“Nah, I don’t drink on the job. Can I go?” She seemed bored.
“Sure.” Cole never had it with the ladies, and while her rebuff stung a little bit, he was still riding his victory high.
“The kid was saying some crazy stuff, Mr. Hardy,” she said, pausing in the doorway, “is all of it true?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little self about that,” he said, “you’ll be taken care of.”
As she walked away, she had to wonder what that meant—a seat at the new world table, or taken care of like Matt. Her instincts told her that the latter was a probable scenario, but, for the moment, her arrangement was solid.
She could freelance when the need arrived.
Cole coughed a little bit as he drank in his champagne, his chest aching. If only Maverick knew, he thought, if only Maverick knew what I was planning. That young son of a bitch didn’t have all the information, and Cole would get what he deserved.
Exhaustion set in, and his breath grew ragged. He’d fix that with a good night’s sleep. Yes, a good night’s sleep.
“Call San Francisco again,” the man said, his face hidden by the shadows of the fire, “they got to answer sometime.”
“I use any more juice, and Amanda’s going to be up our asses,” the guy with the phone replied, “we wait.”
The first man rubbed his pitted, bald head, and stroked the scars on his face. The jungle had been harsh to him, but his visage still had a certain handsomeness to it. His boss, shaggy and almost unscathed, had been lucky—he’d been in the same fights, just emerged a little better for wear.
A few minutes later, the boss tried again. It rang through.
“This is Silver Clark,” he said, raising his voice above the static clouding the line, “give me a status update.” He nodded, and then hung up. The call lasted less than fifteen seconds.
“So,” the bald man asked, tearing at a piece of roast monkey, his eyes expectant, “what’s the report?”
“It’s a brave new world,” Silver replied, grinning in the dark, “and we’re the new kings.”
Part 2
5
An Exciting Dinner
Penelope and Mandy didn’t care about the hushed buzz passing through the other guests. They were riding a buzz of their own, on their own.
It’d been a week since they’d reached the island, and the higher-ups were worried about Maverick’s demeanor. He was an adventurer, addicted to riding high, but he’d been holed up for the past five days, only popping out for special occasions.
This didn’t bother the hard-partying duo, though, because they were far enough down the ladder where they had little interaction with him—beyond that throwaway ocean lay. They were happy just to be there; a couple years out of university, The Hideaway’s tantalizing array of vices were enough to distract them from any concerns.
Every year, one junior level employee was chosen to come along—and bring a friend from the company—at random. It was a big corporate pool, with thousands of entries. Mandy had won, and she had almost blown the roof off the Sante Fe lab when she heard the good news.
Everything was paid. First class airfare to San Diego, a limo to the docks, meal comps. Plus, if Maverick liked her—them—a raise and all sorts of other bonuses. It was like winning the lottery. A reverse lottery, as fate would hold, but neither of them knew this, and ignorance is, as the old saying goes, bliss.
Or, in their case, closer to ecstasy.
Britt looked out the window, down at the duo splashing in the pool.
“They seem happy,” he said, chomping on the end of a fine cigar, like he knew how to smoke it, “bastards.”
“It’s not a chew toy,” said Abel from Accounting, “you don’t munch it.”
“Oh, is that so? Then what about in the movies?”
Abel sighed. “Raise.” He pushed a stack of chips into the middle.
“Fold,” Davey said, throwing his cards down.
“You’re a pussy, Davey,” Britt said, “I’m all in.” Abel said nothing and moved the rest of his chips into the center with a shake of his head. “Last time was a fluke,” Britt said, “I’ll win this one. You’ll see.” Davey turned over the river card. An ace. Abel grinned and threw down his hand. Pocket aces plus the one the table made three-of-a-kind.
Britt pushed his own cards out with a grimace. High card. A nine. The other two paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Fuck you guys,” Britt said, biting even harder on the cigar, “I’m better at seven card draw. None of this Texas Holdem garbage. I need to get outta here, anyway. It’s a sausage fest up here.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a bad plan,” Abel said.
“You and Davey got to play it out,” Britt replied, getting up, “that’s how it works.”
“You just said that we should get out of here—”
“I said me, asshole. Me.”
Abel shrugged and turned towards Davey. “You want to keep going?”
“Sure, I’ll take some of Britt’s money off your hands.”
Britt flipped them off and went downstairs. Maverick wasn’t around, but this was becoming the norm. He and Josephine must’ve been having a hell of a time.
Penelope ambushed him.
“Hey,” she said, throwing her arms around him, coming on so strong that he knew it was an act, “you heard anything?”
“Piss off,” he said, even though he’d come down here to see her—and her friend.
“Whoa, harsh, bro,” she said, like she was stoned, “just seeing if you knew why Maverick was being a stranger.”
“You’re sucking his dick,” Britt said, trotting faster to lose his unwanted companion, “ask him between mouthfuls.”
She socked him in the arm. “Asshole.”
“Yeah, well, if that’s all, I should be going.”
“Something weird is happening.”
“Yeah, and I think you’re pissing me off,” Britt said, going out the glass doors. Maybe the other girl wouldn’t grill him. What was her name? It didn’t matter. He’d tell her about his position, and she’d just want to get drunk with him, which sounded like a spectacular idea.
“All right, fine, be a prick.” And she left him alone.
Britt looked up at the sky and mouthed the words thank you. Then he went out to work some magic.
“He doesn’t know anything,” Penelope said, her arms wrapped around Ziggy’s shoulders, “but he was agitated.”
“Britt’s always like that. He say anything interesting?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Maybe you worry too much,” she said, kissing his ear.
“Maverick’s been holed up there for days, and we got to get out of here in a week.”
“Don’t worry about it, babe,” she said, “I’m sure Maverick’s got something planned. He’s got enough money to fix anything.”
“There are some things money can’t fix,” he said, brushing her arms away, “power always trumps cash. Always.”
The pyrotechnics at dinner were prolonged. After watching another night of drunken debauchery, Ziggy grew bold. He laid down a challenge.
“You’re not being straight with us,” he said, pretending to be drunk by knocking over a glass of expensive champagne, “there’s something going on.” The wait staff had been missing for five or six days—with the exception of Bebe, who didn’t provide the best service. Just up and vanished. No one could figure out where they went, and it was killing the vibe—not to mention being suspicious as hell. The guests couldn’t figure out whether Maverick had sent them off, or if he’d booked replacements that were arriving any day now.
“Oh, and what would that be?” Maverick had a great poker face, one cultivated from years in the corporate trenches. He may not have been a ki
ller, but he could spin lies, bluffs and get deals done with the best of them.
A young VP was no match for him—and Ziggy was falling on the table. Maverick had to hide his own amusement, despite the storm descending on the outside world and his little island paradise.
“Well,” Maverick added, “Do tell.”
The rest of the party guests looked on in rapt awe. This was better than any movie, and, dare they say it, better than the party. It wasn’t every day that you could see someone’s career go up in flames.
Penelope buried her head in her arms. This wasn’t what she had planned. She’d misjudged Ziggy’s ambition. He was a fool, and she prayed that he wouldn’t bring her down with his burning ship.
“You think you’re so clever, up there in your ivory tower,” and now Ziggy was on the move, delivering his sermon in a circle around the table, “keeping it all to yourself.”
“Keeping what to myself?”
“Look at that, would you? The brilliant Maverick, pretending like he doesn’t know.” Ziggy threw his fist on to the table, rocking the plates of unpronounceable delicacies with a seismic blast. Quite a few people jumped. “Well, I know. I know about the boat.” He didn’t, but he was bluffing.
“Just how I know about you and my wife.”
The curve. Right at the moment when it looked like the situation was going against him, Maverick showed his hand, right there on the river: a straight flush. Ziggy was all-in, and he’d lost. Hadn’t expected Maverick to play that card.
The oxygen dried up, and the guests wanted to leave too, had they not been so curious about the follow-up.
“Yeah, well.”
“I heard her,” and Maverick directed his gaze towards his wife, who was reddening from her involvement in this little argument, “she sounded like she enjoyed it. Bravo.” This elicited a chuckle from the group, which cut off—no one was sure if this was a joke, the truth, or an actual commendation.
“Thanks,” Ziggy managed to stammer, and he began looking for his seat again, hoping that it was shrouded in invisibility. He found it, and ducked his head down.
“Oh, and you’re fired.” Maverick said, like it was almost an afterthought.
The other guests thought this was it; the big bomb.
And then it happened.
Bebe and her pistol decided to rearrange Ziggy Reckfield’s brains all over the fruit spread decorating the center of the table. Just like that—one clipped, muted shot, and what had been a rocky, unusual vacation turned into a nightmare.
Josephine fainted; sitting across from Ziggy, she was now wearing part of his face. No one said a word. The assassin stepped back, admiring her handy-work.
“Who wants dessert,” she asked, “or is no one hungry?” She cracked her gum when she said it, like she was back on the schoolyard. No one answered, and with a shrug, Bebe walked back into the kitchen, like nothing of note had happened.
Everyone stared at the dead body, but Cole stared the hardest.
This was what you got when you hire a psychopathic killer. No professionalism. A contract killer, they keep things in line. It’s a job. But someone who kills for the fun of it?
You can’t account for that at all.
Sure, Cole wanted to keep things under his control—but that meant doing things incognito, not causing a widespread panic.
Bebe just stood there, clicking her gum, like her dad was telling her not to stay out so late.
“There’s no coming back from this,” he said, the words tumbling over each other, bottlenecking, “it’s over. The whole company, the whole damn thing, it’s over—”
“Pull it together, old man.” Bebe was done with this. She’d been listening to the same logic for twenty minutes. “Shut up and grow a pair. Christ, I figured after you killed half the free world, you wouldn’t be such a pussy.”
He blinked. He wasn’t used to hearing backtalk from his employees; they all respected him, or at least pretended to.
“You don’t exist in the real world,” he said, “you wouldn’t understand.” Cole was still living in an old paradigm. One he’d worked hard to destroy, but couldn’t seem to leave.
“The real world doesn’t exist anymore, pops,” she replied, which made him grimace—he wasn’t that old, just not as young as her, “did you catch the news bulletin? History’s done. Kaput. Blammo. No reason to play by the old rules. There’s one way to get respect now.”
“And I suppose you’ll tell me what that is?”
“Damn right I will, old man—it’s fear. You got to make people piss themselves when you stare at ‘em a second too long. Stake your claim as the big dog. You think I’d listen to your rules? I’m a killer. I don’t play by rules.”
“The last guy, the last security guy…” Last time Cole had a mess to clean up—the Ambrosia Team Incident—he’d called in old Boris. He was some washed-up CIA spook, a real alcoholic. Had eaten a bullet in a fleabag motel on the outskirts of Albuquerque, after some pretty young thing had rebuffed him.
But, despite his affinity for drink and unattainable women, Boris didn’t crap the bed. He’d fixed the problem four years ago, and the Ambrosia Incident was relegated to the company archives—only Cole and Maverick knew about it. Bebe, well, she hadn’t fixed anything. This situation was getting worse by the second.
The curtain had lifted, and now everyone knew that there was a pile of steaming shit behind it.
“Yeah, well, you’re stuck, now,” and what Bebe meant, he could see in her eyes, was that this was fast becoming an equal partnership—Bebe and Cole Inc.—whether he liked it or not, “so I suggest you go out there and lay down the law.”
She spun on her foot, and like that, was gone. Like a ninja; or worse, a crazy renegade Ronin.
Everyone was still at the table, whispering. Cole had tugged Bebe off to the side, into a side-room, leaving everyone sitting around the body. They gave Ziggy a wide berth, pulling their chairs far away from him, but everyone figured it would be better to stick around.
Cole reemerged, his craggy face looking 10 years older.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he started, and then he told them everything. All of it—the virus on the mainland, the banged up boat—excluding the bits about Shadow Village or the Ambrosia Incident. No, those could remain a secret. Cole emphasized the part where he had decided that Ziggy wasn’t long for this world any more—that’s what happened when people asked too many questions—taking claim for a decision that Bebe had made for him.
Insubordination would not be tolerated. They’d be leaving for the mainland in a month, and everyone could either come along, or get buried in the sand. No one said anything after that, or during any of it, because they’d all come to the same conclusion: Cole was now the boss man, and he was insane.
This was a new world. And even if it sucked, they all wanted to live. The party dispersed in silence, leaving Maverick and Josephine alone.
“Well, dear,” she said, the blood dry on her face, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” he said, and it almost sounded like he meant it.
“Because if you don’t, they’re going to eat you alive.” She got up and stood in the doorway for a moment. “Pandora’s box. You can’t close it again.”
What she meant, and Maverick felt it, was that if he didn’t protect her, find a way to get his position back, then she would switch sides with nary a second thought.
He pounded the rest of the champagne and passed out at the table. In the middle of the night, Bebe convinced a few of the guests to dispose of the body. Not that they had much choice; she was a very persuasive girl, just as any good psychopathic assassin tends to be.
6
A Singular Goal
The morning light peeked through the gray dawn. Amanda and Jackson crouched in the weeds, checking the house for movement.
They were absent from the party, although given the night’s excitement, no one had noticed.
“Look,” Amanda said, “the old bastard went to sleep.” She pointed at Cole’s room, where a light had just extinguished. The old man must have been burning the midnight oil something fierce.
“Jesus,” Jackson replied, checking his watch, “that leaves us 23 minutes.”
“Your plan said 30, minimum.”
“It’s right now or we might not get another shot.” Jackson figured he’d throw caution to the wind. The mainland was in shambles, and their way off the island was compromised. They were here, and pretty soon, everyone would be scrambling to survive.
Leaves and jungle fauna rustled behind them. Jackson jumped.
“Don’t worry about that,” Amanda said, before adding, almost too low to hear, “yet.”
A cold prick of fear ran along Jackson’s spine, but it was soon replaced by adrenaline. On the south side of the house, a canopy of trees hid their approach. Not that anyone was awake, but it seemed some caution couldn’t hurt.
Amanda fumbled along the side of the house in the dim light, hands groping along the masonry. After a minute passed, then another, she found the switch to the hidden entrance. With a twist of an ornamental phoenix, wings outstretched in majestic flight—one of hundreds adorning the side of the house—the ground opened before them, revealing a series of steps.
The passageway was dark, and smelled of dust and decay. Although the house was only five years old, no one had been down here since the thing had been built. There had been no reason to—until now. Jackson ducked down, shoulders hunched, so his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling.
The stairs seemed to plunge into the depths of the earth, but that was a product of the cramped quarters and total lack of light. With the wall as their guide, the pair made it down into the central room. Fluorescent bulbs flickered to life overhead, sensing their movement.
Shadows were draped across the room in the poor light, but the thin beams showed enough: four passageways, including the one they’d come down through, extending in a cross shape from this, the core room.
Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel Page 5