by David Beem
Everyone knew something was up when the drinks came out garnished with grass. Johnny and Ralph are convinced the literal mud at the bottoms of their glasses is nothing more than a pathetic setup for Christine’s criminal dirty martini pun. But for those who already know Christine and Consuelo, this visit never had a chance of being normal.
These former Cluck-n-Pray Team Members have come up in the world since their fast-food days. For one thing, their wardrobes are more stylish, Christine in her five-thousand-dollar Gucci jeans and four-hundred-dollar D&G T-shirt, and Consuelo in a five-thousand-dollar Cucinelli dinner jacket. Then there’s the matter of Consuelo’s pants. He’s wearing them. This constitutes a one hundred percent increase in pants wearing from what he used to do when he wasn’t working. An increase emblematic of everything else in the house screaming of excess, most notably the literal scream of excess coming from the guest bathroom after Shmuel wiped with a wad torn from a one-and-a-half-million-dollar roll of fourteen-karat-gold toilet paper.
But don’t let anyone come away with the wrong idea. Not everything weird in their house had to do with money. Take the grass-garnished veggie tray Christine’s set out. Neither Consuelo nor Christine has touched the broccoli or cauliflower florets. Nor have they touched the cherry tomatoes, celery, or carrots. Each time Wang thought they might, Consuelo’s or Christine’s hand would hover for a moment over a vegetable, only to change course at the last second, snatch a palmful of gourmet-displayed lawn grass, and then stuff it into their mouths. Jaws grinding on turf, normal “mm-mmm” expressions of delight turned into sounds like “mm-mmm-moooooo,” much to Wang’s consternation.
Wang has had enough of cows. He wants no further reminding of cowish personality traits. But for Shmuel, these glimpses into the familiar soul of his dearly departed Chicowgo are triggers for his PTCS—Post-traumatic Cow Syndrome—and painful reminders of a personal tragedy which began in a porn store and ended in a nightclub with an armored space ninja squaring off against Green Bay defensive tackle Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. For Fabio, however, the situation isn’t complicated; mooing at the table is plain old bad manners.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A red-and-orange glow dapples the field on the west side of the farmhouse. From inside their car parked about a quarter mile up the road, Danny surveys the property. The A-Team van is parked out front. Another car is parked behind the barn. He assumes this belongs to whoever owns the farm. No way to tell for sure, but it ain’t the candy apple red Mustang, and that’s a big relief right there.
“Ohhhhhhh—oke! La-homa every night my honey lamb and—”
“Shut up!” Danny punches his partner in his one remaining good arm.
“Ow.” Leo squeezes the spot where he’s been struck. He swivels at the torso and glares at Danny, unable to turn his head in his newly fitted neck brace. “Just saying. The golden wheat sure smells sweet, blah, blah, blah.”
“It doesn’t smell sweet, you asshole. It smells like manure.”
Leo frowns. He scoots back in his seat, winces, touches his neck brace, and then settles in to resume his surveillance.
“Tell me something,” says Leo a little while later. “How the fuck do you hide in a candy apple red Mustang?”
Danny strokes the Colt .45 in his lap. He has no idea. But he’d like to know. Maybe he’ll get a chance to ask her before he puts a cap in her Black Widow cosplayer ass.
“She’s not really Russian,” says Leo.
Danny nods.
“Bullshit. You’re messin’ with me.”
Danny shakes his head.
“Come on, man. You’re messin’ with me. Because you know how I feel about the Russians.”
“I’m not messing with you. She’s definitely Russian. Maybe even KGB.”
“There isn’t a KGB anymore. They made it the Federal Security Service, aka FSB.”
Danny frowns. “You mean FSS?”
“You’d think that. But they’re fucking commies.” Leo frowns on one side. “Hey, look.” He points. Danny’s gaze follows. Two silhouetted men, one tall and one of average build, exit the parked car behind the barn. The average-height man strolls into the barn with a gangster’s swagger. The tall man behind him slides a hand inside his blazer and sweeps his gaze over the surrounding area before following.
“What the fuck?” asks Leo.
“Now who the hell are these guys?”
“Shh! Wait-wait-wait!”
Danny tracks his partner’s gaze. Another silhouetted shape—this one exiting the house. Gemini? He isn’t sure. He seems shorter than Gemini, but it’s hard to tell at this distance.
The man crosses the wraparound front porch, takes the stairs, and approaches the A-Team van alone.
“Is it him?”
Danny shakes his head. “Can’t tell.”
“What if it is him? Come on, man. Opportunity’s knocking.”
Danny grabs his Colt and holsters it beneath the waistline of his jeans at his hip, then pulls his shirt over the top. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Fabio pauses for a moment and peers west into the golden wheat—or is it grass? Whatever. All those reds and oranges dappling it in the sunset, it’s pretty. He’s never been much of a farm person, but he can see the attraction.
His shoulders drooping, Fabio shuffles across the gravel drive to the van. A good night’s sleep—present company excluded. Is that so much to ask for? Sucks to go back to the van after being in it all day, but if Christine and Consuelo had been weird before, farm life has only made them weirder. Besides, sleeping outdoors in the country could really reboot his soul after all the wanton corruption.
He opens the door to the van, sticks the key in the ignition, and gives it a half turn. He powers down the windows to air out the funk. The sleeping pallet and blanket in the rear are covered in crushed potato chip crumbs. He wrinkles his nose, brushes these off, and his hand whacks a cardboard box.
“Ow.”
Peers inside. Used whip cream cans. Another box: half-chugged jugs of Listerine. His eyelids narrow. Scooting these aside, he fingers the blanket on top of the pallet and almost changes his mind. Then, laughter from somewhere inside the house is punctuated by a protracted moo and discordant armpit fart.
Fabio shudders.
He tosses Shmuel’s blanket over the Listerine box. The night air is cool, but he’d rather freeze than use Shmuel’s blanket. He shoves the boxes a bit farther away and lies down. He curls onto his side and falls asleep.
Olga wasn’t returning his phone calls. She should have been, but that’s women for you.
The truth is, he admires her having her own career. He is a feminist, despite what the critics say. He believes women should think for themselves. Da, it’s true. They should think many daily thoughts about having sex with him, because when it’s just him thinking those thoughts, the sex tended not so much to happen.
Not that anyone should let his sensitive, twenty-first-century way with women give them the false idea he’s gone soft. So he’s pursuing this particular FSB-trained assassin. That doesn’t mean he’s whipped. It means he wants to be whipped. Again. That’s the whole point. Besides, he’s former KGB himself. It is this connection which impels him. He knows they belong together. They’re like Ruslan and Ludmila, Boris and Natasha, or mail order and bride. If Sting had ever recorded “Every Breath You Take: KGB Remix,” he and his zvyozdochka could’ve been the star-crossed lovers on the album cover. Put simply, she makes his heart go a-boom-boom-boom.
It is for these reasons he’s smuggled himself into Iowa, where his zvyozdochka is on assignment. His presence in the United States is highly irregular—but love compels a man to do the highly irregular. Like leaving behind Mother Russia for this sojourn into a hostile, foreign land, a choice which reduces even a powerful man like him to just one more shadowy stalker with a pair of binoculars pressing into his face and yearning pressing into his heart. Gah—why the hell does he need to test himself like this? He’s been stalking his
lover from the hayloft for over an hour now. This alone would have any normal man running on empty. But he already knows he is no ordinary man. He knows he is a man of discipline. He could stalk for the rest of the night if necessary, and still have enough stalker menace left for a final burst of Peeping Tomasz at sunrise.
Still, it is kind of boring.
After another twenty minutes, he lowers the binoculars and faces his trusted bodyguard, Boris.
“Dis babe give doo much drouble. Eet’s boring. All dis vaiting avound.”
“You vant get McDonald’s?” asks Boris.
“Meh. Let’s steal van.”
“Da. Good call. Babes dig bad boys.”
Boris steps up to the hayloft opening and peers down at the vintage GMC Vandura below. He grins.
“Dah-bee-dah-daaah, dah-daaah, daaah,” Boris sings to the tune of the A-Team, pumping his fist to the beat.
“I pity de foo,” laughs the rugged man with binoculars. His name is Vladimir Putin, and he is President of Russia.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In Fabio’s dream, it’s Edger wearing the red, yellow, and green Robin tights while Fabio gets to be the Dark Knight. He steps up to the ledge of the gothic skyscraper, tall, fists on hips, and surveys the scene of the crime. He spots the Joker and Harley Quinn. Bat-gloved hand flies to utility belt to dispense Batarangs—rapid fire: one, two, three! All complete misses. Edger-Robin steps up behind him, peers down at the scene below, then pats him consolingly on the shoulder. Then the A-Team van doors open and shut.
What? That’s not right.
Men whispering.
A crack, a sizzle.
The engine roars to life.
“Mew-zeek.”
The stereo turns on. A men’s chorus booms through the speakers. Fabio’s eyes open. What happened to Gotham City? Wait—he knows this song. It’s the first thing he learned to play on the piano. Song of the Volga Boatmen. Mrs. Klank made him practice that crappy song till his fingers bled.
The van hits a pothole. He bounces into a seated position and bolts fully awake.
What the—?
The boxes of whip cream cans and Listerine rattle as the van speeds down the country road. Fabio’s stomach drops—they’re airborne as they crest a hill, and then slam down on the far side like it’s Russian Dukes of Hazzard. Fabio braces himself against the side of the van. The two strangers in front are intent on the road. They must not have noticed him yet.
“Oh shit, oh shit!” he whispers.
He should hide. Casting around for ideas, he settles on hunkering down and sliding one of the boxes of empty whip cream cans in front of him. The van speeds around a bend. Fabio, his sleeping pallet, and his hiding box slide hard one direction, then the other. He shifts the box back. If the carjackers had been looking, they’d have spotted him for sure.
The van straightens out. Fabio peeks over the top of the box. They haven’t seen. They’re singing along with the radio. One with thick dark hair, the other, old and balding.
Fabio ducks down and peers out the rear window. He’s panting. The wiring in his head struggles to connect free-form ideas. Among them: Who are these dudes? Maybe he could jump out the back. And: Is Mrs. Klank still making her kids practice this crappy song?
An idea zaps him like a seventh-grade hormone: Edge! Text Edge!
He digs into his pocket. He thumbs up the number, hesitates…
What if he’s captured and they search his phone? They’ll see Edge’s number. Are these guys the Nostradamus agents Edge told him about? Is he caught up in one of Edge’s superhero things?
This is gonna be awesome!
Grinning, he stuffs the phone into his pocket and lies down on the pallet. Gritting his teeth, he snatches Shmuel’s nasty blanket and covers himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays he isn’t found. As the van speeds through the night, Fabio forms a plan. Sooner or later, they’ll stop for gas. He’ll slip out the back and call his superhero best friend. And then it’s Batman and Robin time.
Olga finishes her report, and the voice on the other end of the phone makes no reply.
“Sir?”
“The address comes back clean,” the man replies, having apparently chosen to check her homework. A flash of annoyance burns through her. She’d just told him she’d run the address. Didn’t he trust her?
“Da,” she says, deciding not to press the point.
“Listen to me very carefully,” says the man on the other end of the call. “The owners of that home are extremely dangerous. Under no circumstances are you to engage them up close. They cannot see you coming. Do you understand?”
“Da. Yes.”
“Good. Then kill them immediately.”
“And the A-Team?”
The voice on the other end pauses. “If they’ve come into contact with the owners of that house, we must assume they’ve been compromised. Kill them all.”
“Copy.” Olga ends the call. She pops the trunk and opens the car door. She trudges through blades of wheat on the west side of the farm where’s she’s been hiding in the glare of the setting sun. Now, beneath the cover of night, she retrieves from the trunk her stowed KB Mashinostroyeniya 9K38 Igla.
An engine revs as, near the farm, the van roars to life. Song of the Volga Boatmen blasts from the van’s stereo speakers.
Olga freezes.
How she hates this song! This is the song Mrs. Koslova made her practice till her fingers bled. There is only one man alive she ever told about Mrs. Koslova. Can it be? Would her lover have followed her here, to the States? Nyet. He wouldn’t dare.
The music fades into the night as the van speeds away. Olga pulls her phone from her pocket and thumbs the lock release. The tracker she’s placed on the van is still broadcasting. Good. She will be able to track it when she finishes here.
She stuffs the phone into her pocket and hefts the rocket launcher to her shoulder. Once she dispenses of the A-Team, her only concern will be whether or not to blow up the president of Russia. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s broken up that way when boys couldn’t take a hint. Not that it’s always a rocket launcher. Sometimes it’s a grenade wired to the toilet. Either way, for the annoyance of stalking her to the United States, she doesn’t like his chances.
CHAPTER eighteen
In the sitting room of our hotel suite, Mary steps away from me, her glacial-blue eyes wide and expectant. I slide the Z-ring onto my finger. Black goo slithers from it up my hand. It’s cold as it slimes around my arm, over my shoulder, up my neck, and down my torso. Red letters materialize in my vision. The heads-up display inside the supersuit’s helmet comes online. My limbs take on a satisfying mass as the suit hardens into its final form.
But there are no soul-stars. The focus target labeled “Collective” is dark. Below it is the word: OFFLINE. The soul-stars usually streak by like the Millennium Falcon going to hyperspace when I put the ring on. Their chatter is noisy, like everyone’s trying to say something to me when they go by, only it all comes out like one big primal scream. Then it goes silent. I guess because the suit’s processors get it all organized. But there’s none of that today. And that’s downright spooky. What force could block my connection to one hundred eight billion lives?
Well, says Nigel. You look incredible, at least.
I hold my hand out. Man. This part never gets old. My black-and-chrome glove, the nanotechnology that makes up this metamaterial body armor—it’s cool. And it’s still hard to believe this is real. I’m an armored space ninja superhero. My name is Zarathustra.
Too effing right! exclaims Nigel from out of nowhere.
Since I’m a superhero, I guess I should stand up straighter. I square my shoulders, and the heads-up display performs an involuntary target lock on the desk. In the periphery of the target lock are tiny red circles. Retinal scanners. It’s been a while since I operated the suit. I trigger one at random, and the photoreceptors in the eyes of my helmet scan the desk. The wood becomes semitranslucent, revea
ling pens and papers inside. A Gideon Bible. A stapler…
Whoa… X-ray vision!
Too effing right! Nigel exclaims again.
“I never get tired of seeing you in that suit,” says Mary, returning me to the here and now. “The mighty Zarathustra.”
I face her, and my photoreceptors lock and scan. The opacity of her clothes fades. The flag print on her crop-top tee disappears as the cotton becomes sheer fabric. Her yoga pants go from black to nothing at all, and my spit turns to sand.
Cotton panties, observes Nigel, and a sports bra. Rather more conservative than I’d have thought, wouldn’t you say?
Oh no. No, this isn’t right. She doesn’t know the suit is…doing this.
What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, says Nigel.
My gaze snaps up to her face. Her head is tilted, her forehead crinkled. Thankfully, it’s only her clothes in X-ray vision. But then—why is that?
Impertinent, says Nigel. What you should be asking is: Can we recalibrate the thingermajig to strip away one further layer of clothing? Why does the X-ray stop at her underwear?
We’ve got to turn this off. It’s gotta be one of those retinal orbs… Nigel, help me figure this out.
Not on your bloody life! Rwaarrr…
“What is it?” asks Mary, her worry grooves deepening.
At least she can’t see my face, which must be emitting radiation detectable by alien civilizations.
“Are you okay?”
Am I okay? Um, no. The sight of Mary in her underwear has me uncomfortable in more ways than one. My super pelvis—aw, jeez… Is my codpiece protruding farther than normal? My gaze snaps up. Too late. Mary’s already discovered my emerging problem. Perfect. Just perfect.
What? asks Nigel. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.
Not helping. Just find the correct retinal scanner to—
“I don’t remember your suit being quite so…flattering,” she wheezes.