Firestorm

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Firestorm Page 22

by David Klass


  “Because you’re both sadists?”

  “Don’t believe the Roman propaganda about Hannibal,” he cautions. “As for me, we’re just getting to know each other.”

  “I got to know you this morning, on the wrong end of a knife.”

  “You must know you left me no choice. Ships run on discipline,” Dargon points out. “The crew saw what you did, and they also needed to see that a price would be paid. They’re simple men, so it had to be blood. I gave them what they needed and what the situation demanded. Now, as far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with.”

  “As far as you’re concerned,” I repeat softly.

  Femi serves the main course. “Chilean sea bass with lobster and black truffles,” he announces.

  “It’s actually Patagonian toothfish,” I correct him. “In a few decades it’ll be extinct.”

  “How can you know what’s going to happen in a few decades?” Kylie asks.

  It’s a good question. Dargon answers for me. “My dear, those who don’t study the future are doomed to repeat its mistakes. And I believe that our guest is a budding scholar of the future. Of course, that’s a risky field of study. One must be very sure of one’s teachers.”

  I’m not sure exactly what he’s talking about, so I taste the sea bass. It’s buttery and melts in my mouth.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t have your dog to dinner,” Dargon says. “I have a firm rule against birds or animals at the table. Though, of course, he’s obviously not a normal dog. Is he?”

  “Your parrot’s not exactly from Parrots of the World dot com, either,” I point out.

  Dargon won’t be diverted. “We were talking about your dog. Where did you get him, I wonder?”

  “New York,” I grunt as I swallow down another forkful of fish. Watch it, Jack. He’s after something.

  The gray eyes are locked on me now. The voice is demanding. “Did you find him or did he find you?”

  I half stand, holding my dinner knife loosely in my right hand. “Is this a dinner party or an interrogation? Because if it’s a dinner, then I don’t choose to answer your questions. And if it’s an interrogation, you might want to get four of your henchmen to hold me down before you try messing with me again, you craven bastard.”

  Kylie lowers her fork. “Wow, nobody ever talks to Dargon that way.” She looks from him to me to him again. “Are you guys gonna fight or something? Can I be the prize?”

  Dargon’s eyes flick down to the knife in my hand. “Just for the record, so we understand each other,” he says in a calm voice, “I spent years mastering a variety of deadly fighting skills. If you’re ever foolish enough to take me on, you won’t last more than twenty seconds.”

  “That must be why you needed five sailors to hold me down today,” I fire back, watching him so that if he even twitches, I’ll be able to dodge and counter.

  But he doesn’t move a muscle. “To answer your fair question, this is a dinner and you are my guest. Perhaps, in my eagerness, I was too hasty and direct. Food first, and we’ll leave business to the end of our journey.”

  I lower my knife to the table. “What journey?”

  “My island,” Dargon says. “We should arrive early tomorrow morning. I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s quite beautiful. Wouldn’t you say, Kylie?”

  “Dreamy,” she agrees. “You’ll never want to leave.”

  “What business can we possibly have to discuss?” I ask Dargon, watching the gray eyes carefully.

  “Fishing, of course,” he replies. “Jack, I might want to go into business with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for a suitable partner to come along. We could do wonderful things together.”

  “And why would I ever trust you when I despise you?”

  He leans forward. The power of those eyes! “Poor confused fellow. Raised by strangers, among strangers. The answer to your question will blow your mind. You see, Jack, the simple fact is that you and I have more in common than anyone you’ve ever met before in your entire life.”

  I’m trembling, scared, fascinated. I sense that the reason his words have power is that they’re rooted in truth.

  Dargon reaches out. Touches my arm. Grasps it lightly. Establishing a connection. “We’re cousins, Jack,” he whispers. “I’m the first family member you’ve ever met. Sleep well, cuz.”

  61

  Restless night. Yacht rises and falls with the night swells. Hand throbs. I pop Femi’s blue pills.

  Sink into uneasy sleep. Feverish dreams. Dargon’s words. “We’re family.” His touch. The way he breathed fire. Holding the knife. Cutting into my finger.

  I wake before sunrise. Shower and dress. Find that my door is not locked, or rather has been unlocked during the night. Nothing on this yacht happens by chance.

  An invitation. I climb stairs to deck.

  Dargon and Kylie standing at prow, holding hands. First dawn sparking far to the east. In that kindling glow, a green spot unfolds itself from the night shadows.

  An island!

  Small. Mysterious. Green with forests. Ominous with jagged mountains.

  Dargon waves me over. “Did you sleep well?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Bad dreams. Mostly of you.”

  “Get over it,” he says. “Here comes paradise. And the good news is I own it hook, line, and sinker. So there are no laws or rules and you can do whatever you like here.”

  “As long as the King of the Island agrees,” I mutter.

  “Of course,” he says, and walks off to check on something.

  “Don’t worry, Dargon’s cool,” Kylie assures me. She’s wearing short, short blue jean cutoffs and a tight, tight leather top. Her body has more mountains and valleys than Dargon’s island.

  “You know him better than I do,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know him at all,” she says. “We’ve only been together a little while. But he’s cool to just about anything.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I ask.

  “To me it is,” she says. And then that mischievous, sexy smile. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you much better, Jack. On the island we’ll have lots of time to get lost together. And who knows what else …”

  Before I can answer, Dargon returns. “Everything is ready for us. How nice to be coming home.”

  We sail in. Men and women waiting at the dock. Dressed in the same “uniform” of khaki shorts and white T-shirts. Everyone trained, polite, subservient to Dargon.

  We tie up at the dock. I walk across gangplank. Easy to disembark here. Something tells me it won’t be quite as easy to leave.

  I stroll down the dock and set foot for the first time on the volcanic rock of the island.

  Feel it instantly. Don’t ask me how, but I know. It’s here. On this island. Firestorm! Whatever it is, wherever it’s hidden, I can sense its steady pulse. Like the insistent beating of a heart, hidden deep inside a body, yet pumping, vital, the wellspring of aliveness.

  Gisco is led off the yacht on a leash.

  It’s here! I tell him.

  What’s here? How are you, by the way? That was an unexpectedly pleasant interlude in our gastronomically deprived travels. Whoever cooks the cheeseburgers on that yacht sure knows what they’re doing. Now, where are we and what were you saying?

  We’re on Dargon’s island.

  Which we came to for what reason, exactly?

  We were brought here, cheeseburger brain. I don’t know why. But Firestorm’s here, too. I can feel it.

  Dog becomes agitated. Are you sure? Where is it?

  I don’t know. But this is a small island. It can’t be too hard to find.

  Dargon’s parrot is brought to him, finds a comfortable perch on his thickly muscled shoulder, and throws a nasty yellow-eyed look at Gisco. “Dog needs a bath!” he trills.

  And you need to be plucked.

  “Bathe him in acid. Boil him in oil.”

  I’d like to curry you with
ginger and tomato.

  Dog bares his teeth. Parrot pecks the air. For a moment it looks like pooch and perching bird are going to battle it out right there on the dock. “Come now, Apollo, that’s no way to treat our guests,” Dargon says. “And here come the welcome wagons.”

  A convoy of Jeeps arrives. We are soon twisting our way up a winding road to an imposing gate.

  I spot a familiar crest on the wrought iron: a serpent devouring a crane. It’s vividly rendered, so that you can feel the crane’s agony.

  Atop the gate is a single silver letter—the ornate “D” I saw on the ledger in the captain of the Lizabetta’s room, with scaly, serpentine wings as part of its design.

  Didn’t your father warn you to beware of fire-breathing monsters? Gisco reminds me.

  Yup, I agree as the big gate slowly opens.

  It looks like we’re heading right into the chimera’s lair.

  And there’s nothing we can do about it, I point out as the Jeeps head in. Do you really think my father was warning me about Dargon?

  I’m not sure, Gisco admits, but our host does remind me of some nightmares of the far future. The Dark Army was willing to do anything to adapt and gain an advantage.

  Yes, Eko told me. They created cyborgs.

  And they experimented wildly with genetic material. A chimera in Greek mythology had a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail. But in genetics, a chimera is a creature with DNA from more than one source.

  You’re saying that Dargon may not be human?

  He may be more than human.

  “Welcome to my humble home,” Dargon says with an expansive sweep of his hand, as the gate swings shut behind us.

  His mountain villa lies before us.

  The compound itself is a graceful sprawl of interconnected white buildings that glisten in morning light. They’ve been architecturally stitched into the hills so that in form and scale they fit the mountainside that frames them. Crystal swimming pools, gardens aflame with tropical flowers, and foaming fountains spill down the slope in terraced steps from the compound to the silvery sands of a beach that arcs around a magically beautiful, crescent-shaped bay.

  “Isn’t it loverly?” Kylie asks.

  “Okay,” I grunt, as if I’ve seen better billionaires’ compounds on nicer private islands.

  “Femi will take you to your room and give you a chance to freshen up,” Dargon says. “And then I’ll give you a private tour. We have business to discuss, and time is short.” The veiled threat in those gray eyes is almost palpable. “Also, I have some pets I’d like to introduce you to.”

  62

  Gisco is led off on a leash to the dog quarters.

  Jack is escorted by Femi to the guests-who-may-be-maimed-at-any-moment wing.

  Not bad digs. Large, bright room with marble bath and stunning ocean views from every window.

  “I’ll come back in an hour to take you to Dargon,” Femi says. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “A life insurance policy.”

  The inscrutable Femi doesn’t crack a smile.

  I take steamy needle shower. Put on the shorts and T-shirt that have been laid out for me. They fit me perfectly.

  Study myself for a moment in full-length mirror. Hard to believe it’s the same Jack Danielson who cared so much about a football game in Hadley-by-Hudson a month ago.

  But there he is—that same strapping young fellow with straw-colored hair and piercing blue eyes smiling back at me. All-American grin. Six feet two inches tall. Hobbies: chicks, flicks, and fast cars.

  Same boy, same arms and legs, almost the same face. A dash more seriousness about the eyes, from hardship encountered and sadness endured. A jot more purposeful set to the chin, on account of having to save the whole future.

  Otherwise the identical boy. Same and very different. Jack and not Jack at all.

  Who am I now? I don’t know. Does Dargon know more about me than I do myself? Seems likely. Are the pets he’s threatening to introduce me to the same ones who chewed off the arm of the captain of the Lizabetta?

  Three soft knocks on the door. Bap, bap, bap. Uh-oh. I remember this knock. As if I don’t have enough trouble.

  I open the door. Kylie stands there, dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model in a mood to flaunt. “Can I come in and join the party?”

  “There’s no party, it’s just me,” I gulp as she steps in and shuts the door behind her. “What are you wearing, or maybe I should say not wearing?”

  “I call it a thong sarong,” she giggles, and flashes me a smile that could melt an igloo.

  Flirting? Teasing? Thong sarong indeed!

  “Why? Does my outfit make you uncomfortable?”

  “It doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

  “Then you don’t have a very good imagination,” Kylie purrs. “I can think of a few things we haven’t shown each other yet.” Her eyes slide appraisingly up my body, as if she’s trying to decide what weight class I belong in.

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Dargon.”

  She shrugs. Steps closer. “Why bring him up now?”

  “Seems relevant. How long have you been together?”

  “Not very long. We met in Spain. At a nightclub.” As she prattles on, I see Kylie’s eyes flick quickly around the corners of the room. What’s she looking for? Hidden cameras or microphones? If she’s afraid we’re under surveillance, why is she flirting with me? “He invited me back to his yacht. Hard invitation for a girl to refuse.”

  “And then, I suppose, he invited you back to his island. Another tough invitation to refuse?”

  “Well, I was a little curious,” Kylie admits with a chuckle. “Never met a guy who owns a whole island before.”

  “Now he owns you, too, right? So I’d better not trespass.”

  Kylie shakes her head and her blond hair dances. “Wrong, Jack. Nobody owns me. I’m a free spirit.” She does some carefree dance steps to prove her point. Twirls and pirouettes closer. Sings as she dances: “I’m free! Free as the wind. Bright as the rainbow. Light as the air.”

  Now she’s right in front of me. Stops dancing and breathlessly whispers her life story: “Raised in the beach towns of southern California, where blond chicks rule. I go where I want, hang with whoever I want, and party hearty. Nobody has ever owned me, and no one does now. You need proof?”

  “I doubt that Dargon …” I start to object.

  “I think you do need some convincing,” Kylie coos. Stands on her tippy toes. Puts her arms around my neck. Grabs my hair with either hand, gently yet firmly, as if I’m a puppy dog that needs to be correctly trained.

  Pulls me down. Kisses me on the lips.

  Smooch must last a minute. I want to disengage but can’t find the release lever.

  She’s got soft, pouty lips. Hot breath and tongue. Kissing her is like being sucked into a sexual vacuum cleaner. Never kissed anyone like this before.

  Feel something wet. Tear sliding down her cheek.

  Why is this blond beach goddess crying? Do I kiss so badly? “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought we’d have more time,” she whispers.

  “Time for what?”

  “Be very careful, Jack. It will happen today.”

  “What will?”

  Before I can try to find out, a voice from the doorway makes us break apart fast. Dargon stands there, not smiling. “I see you’re making yourself right at home,” he observes.

  “Maybe you should learn to knock,” I suggest.

  “I make the rules in my own home. Shall we go now? Kylie, I’m going to have to ask that you don’t accompany us. Under the circumstances, you’d be a distraction.”

  She’s had a chance to recover. Gone are the tears and the heartbreak. She’s a fun and flippant beach twit again. “Fine,” she says. “I’m going to the pool. It’s noon now, and you know what that means. Daiquiri time!”

  She dance
d into my room and now she sashays out.

  Stops in the doorway, right in front of Dargon.

  They look at each other. Pissed off? Turned on? Both at once?

  She gives him the same kind of long, hot kiss she just gave me.

  No. Wrong. This one is longer. Hotter.

  Breaks away, panting slightly. Looks up at him and says, “Jack’s right. You should learn to knock.” And then she’s gone.

  Dargon looks after her for a moment, and then turns back to me with a bemused smile. “It’s amazing what you can pick up in a Barcelona nightclub.”

  “Especially when you have a yacht and an island.”

  “I think she may actually like me,” he says. “Come. We have a busy day ahead of us, so we’re going to travel fast. I hope you don’t mind going off road.”

  63

  Racing down sandy track on monster of an all-terrain vehicle. Must weigh three thousand pounds. Brutish engine. Giant tires. Completely different animal from the antique motorcycle with the sidecar that Hayes’s biker gang sold me.

  This is a hyper-modern four-wheeled beast, with attitude, power, and kick. Doesn’t need the smoothness of tarmac. Looks and feels like it will go over anything.

  Dargon racing next to me. I’m wearing a helmet. Gloves. Leg pads. He’s just in shorts and a shirt, his long brown hair flying in the wind. Fool. Show-off.

  Wind whipping at us. Gravel pelting us. Sunlight reflecting off sand. Road winding around mountain.

  Dargon takes his right hand off the handlebars. Signals to me. Gestures down steep rocky slope. Pointing a direction? Offering a challenge? Suggesting suicide?

  He veers sharply off road. I take a breath and follow him down the rocky mountainside.

  Bumpada-bumpada-bumpada. I nearly fly over the front of the ATV. Kick it into a lower gear. Lean backwards. Don’t lock your arms, Jack, or you’re a goner. No switchbacks possible. If I try to turn, this brute will roll.

  Only one thing to do. Point the nose down and hang on.

  ATV bounces off boulders and plows through deep sand. Nothing slows it. I speed across a rock face that suddenly disappears beneath me.

  Rock cliff becomes ski-jump ramp, launching my three-thousand-pound ATV into the air. Uh-oh. Flying along on the back of a roaring metal stegosaurus.

 

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