Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  Heat said simply, “That was some hairy shit last night.”

  “Not what you’re used to, I’m sure. But you did well. Shit, I even owe you one for blowing off the inspector’s kneecaps.”

  “I didn’t enjoy doing that.”

  Max shrugged. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it. Deal with enough guys like them, and you might make it a habit.”

  “Is that why you do it? The violence? Thrill of the kill?”

  “Not at all. That just comes with the territory.”

  “So why do it then?”

  This again. “The money. Why else would I do it?”

  “I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t kill people so easily on a mission for a senator.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then you’re wrong. Killing is part of the job.”

  “You’re being evasive. You get—or you’re planning to get—something else out of all this. I want to know what. So why don’t you pay back that favor you owe and tell me.”

  “Fine. I’m working to right a wrong that has gone unpunished for far too long.”

  “What sort of wrong?”

  “The sort done to my family.”

  “You’re married?” She sounded alarmed.

  “Not anymore.” Max turned and stared at her through his sunglasses. “Starting to get the idea?”

  “Yeah, I’d say I am.”

  “Good, because we’re through talking about it.”

  “Fair enough. What about my Alaska exclusive?”

  He grinned at that. “You just don’t give up.”

  “I earn it every day. Come on, we’ve got some time to kill. I want to hear about it. All off the record, I’m not recording anything as you can see.” She spread her hands, smiled at him, implored him to trust her.

  Hard not to trust someone once they’ve saved your ass. So he laid it on her—the basic story, anyway—omitting the finer points that haunted him practically every night in his dreams: the terrifying human-alien aberration known as Dr. Jung, the sight of Sugar after he’d lost an arm, his final radio communication with Gable before he died in the bowels of the ship. He mentioned nothing of Dr. Alexis Rogers and wished he could redact her from his memory just as easily.

  “Damn, I wouldn’t believe any of that if it didn’t come from your mouth,” Heat said. “Nice to know your buddy popped Elizabeth Grey before he died. She was a real bitch. The official story is she died in a helicopter crash.”

  “Now you know the truth.”

  “What you’ve told me of it. We’ll have to go more in depth when this is over. I’m serious, I’m writing this story.”

  “Wonderful. And when you’re done maybe you can sell it to Weird Tales. That’s the only sort of publication that’ll be interested, especially without a verifiable source. You’ll leave my name out of it.”

  “Doesn’t matter, and I’m thinking a book, not just an article.”

  “And they’ll consider it fiction. But by all means have at it—all you have to lose is your credibility.” Not that it matters. At the rate you’re going you won’t live to write it.

  She laughed. “That’s the least a journalist can lose.”

  Max nodded. “Nice of you to acknowledge that.” Perhaps he liked her simply for being a fellow fatalist. Nah, her body has a lot to do with it. As did her peculiarities.

  Max had loved his late ex-wife dearly, but she’d been matrix to the core. Several times he’d told her things she didn’t need to know regarding his CIA work. She hadn’t believed most of it, opting instead to view the government’s activities through the cleansing camera eye of cable news. Like the majority of Americans she bitched about the crookedness and skullduggery of government, only to disbelieve when hard evidence was put before them. This contradicted everything they’d been taught their entire lives, so they naturally responded with denial. There was a psychological term for it that Max couldn’t remember.

  Yet Heat remained unafflicted.

  They drifted quickly in the steady current, the island looming larger off the starboard side. To get an unobstructed view, they descended to the deck at the stern and took turns viewing through range-finding binoculars. Heat had also brought a digital camera with a long telescopic lens. From this angle the island appeared to be several miles long, width unknown, consisting of two hills and a central saddle. The westernmost hill stood the highest, rising to perhaps three hundred feet above sea level.

  “That is some thick fucking jungle,” Heat said as she viewed.

  “No structures that I can see.”

  “I doubt anything man-made is visible on that island unless you’re right on top of it.” She handed the binoculars back to Max.

  “We still need some sort of confirmation that this is the right island.”

  “Maybe something will pop up. We have a ways to drift yet.”

  A few minutes later something did pop up—not a structure but a helicopter. It crested the lower hill and headed out to sea, coming straight at them. Max put down the binoculars and directed Heat to stow the camera out of sight.

  “Something tells me we’ve found it,” Heat said as the helicopter raced toward the boat.

  “Stay calm. I have a plan.”

  The black helicopter dropped to less than one hundred feet as it came to within a few hundred yards.

  “Whatever your plan is I suggest you—”

  Max put his arms around her and pulled her close. Not forcefully, yet with enough force to move her.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Sell it. We’re just a rich guy and his babe out for a day on the yacht.” He kissed her, felt her pull away.

  She broke contact, then slammed her mouth back into his, and jammed her tongue damn near down his throat as the chopper roared over the vessel, barely clearing the bridge while throwing up a maelstrom of misty water.

  “You fuckers!” Heat shouted, shaking a fist at the chopper as it banked away.

  Max wasn’t surprised when it turned quickly and buzzed them again. This time he broke off the kiss and gave the bird’s occupants a What the hell? expression of bewildered fury. The spray from the rotor wash soaked them head to foot.

  “What’s next? Are they gonna shoot at us?” Heat asked, still in Max’s embrace.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  But the chopper kept on flying, their scare tactic futile...

  Or so Max thought until he saw a ship approaching fast from due south. Its profile from head-on looked like the border patrol ship used by almost every country, yet it sat a bit higher in the water. Max trained the binoculars on it for a closer look. “Hydrofoil. No wonder it’s moving so fast.”

  “Yeah, and like from practically nowhere.”

  “Snap a few more pics of the island, fast and discreet, before they get here. We’re about as close as we’re likely to get.”

  Heat did as requested. The ship continued toward them at top speed, and Max told her to stop taking pictures when the patrol vessel came to within half a kilometer.

  “I don’t know about the chopper, but the boat is government.” The French tricolor flag snapped in the wind over the gray ship. “So as you were. Let’s make it look good.”

  “I doubt the sight of us kissing will scare them away,” Heat scoffed.

  “True,” Max said. “Let’s take it to the next level. That might embarrass them into leaving.”

  “You can’t be serious? They’re French!” Even as she said it, she took a half step forward and ground her belly into the tentpole hard-on in his shorts.

  “If we get boarded, this is all for nothing. Come on, it’s all part of the game.” He pulled the bikini string at her neck.

  Heat glared up at him as the cups fell and exposed her breasts.

&nbs
p; Max could sense the distrust in her eyes behind her shades. Shit. Nice try, anyway.

  A loudspeaker on the ship blasted tinny words at them in French. The boat slowed while still a couple hundred meters away. Men with automatic weapons stood at the bow.

  Heat saw them, turned, and dropped to her knees. Without a word she yanked down Max’s zipper and pulled his cock deep into her mouth, sucking hard.

  Now this is an Oscar performance.

  Max watched the ship through eyes nearly closed, though he found it rather difficult to concentrate as the vessel approached and stopped about fifty feet away, engines idling. Again, someone yelled at them over the loudspeaker in French.

  With bona fide anger, Max glowered at the men aboard ship. “What the fuck is the problem?”

  Rounds were chambered, rifles pointed at them. A black man in naval khaki with lots of gold braid on his cap pushed between two men at the bow and bellowed through a bullhorn in thickly accented English, “You have entered a restricted area! Proceed to the northwest immediately!”

  “Aw, come on! What’s a guy gotta do to find some privacy around here?” When Heat stopped what she was doing, Max put a hand on top of her head. “Keep it up...” he muttered and hoped she accepted the necessity.

  One of the men at the bow uttered something in French, a bawdy joke from the sound of the laughter that followed.

  The captain was not amused. “Remove your vessel from this area at once, or I shall seize it under the powers granted to me by the French government.”

  “Seriously?” Max backed away, his massive boner still sticking out of his shorts.

  Aboard the ship, men cracked jokes in French as Max zipped up. When Heat stood from the deck, somebody wolf whistled. The captain pointed at the man and shouted something in his face.

  “Okay, I guess we’re done here.” Max waved at the ship’s crew, many of whom pointed at Heat while making lewd gestures. “Thanks a lot, assholes!” He flipped off the crew, climbed the ladder to the bridge, fired up the boat, and got them the fuck out of there.

  The patrol ship chased them for several miles back up the coast before peeling off to the south. When the ship had diminished to a speck against the coastline of Guiana, Max cut the throttles to an idle.

  He didn’t see Heat down on the stern deck. Must have gone below, which might just mean...

  He jumped from the command chair and descended the ladder, then opened the door granting below-deck access. She wasn’t in the lounge/dining area nor in the galley beyond. Max descended the narrow stairwell to the closed cabin door and knocked.

  “Come on in!”

  As he cracked the door, Heat’s open palm greeted his face with a bitch slap that lived up to its name. “You dog-dick piece of shit! Put me through that? How fucking dare you!” She slapped him again.

  When she wound up for the third time, he staid her hand. “You didn’t seem to mind it all that much.”

  “Fuck off!” She pounded him with her fists, beating his chest in a flailing rage. Though Max got hold of both her wrists, she squirmed to escape his iron grasp. “Let go of me!”

  “Only if you promise to be a good little girl... or not.” He gave her an unmistakable leer.

  She stopped trying to fight him. “You dirty fuck. I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Just playing my part.”

  “It was quick thinking, I’ll give you that much.” When Max let her go, she punched him in the chest. Then she grinned at him. “Bastard! I was wondering when you’d finally make a move.”

  Expecting another blow—and not the good kind—Max prepared to intercept her punch. It never came.

  Instead she grabbed his wrist with both hands and hauled him to the bed. “Now finish what you fucking started!”

  8

  Freshly showered and dressed, Max entered the living room at the condo and found Heat lounging on the leather sectional with her laptop. She’d changed into jeans and a white long-sleeve shirt, too much coverage for Max’s taste. Of her twenty-six tattoos—he’d counted them—he could only see hints and edges.

  “Anything to report?” Max asked on his way to the adjoining kitchen. Between the marina and the condo, he’d found a store that sold Mountain Dew, though alas not the diet sort. Any port in a storm.

  “Yeah, couple of things.”

  “Don’t sound so optimistic, doesn’t suit you at all.”

  “Good news, bad news, and not a lot of news. Paws got back to me. No dice on hacking the satellites, not that it matters much now.”

  “I imagine he’s beside himself with grief.” Max sat on the couch and popped the top on his soda.

  “You have no idea. I’m glad he doesn’t own a gun, else he’d be sucking on it right now.”

  “An A for effort as they say. What about the good news?”

  “Got some info back on the tattoo from a reporter friend of mine. It’s a pretty sketchy message—he’s in Afghanistan trying not to get killed—but apparently the psychos we’re up against are a sect known as the Brotherhood of Foreseers. I’ve been looking into them for the last half hour, but there’s practically nothing on them. Upshot is that they’re allegedly the Illuminati’s planning committee. They don’t just foresee what’s coming—they make sure it comes to pass.”

  “Makes sense that Wilde would be involved with such a group.”

  “Yeah. I’ve contacted two more people, fringe investigative reporters who delve into what most people consider conspiracy theories. They’ve both made their share of bullshit claims over the years, but I’m curious what they might know.”

  “Good idea.” Max harbored mixed emotions regarding most conspiracy theories and theorists. That government conspiracies existed was a given—anyone could search up damning and credible information on old CIA projects such as MKUltra. But he didn’t trust most conspiracy theorists, who in his experience knew far less than they claimed and were predisposed to believe in just about anything out of the ordinary. He knew for a fact that some of the more famous ones were on the CIA payroll, tasked with spreading disinformation and perpetuating the stereotype of the raving-mad wacko who believes that nothing is what it seems.

  “So thoughts on tackling this island?” Heat asked.

  “Well, we’re obviously onto something big, so I don’t think we’ll be able to sneak in and grab Josh by ourselves. I’m going to get a tactical team together. I have a long list of contacts who owe me favors, and I’m offering big money.”

  “How much?”

  “Half a million each should shake them out of their torpor, provided they’re not already busy. I have to call my contact in DC, then I’ll get right on it.”

  Heat nodded absently, lost in thought.

  “What about your end? Any other research you can do?”

  “I’m going out to talk with the locals here in a bit. I guarantee you that island isn’t a secret to people who’ve lived here all their lives, even if it’s only a legend they’ve never seen. I want to hear everything they have to say about it. There’s truth to be found among the inevitable rumors and tall tales. I might even find someone who’s been there.”

  “Let me make my calls first, then we’ll go.”

  “You’re not going.”

  “Wrong answer. There’s too much heat out there right now, pardon the pun.”

  “I watched the news. Nothing at all on Baptiste and Louis.”

  “That doesn’t mean the Foreseers aren’t searching for us. We stick together out in town.”

  “No!” She sat up, then bounced to her feet. “Back the fuck off and let me do what I do, okay? I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.”

  There’s no swaying her. Are you surprised? His presence probably would spook the locals.

  “Have it your way.” He almost made the mistake of asking her to text him while she was out. Give her
some credit. She saved your ass after all. Would you check in with someone if they asked you to?

  “I will! And I’m taking the car. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  She rounded on him furiously, then cracked up laughing. “Keep that shit up, you’re gonna get slapped again, motherfucker.” She grabbed the keys off the coffee table and headed for the door. “You’ve been warned.” She pointed at him as she departed.

  Relax. If she doesn’t realize what she’s into by now, she never will.

  He picked up his phone and got busy.

  “What is it?” Marklin asked.

  “You sound a little weary.” Max could tell Marklin was driving. “Tough day on the links?”

  “Yes, goddammit, I shot a damn eighty-five.”

  “Oh, the horror. Your handicap increases as we speak.”

  “What the hell do you want, Ahlgren?”

  “A whole laundry list of shit. Hope you’ve got a pen handy.”

  “Shoot, already.”

  “What can you tell me about an Agency man calling himself Scott Cleghorn?”

  Silence hung on the line for a breath. “Can’t say the name rings a bell. Is this guy down there?”

  “He might still be here. He tried to buddy fuck me yesterday.”

  “Understood. I’ll run his name past some people and get back to you. Next?”

  “Inform the senator that she might be receiving a call from a cookie pusher named Chester Weems regarding—”

  “Already happened. She figured you were Michael Adams and played along. You’re golden there.”

  “Excellent. I’ve located the objective, and I’m going to assemble a team. We’ll need munitions, all the usual stuff.”

  “I’ll get Ruddick working on that. He’ll have your bullets and bombs over there in a couple of days; he’s good like that.”

  “You’re certainly on top of things today, General. Time to test your IQ on the Illuminati.”

  Marklin snorted a laugh. “So we’re done here?”

  “You ever heard of an order called the Brotherhood of Foreseers?”