Chapter 4
Author's Note: My apologies for not getting to this sooner. As always thanks to the Wrecking Kru for their support.
Every one of the exclusive CCB clubs Drake had visited over the years had its own unique delights, but most of them had a number of the same features. Breathtakingly gorgeous female staff, infinity pools with stunning light shows, all the premium food, alcohol and drugs a man could ask for…and almost always, a cage-fighting area.
The Jannat al-Adn was no exception. This particular fighting arena, in deference to the comparatively conservative local culture, was more discreetly located than some, but no less active. Through his drunken haze, Drake tried to remember where it was. Level 109, maybe? Something like that, he thought as he hurried along as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, Crowe following close behind him. He decided to ask one of the waitstaff droids just to be sure.
"'Scuse me. You wouldn't know where the cages around here are, would ya, boet?" he said, vaguely aware of how slurred his words had become. Maybe Rina's right…maybe I can't hold my liquor like I used to.
"Of course, sir. Level 119. The lift will take you," the droid answered politely in its neutral voice, tilting its metallic head slightly sideways. "Are you quite all right?"
Drake nodded even if he felt anything but all right. He was drunk and one of his men was, in all likelihood, up Shit Creek without a paddle. "Yeah. Just point me," he ordered, instinctively knowing Tselios was either beating the shit out of someone, or else getting the shit beaten out of him. The kid had plenty of balls, just not a lot of self-control or common sense. Just like me when I was that fucking young and stupid. It's a miracle he's only been shot once on the job.
The two of them followed the corridor where the droid had indicated, nearly having to lean on each other for support. Nobody paid the pair of agents much attention; they were recognized by only a few of the regulars, who were likely just as drunk and high as they were. That was the whole point of coming to a place like this: to leave your troubles behind and forget the fact that you'd be going into another death trap sometime in the very near future.
"Jesus," Crowe swore under his breath as they reached the lift. He held his palm over the pad to summon the car. "I'm not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, eh?"
"I seriously fucking doubt it," agreed Drake as the high-speed lift arrived with only the softest ding. "That's one of the things the boss used to say. 'If you can't remember it, you musta had a fucking great time,'" he said in a feeble Kruger imitation as he stepped aboard.
Crowe laughed and belched all at once. "Oh, yeah! Like your bachelor party, boet," he said, pushing the correct floor button.
"Ja. How'd that go? I can't remember a damn thing about it."
The lift hurtled downward, though the motion was barely noticeable. Beyond the glass, the lights of Dubai's many high-rises and casinos shone like diamond necklaces.
"Seriously?" Crowe looked as playful as his hardened face would allow.
"I think there was a stripper, but that's just an educated guess," said Drake, shrugging.
The big pilot chuckled wickedly. "That was me, boet. It wouldn't be exactly right for your fiancée to do the honors, and we couldn't find anybody else on short notice, so the boss talked me into sticking on a blonde wig and a pink extra-large dress, then giving you a lap dance. 'Course," he teased, "I was already so drunk by then I just went with it, you know?"
"Why am I not fucking surprised?" Drake sighed as the car came to a halt at level 119. "You must have made one ugly woman, Crowe."
"I was, but I got a whole case of lager for my troubles. I think. I don't really remember it so much either, you know?" he said with a drunken laugh.
The doors opened to a sea of partygoers. If Drake had to guess, almost everyone in the club had gathered on this level. The fights were either just getting started, or there was a real barn-burner going on at the moment. They'd have to make their way all the way through the crowd just to catch a glimpse of the cage in the far corner.
"You have any idea who the match is?" Crowe asked an agent they both knew by sight, a rangy Canadian named Thorne.
"Yeah, I think it's two of you guys. South Africans, I mean," the other man said, sounding likewise drunk. "See if you can get a good look through this lot. Lots of betting going on if you want some action."
Drake shook his head. "No, not right now." Any other night he'd have eagerly bet on a cage fight…that was half the fun…but tonight he was just here to hopefully stop his impulsive gunner from potentially getting his ass kicked. Thorne's words began to sink in as he and Crowe pushed through the whooping, cheering crowd. Crowe spoke exactly what Drake had been thinking, nearly having to shout to be heard.
"Who d'you think the kid's up against?" There were a number of active, and highly regarded, South African agents in the CCB; black, white, and every shade in between, and almost all of them, Drake and Crowe included, loved to fight. It was a mark of personal pride for both of them that, behind the Americans, they were the largest nationality represented, and frequently requested for the more dangerous missions. Right now, though, that was the farthest thing from their minds.
"Knowing him and his stupid-ass ideas, probably one of them big okes. Like Maluleke, or maybe Bronkhorst," Drake said, mentally picturing two of their colleagues, one black, the other white, and both huge second row guys in every friendly rugby match they played. Back when Drake had still enjoyed a good cage fight, he'd steered clear of both of them despite his own solid, muscular build. During the rugby matches that had become a tradition at their get-togethers, though, he was at least fast enough to outrun them. He winced, thinking of the last time Bronkhorst had tackled him on the field. It had been a few minutes before he'd seen anything but a galaxy of spinning stars.
"Oh, shit."
"You can say that again," Drake muttered without looking up, still thinking of his two huge compatriots and how even the tall, rangy Tselios seemed smallish by comparison.
Someone was tugging at his shirtsleeve, and Drake realized Crowe was doing the tugging. "No, not that. Look who it is."
Even from where they stood, a good fifty meters from the enclosed metal octagon, the two figures were unmistakable. One was their new gunner, Tselios, well over six feet and built more like an American football linebacker than a rugger with his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and massive chest. Blood poured from a forehead gash down his angular face and onto his torso, adding even more color to the dozens of tattoos he sported along with his standard metal grafts. He wore only a pair of garish South African flag shorts and his boots, and looked on the verge of collapse, breathing heavily.
The other was C.M. Kruger.
"Holy fuck," Drake swore as the crowd cheered for their former squad leader. "What's he doing here?"
"You know the boss, boet. He never could resist these places."
Though he was chronologically nearing the double century mark, Kruger was every bit frozen in his physical prime, powerful and strong. As Drake and Crowe made their way closer to the ring, it was as if he hadn't changed a bit since they'd last seen him. Same muscular but lean build, deeply tanned skin, and shaggy, bearded head touched with the slightest hint of grey. He wore his favorite old, ratty pair of PT shorts and stood at the ready, beckoning, as if daring the much younger man to attack.
The crowd was going insane, trading bets on comm pads and egging Kruger on in a dozen different languages to finish the challenger off once and for all. Crowe and Drake exchanged a quick look. They knew better; they'd seen the same scenario played out many times before. The boss likes to play with his food, the shared glance said. He's just getting started.
Kruger didn't fight in the arena as often as he used to, but he still knew how to play up to his audience and put on a brilliant show. As Tselios wheezed in one corner, the older man strutted, raising his arms over his head to engage the patrons. "Is that all the little boytjie's got, you think?" he asked rhetorically, making an obscene gesture.
It wasn't lost on Tselios, who roared in humiliation and anger, charging Kruger. The move was so clumsy, like a lumbering bear's, that Kruger easily sidestepped and leg-whipped his opponent as he passed, dropping him with an thick oof! to the mat.
"You actually think he was stupid enough to challenge the boss?" Crowe asked as the crowd shouted its approval. "Does he even know who he's fucking with?"
"Probably." Drake could remember a time long ago when he was that young and brash, a hammer in a world that seemed to be full of nails that needed pounding. As Tselios absorbed more brutal kicks from Kruger, Drake couldn't help wonder what had changed. Nearly fifty years' service in the CCB, for starters. When you became that intimately acquainted with death, it wasn't something you went looking for voluntarily. Or maybe it's because I've got a wife and kids now. Boss would probably say I'm getting fucking soft…
Crowe cheered along with everyone else as the force of Kruger's body, perhaps forty pounds lighter than Tselios', sent the younger man crashing down yet again. "That one's gonna fucking hurt," he said, wincing as if he'd personally felt the blow.
And it would. Drake planned to have a few choice words with his new teammate once both of them had sobered up and regained their senses. As a leader, he knew he'd been more lenient than most, but it just wasn't wise to tempt fate, and there was no worse way to do it then by challenging a Gen 1 agent to a fight. There was a reason guys like Kruger had been alive so long.
"What's the matter, boytjie?" Kruger taunted over the prone, battered figure of Tselios. He was clearly enjoying himself; he'd always been a showman and there were no better, more appreciative audienced than the CCB clubs. "Having trouble keeping up with a real man, eh?"
As several knockout Nordic women shouted marriage proposals to Kruger in their native tongue, Drake fought the urge to laugh. Mankind may have changed in so many ways these last hundred years, but some things never did. One of these was the standard So, I hear you're pretty tough come-on in bars around the world. That had to have been what Tselios did to get in the ring with the fighting machine that was Kruger.
Tselios staggered to his feet and attempted a knockout blow. On paper, he might have easily dominated the smaller Kruger, but paper didn't matter when you took nearly two hundred years of expertise into account. Kruger's own fist connected with the exposed underside of his opponent's chin, sending him down yet again.
"Boss, you better stop this," warned Crowe, more concerned than excited now. "He's gonna fucking kill himself if he's not careful."
But Drake silently stood his ground, mesmerized by Kruger's fighting ability. Tselios may have been one tough guy, and a capable gunner, but there were lessons he still had to learn, lessons that only came through the school of hard knocks. This was one of them. If it meant Kruger beating him to a pulp, so be it. I'll make him wait it out overnight before he gets in a fucking med-bay. Then maybe he'll figure out it's a bad idea to mess with Gen 1s.
The crowd, meanwhile, was lapping it all up. Everyone with a comm was either exchanging bets or instantly sending photos and videos of the bout to their friends on Earth or the torus. Men whooped and screamed, desperate for the match to last longer than a few rounds. One of the gorgeous blondes nearly swooned from the excitement.
I might see if any of them are interested in some action later on, Drake thought absently, eyeing the nearest girl even though she was fixated on the combatants. Rina knows it's just another part of the job…
Beside him, Crowe reacted along with everyone else to the Muay Thai spinning kick Kruger put on Tselios, a loud oooh escaping his lips. He'd always been a fan of the cage fights and had been in more than a few himself. "Did you see that one, boet?" he cried, grabbing yet another drink from a passing waiter droid's tray and swigging at it.
Drake had been too busy eyeing the blonde in the emerald green dress. Besides, he'd seen Kruger fight enough times to last three lifetimes. "He really put the fucking hurt on him, didn't he?" he asked of no one in particular. He wanted Tselios to learn a lesson, but he also needed the kid alive and well for whatever mission they'd draw next.
Nobody was surprised when Kruger launched himself at the woozy, trembling form of Tselios, who'd only begun to rise to one unsteady knee. The legendary 32 Alpha wasn't known for his acts of mercy, though in this case, the sideways kick he smashed into Tselios' exposed jaw almost seemed like one. The bigger man dropped to the mat like a sack of flour and just as unconscious.
The crowd noise had been loud before; now it was deafening. Cheers in a dozen or more languages were heard, along with a few taunts for the loser and more than a few marriage proposals for the winner. The girl Drake had been leering at had somehow removed her lacy thong, which she slingshotted into the ring. Kruger noticed, picked it up, and raised it over his head like a trophy.
"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the announcer, a squat Saudi, through his auto-mic, "we have our winner!" The device immediately translated the declaration into the native languages of almost everyone present. It wasn't even needed. The patrons had come to see a good fight, and while they hadn't gotten a long one, they had gotten to see the finesse and skill of Kruger, which was better. The victorious agent swaggered, playing to each and every side of the arena.
"I'll see you three later on," he shouted to the thong-thrower and her friends, who all squealed in delight. "Which suite are you in, sweetheart?"
Drake had pushed his way up close to the cage itself, watching with a mixture of amusement and chagrin. He'd almost forgotten Tselios in the process of trying to have a few words with Kruger. He's got that effect on people. In between whoops and cheers, he shouted out to his former boss, "Howzit, eh?"
The old familiar slang made Kruger's shaggy head whip around, and when he saw who had spoken, he grinner broadly, exposing those preternaturally white teeth of his. "Drakey! Come to pay your respects?" He had to shout to be heard over the throng of admirers. "What's a fucking ruffian like you doing in a high class place like this?"
He had to laugh; Kruger's sense of humor was as wickedly sharp as ever. "Same thing you are, boss," Drake chuckled; the old habit of deferring to Kruger hadn't gone away. "Enjoying a little R&R."
"It's good to see you, sir," added Crowe, who'd knocked over an entire tray of drinks in his haste to get up close. He nodded in what, in a sober state, might have been deference, but just came off instead like a bobble-head doll gesture.
"So, the two of you and this poes," Kruger said, gesturing behind him to the still-unmoving Tselios, who was being attended to by a droid, "you're a team now, right?"
It wasn't a question. Kruger would know perfectly well what had been going on for the last five years. Drake knew that was his way of testing the waters, gathering information. He tried not to stare into Kruger's glinting black eyes. "That's right," he affirmed, "going on, what, five years now?"
"Can't fucking hear ya, boet!"
The crowd noise had only dropped by a few decibels; the momentum fed upon itself. They'd have to get out of this place fast if they wanted to have any chance to revisit old times. "Hey. You got a private room we can use?" Drake asked one of the valet droids adjacent to the ring.
"Of course. I believe the al-Maha suite is free, sir. I'll have it prepared for you immediately."
Kruger had taken a brief moment to strut around the ring once more, basking in the glory and cheers. He lived on that as much as most people lived on water and air. In his shorts and boots, sweating under the lights and grinning maniacally, he was just as Drake remembered him, rugged and ready for anything, even after all this time.
Some things just never change.
"You got any Castle lager around here?" Crowe asked the droid.
"Of course."
Drake had to smile at that, too. If there was anything that would have put Kruger in an even better mood, it was his favorite beer. "Oh, and one other thing? Make sure our mate there gets up, and that he doesn't get in a med-bay. At least not just yet. Just get him a fucking glass of water or something," he ordered, indicating Tselios, who still hadn't moved. It was gonna hurt something wicked when he woke up, which was the idea.
If droids could have registered any surprise, this one might have. "As you wish," it said neutrally.
"So, where's this al-Maha place? And where's the lager?"
~~s~~
"So, was that your ship I saw parked out there, Drakey? That Rook piece of kak?" Kruger leaned back in his plush leather chair, arms clasped behind his head, as relaxed and yet deadly as a tiger in repose. After pushing his way through the throng of fans, he'd changed into a t-shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops, but still looked ready to hop in the arena for another full ten rounds.
Drake's heart swelled with pride at the very thought of his ship. She'd been his reward of sorts for his role in saving Lorelei, he knew, and he was extremely fond of her. She wasn't the familiar Raven, but she was fast, sleek, and had saved his, Crowe's, and Tselios' collective asses more than a few times. "That's her all right," he confirmed, pointing out the floor-to-ceiling windows to where the ship hovered on her mooring pad.
The three of them occupied the plush al-Maha room, twice the size of most people's living rooms even on the torus. Along with the panoramic views of Dubai's skyline, it boasted a holoscreen, Jacuzzi, wet bar, and two attendant droids. At the moment none of these were being used, though, this was simply a chance for catching up, reminiscing, and shooting the shit.
"What did you say you called it? The Golden Behind or something stupid like that?" Kruger pulled at his third beer, keeping a straight face all the while.
"Hind. The Golden Hind. You know, like my English pirate ancestor's ship?" corrected Drake, forcing down an involuntarily laugh. That had always happened when he'd had too much to drink. He got the giggles, and he talked too much. Some guys got angry, and some, like Tselios, wanted to pick fights. He wasn't one of them. As Rina always liked to point out, he was a happy drunk. "You got the same fucked-up sense of humor you always did, boss."
Crowe sat across from Kruger, stretched lazily out on another of the chairs. "Don't knock that ship, eh? She's not half bad," he said, hiccupping loudly, which prompted more laughter.
The former Oryx squad-mates had been sitting in here for perhaps an hour, speaking of anything and everything except the most obvious and important subject of all. In five years, they hadn't worked together, hadn't spoken much, hadn't even seen each other save for chance encounters on the torus or at clubs like tonight. Every one of them, despite being drunk and high, knew exactly why that was. The fact that no one, including Kruger, had mentioned it, spoke to the strange kinship that had developed over all those decades of working together.
"Still, I'd rather have a Raven any fucking day," Kruger was saying, closing his eyes as if to picture his familiar warship. "Even if that Swede I got flying it ain't got any sense of humor like yours, boet," he said to Crowe. "Hell, he hasn't got one at all."
"Thanks, boss. I never thought you noticed," Crowe said proudly.
"I still remember when you put on that wig, dress and heels for Drakey's bachelor party. If that's not a fucking sense of humor, I don't know what is."
Crowe and Kruger both laughed at this, but Drake just frowned. In addition to getting talkative and giddy when drunk, he also became absent-minded. Something, and I don't mean whatever happened at my bachelor party, is wrong. What the fuck am I forgetting? Some boss I am. He vaguely remembered the prone form of Tselios, not moving even as the medical droid was nudging him with its mechanical arm. That was it. He'd told the droid to take his gunner to a table and make sure he was okay without putting him in a med-bay. Lesson learned, and all that. In retrospect he regretted it; the younger man had taken a heavy beating, and there was no telling what condition he was in now. Drake cleared his throat.
"Hey, boet," he told Crowe, "why don't you go out and see how the kid is doing?" He always referred to Tselios in those terms even if he had to be at least fifty or so; nevertheless, that made him a baby in CCB agent terms. "Make sure he didn't get back in the arena or some kak like that."
"Sure. I'll see what else they got while I'm out there," Crowe said somewhat sarcastically, reluctantly rising from his chair and stretching. "You want me to get Tselios to a med-bay?"
Drake debated for a moment. "Only if he's got a broken jaw or a concussion or something. Otherwise, he needs to learn a fucking lesson. Let him suffer through the night."
Without another word, Crowe left his boss and his former boss alone in the suite.
"He does have a broken jaw," Kruger said with a sly wink. "Want to know what else I did to him before you two ever showed up?"
"I'd rather you not say, boss." Drake winced on behalf of his teammate. Kruger was an unparalleled fighter, for sure, and he also loved to humiliate his opponents in creative ways. "You didn't, you know, molest him or anything?"
"He's not my type." Kruger looked almost offended. "I'm surprised he's yours, Drakey. Ugly bastard like that, with all them tatts? And what's he thinking with that pathetic beard of his?"
God, that's a relief. "If I had to guess, boss, I'd say he was trying to look like you. He'd never admit it, but you're sort of a hero of his."
"Well, he's fucking failing. Tell him to shave that off." Kruger pulled out a new pack of the cigarettes he'd been smoking the last hour from one cargo pocket, then lit one and took a deep drag. "Ah, that's better," he said, relishing the fresh nicotine hit and closing his eyes in bliss.
Through the windows, the faintest tinge of lighter blue against the deep indigo of the night sky heralded the coming dawn. How late was it? Drake wondered. He'd been awake for at least twenty-four hours, not unusual at all for him, but the events of the past week in Yemen, along with the shock of reuniting with Kruger and the beatdown of his teammate, had left him thoroughly exhausted. There was another 24 hours of leave ahead of him, and at least some of that would need to be spent sleeping. He found himself fighting off a cavernous yawn. "You…you don't know where the closest bed is around here, do you, boss?" he asked Kruger drowsily. "Maybe with one of them Scandinavian girls in it?"
Eyes still shut, Kruger shot back, "You're a married man, now, Drakey. What would Rina think of that if she found out?"
"'Lucky Drake,' maybe?" Another yawn.
"You know, boet, you're getting too fucking soft. That's what happens to guys who go for the 'wife and kids' lie. Those two okes I got now, Horny and Petrov, they'd kick your sorry ass from here to Pretoria…"
But Drake hadn't heard this last part, or any of Kruger's outlandish claims that followed. He'd fallen sound asleep atop his chair, mouth wide open and snoring loudly.
Cigarette still dangling from his mouth, Kruger arose from his own chair to crouch beside the form of the sleeping Drake. "Sleep tight, Drakey," he muttered quietly into his former gunner's ear. Despite all the taunts and the ridicule of the Rook ship, Kruger felt a huge void where his countrymen used to be on his team. Hornberg and Petrov were model agents, competent in every way, flawless in their execution. And that was just the problem. They were too perfect, and besides, they lacked the quirks and character that Kruger had come to expect from his South African teammates. The Raven wasn't as much fun anymore. Even the missions had become routine and by-the-numbers.
Kruger knew exactly why that was, why they'd been split up after the Kgosi Incident five years ago. Secretary Delacourt was taking no chances of an encore, and that meant breaking up the brotherhood of the Oryx Squadron. It had been her idea to give Kruger two new solid but boring teammates, and Drake his own command and ship. In those five years, the missions had been routine, the conversations boring, and even the invasions of the torus down. She may have been a real teef, that woman, he thought, but she's no fucking idiot either.
A softly flashing green light brought Kruger out of his momentary trance. It was the comlink on Drake's limply dangling right wrist. Curious, as he always had been, Kruger quickly hacked around the password, first guessing Rina's birthday, then Drake's son's, as the string of numbers. Too predictable. When he saw that the sender read Unknown, he found his curiosity deepened even more. That could only be a top-level member of CCB brass, or else…
Who? Not Rina, surely. And his kids weren't old enough yet to text back and forth. Whoever it was, Kruger saw, flicking through the message history, had been messaging Drake for some time. He pulled up the latest message, and when he read it, his black eyes narrowed.
Boogyman came 2 see me again last nite. He smells like an ashtray like always. Eeeeew
This was followed by a "frowning face" emoticon, which was matched only by the grin that appeared on Kruger's bearded face. Pieces fell into place, and he immediately envisioned the picture they created. Drakey's been keeping a secret, hasn't he?
"Oh, does he now?" he murmured to himself as if in answer to Lorelei's text message. This is gonna be fun…
To Be Continued