nothing, it all depended on one's frame of mind. But this thinking was only going to drive me insane.
I turned my attention to the outside world. It was hard not to. The view from Tomax's office was breathtaking. Far below where we couldn't see, the chaos of the street merged into an unintelligible din, muffled by the glass. Instead, we were treated to the twinkling lights of the dusk and the endless possibilities of what could be in this great expanse of sky. Up here, New York could be anywhere.
I don't mind New York. It doesn't bother me the way it might others. I'm rather fond of the city. Not for the typical reasons. Tourists come to New York every year to marvel in its hustle and bustle, in its "if you can make it here" attitude. It is true; the glittery excitement catches me at first. I'm not immune. I step out onto the street and every hair on my body tingles in anticipation of what's to come. That isn't why I like New York though. I like New York because I can be anyone. I can be alone.
In New York, everyone is in their own world. They don't care who I am. I don't have to be anyone in particular. No masks, no disguises. I can walk down the street and blend in perfectly with the crowd. It's a skill I've perfected over the years. I suppose in a way that is acting, fitting in. I just like that I can be lost and no one is looking to find me. In fitting in, I don't have to be anyone in particular. I think I might be more me in New York because I can.
My father hated New York with a passion. And it wasn't a Boston Red Sox hates New York Yankees thing, although there was some of that growing up. He hated it for the very reason I love it, the anonymity. It was too impersonal and isolating. My father hated being bumped and jostled on the sidewalk, each head bowed down to the pavement. My father found New York to be dirty and grimy, hot and sticky. New York made you demand something that it couldn't deliver. To him, New York was a lie.
He endured the city's slights for my mother. She loved New York for all the usual reasons – the hustle and lights, the Broadway shows, fashion week – the city that never sleeps. She took it all in while my father locked himself away in my family's place on the Upper East Side. It's a reserved brownstone flanked on either side by more ornate Victorians. I don't stay there when I'm in town, preferring to rent it out. It isn't the specter of my family. I've never been afraid of ghosts. I don't avoid places because their presence lingers. I want their presence all around me. I was denied it far too young. The one place I feel at home is the Vineyard because it's alive and full of their memories. I see them there always. My father was never comfortable in New York and he isn't there. I can't see him. I can't feel him. It's his house but he isn't there. That's the only lie New York has given me.
"Drink?" I didn't notice that Tomax had drifted over toward me, two glasses in his hand.
"I'm on duty."
"Please. If we only have two hours, we're going to enjoy them." He thrust the glass into my hand, taking up a seat next to me. Tomax held the glass up, the light from outside illuminating the amber within. "Scotch, the real deal. A gift from James. 65-year single malt from his private distillery."
"James-James?"
"Most people would be more impressed with the 65-year single malt part."
"I'm not most people." Swirling the liquid around, I perched my nose just outside the glass, taking a hesitant sniff. Not too much or I'd burn my nose. I learned from the first time I participated in a scotch tasting session with Flint. I was by no means a whisky connoisseur. My father never had the opportunity to teach me the finer points to drinking and lord knew Grandmother Hart wasn't going to start. Most unbecoming to a lady she would say. To be truthful, I never gave it a thought until Flint offered. He's developed an intellectual passion for the drink. When at Oxford, he made friends with a highland distiller's son. Flint, ever driven in all he does, spent as much time studying scotch as he did his World War I poets. And Flint, being Flint, has to share – some would say boast – that knowledge. He tried to start up a whisky appreciation club. He had it all planned out. Once a month Flint would turn the junk room into the model of a small social club, complete with tables, chairs, and books, so many books. I think he had Oxford in the back of his mind. It failed after his first attempt. He should have known better than to expect that the Joes would be content with merely tasting the scotch he had shipped in. There would be no sniffing, no swirling, no descriptions comparing a swallow to the hounds of the Baskervilles. There were only fast shots, tilted heads, and gulping, so much gulping. Some coughing. One bottle was rather "peaty." Note cards provided to describe the taste were converted to poker scorecards as Ace produced several decks of cards. Flint, amazingly, took it in stride. I remain his sole pupil.
I'm still an amateur. I know enough to know a good one from a bad one, not much more than that. The drink I was holding in my hand was most definitely a good one, especially if it came from Destro's personal stock. As I inhaled, I tried to discern the delicate notes from the aroma. There was vanilla and spices and a sharp sting of alcohol. I sniffed again. Sweet memories came to the forefront of a cold winter's evening sitting before a fire, nervous to take my first sip. Inside this glass were memories. I tipped the glass in Tomax's direction. "Slainte."
"Slainte." He clinked his glass against mine. Then we both sipped. The scotch filled my mouth with the intense burn for which it's known. But behind that burn, it was soft and rolling, or at least I think that's how Flint would describe it. And behind that, I could taste more – a sweetness and a peaty dryness mixing together and competing for my taste buds. I was learning. It felt even better leaving my mouth and traveling down my throat. It settled in my stomach, spreading out, enveloping me like a warm blanket. As I melted back into the couch cushions, I quite suspected that Tomax was buttering me up. Whisky this good was either for friends or enemies. Despite my thoughts, Tomax couldn't think of me as a friend. There was no way. I took another sip.
Tomax held his glass in his hands, divining the future through the slatted city lights illuminating around it. He took another sip, paused, and then began. "Is it true they're shutting you down?"
It came as no surprise to me that he knew. Of course he would know. He would know before I did. "Is this still business?"
"Yes."
"Yes. They are." If he knew then, "Why give us the locations?"
"Because, even if the Joes are decommissioned, there will be others interested in following up. The information doesn't do us much good. Cobra is in tatters and we've distanced ourselves from any of the aftermath. Should more come of it though, I'd like to think that this little offering would go a long way toward smoothing over any disagreements." He took another sip. "And to ask a question, I must offer something in return. I believe one would say we're even now."
I had taken another sip while he spoke and was starting to feel a little lightheaded. This was strong, aged stuff and I'm not known for having a cast iron stomach. So many thoughts swirled around my head but I couldn't give voice to a single one. They were dandelion seeds on the wind, slipping through my fingers, floating away from me. "That's, that's it?"
"For business." He glanced over at me, nudging toward my glass. "I see I still have some time left. So now we shall talk as friends."
With my reason gone off with my thoughts, I took another sip, the smooth beverage settling down and kindling my interest in talking as friends. The bite of scotch would make it easy to be friends. I trusted him, yet I didn't.
He reached over and placed a hand on the small strip of exposed skin between my knee and his jacket, his fingers curling around the curve of my lower thigh. He wasn't being fresh; he was being familiar. It wasn't a sexual touch. I didn't flinch. I accepted. I stared at the glass in my hand, transfixed by the glow within. Why wasn't I moving away?
Then I felt it. It was the faint tendril of an emotion from him, reaching out, curling around me, wrapping into me. The beat of my heart wasn't my own. The breaths of air I took were his. I saw the world through tired, jaded eyes. I felt tired, so tired. I was exhausted, but so was he. The exhaustion of my mind wasn't mine alone. I felt his. His exhaustion raged through me. Oh god, please don't let it start again.
Again.
Not again. I couldn't. I couldn't be connected to him again.
A/N: Sorry for what was more than a brief delay. Should have known better than to start a story during the peak of bad weather, shut-downs, and illnesses galore. Thankfully it's finally Spring and it looks like it's going to stick. Hope you all get to enjoy the change in weather. And thanks to Mossley and Bugsymutt for encouragement. Definitely bothering you after this.