by David Berens
“STREAKER, STREAKER, STREAKER.”
Becky tore through the crowd to applause and cheering. She rounded the corner and ran faster. This was turning into a night from hell. And that’s when RayRay opened his door and stepped into the hall. He had clothes on and was tapping a cane side to side. Inspiration hit and Becky jumped past RayRay into his room and slammed the door.
From behind the closed door, in a muffled voice, she heard RayRay say, “what the hell?”
He fumbled with the knob, but couldn’t get it to turn. He didn’t know Becky was holding it on the other side. Crap, she thought gripping the door handle as tight as she could, what now? She looked over her shoulder at the living room. On the couch was a SCAD hoodie. She would grab that, throw it on and get the hell outta dodge. This plan was officially off! The knob turned more insistently and her palms were getting slick with sweat. Her grip was slipping. Suddenly, it turned hard in her hands and RayRay pushed into the room. Becky fell backward and taking two steps in, RayRay fell on top of her.
“Oof, shit,” Becky wheezed as RayRay knocked the breath out of her.
“Becky-san?” RayRay asked.
She squeezed her lips shut, determined not to say anything else. Maybe she could still get out of here without him knowing who she was. And in the next moment, Becky’s night got infinitely worse. Blind people use their hands to feel the surface of objects they want to investigate. RayRay wanted to know who he was lying on top of in his apartment, so he reached up both hands. They landed, to Becky’s horror, shame, terror, embarrassment, humiliation… you name it… right on her breasts. One on the left, and one on the right.
“Ooooh,” RayRay squeezed her boobs.
Becky whimpered and heaved. RayRay rolled to the side and whumped into the wall. Becky jumped up, seeing that RayRay was trying to get to his feet, she started for the door. Right there, where she had left it, was her backpack. And on the ground, next to her pack, were his glasses. She grabbed both and darted into the hall.
“STREAKER, STREAKER, STREAKER!” the crowd had turned the corner and was now cheering after her again.
She ran to the elevator and clicked the button desperately. Thankfully, it dinged quickly and she jumped inside. She reached over to push the lobby button and realized she wasn’t alone… Again? She thought, for Christ’s sake, will this never end? Looking at the boy standing there, she recognized it was Chase, they guy she’d met earlier tonight.
“Still dabbling in nudism, I see,” he smiled at her.
Becky slid down in the elevator, covering herself with her backpack. Chase pulled off his shirt and handed it to her.
“Here,” he said, “take this. Looks like you need it more than I do.”
She jerked the shirt over her bare chest. Thankfully, it was long enough to cover the rest of her body down to her thighs as well.
“Thanks,” she said shyly.
Chase turned around, “I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you again so soon.”
“Yeah,” Becky inhaled deeply, “wasn’t exactly in the plan.”
“I’m not sure that I want to know what plan that was,” he laughed and held out a hand to help her up.
“Long story,” she said pulling herself up.
“Maybe you can tell me about it tomorrow?” he asked with a million-dollar smile, “Over a coffee?”
The elevator dinged and the doors slip open.
“I’d like that,” she returned his smile.
“I’ll call you,” he said, “now take care of that plan.”
Oh, yeah. The plan. She stepped into the lobby and unzipped her backpack. She still had the spray paint. She walked outside and laid the glasses on the newspaper. Opening the black paint, she sprayed the lenses until they were completely covered. Less than three minutes later, they were almost dry, tacky enough to touch. She picked them up and walked back into the lobby. The elevator dinged and oddly, there was RayRay, walking out.
“Hey Ray,” she said cheerfully, acting like she had just seen him for the first time tonight.
“Becky-san?” he asked, “were you upstairs just a few minutes ago?”
“Uh, no,” she said matter-of-factly, “I just got back from studying at the coffee shop.”
“Ohhh,” RayRay said, “I could have sworn that I felt your…”
“Nope,” she interrupted him, “wasn’t me. Anyway, I found your glasses at the shop. You must’ve left them behind.”
“Hmmm,” RayRay said, “that is strange. I could swear I left them on my…”
“Okay,” she interrupted him again, “Well, I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Becky-san,” RayRay smiled and put the glasses on, “I wish I could’ve seen what happened upstairs earlier. We had a streaker! Can you believe it?”
“Haha,” Becky laughed nervously, “crazy kids, eh?”
“Yes,” RayRay agreed, “crazy.”
Becky turned and walked out. When she got back to her dorm, she took the hottest shower she had ever taken. Urine, acid, sweat… ugh, she was a disgusting mess. When she finally felt human again, she collapsed and fell asleep within minutes.
The next day, walking across campus, she began to realize people were staring at her. Some were pointing and whispering. What the hell, people? She put her head down and rushed into her sculpture class. Samantha and Alain were there waiting on her.
Alain was smiling broadly and licked his lips, “well, good morning, Becky. Surprised to see you wore clothes.”
“Huh?” she asked.
“Girl, what did you do last night?” Samantha demanded.
Her friend slapped a copy of the school newspaper down on the desk in front of her. In giant block letters across the top… the first and only headline on the front page… SCAD STREAKER. And underneath that, in full color, filling the entire space above the fold was a picture of Becky, running down the hall at The Colony… naked.
She slapped her hand against her forehead, “Oh, shit.”
Thankfully, her body was covered in impossibly small blurry areas to keep the photo rated PG-13. As she stared in horror at the image, RayRay walked into class. He was wearing his glasses… his newly blacked out lenses covering his eyes. Becky couldn’t help but appreciate the irony.
She’d spent all night trying to cover the eyes of the one guy who couldn’t see her and now everyone else saw her… in all her splendid, nude, glory… on the front page. It was going to be a long year.
Becky, RayRay, Samantha, and Alain appear in the forthcoming Stealing Savannah – A Troy Bodean Adventure #4
Stories Coming Soon
Darren and Man’Ti
A Slow Boat From New Zealand
The Gallup Girls
Dancin’ For Bana
Ryan “RB” Bodean
Midnight Flying
Knuckle Bones
A Troy Bodean Prequel
Introduction
I wrote this prequel of sorts for an anthology that included a group of really good Indie Authors. It was on the market for a year and I would recommend it, but it has been taken down so that the authors included could use the stories for their own purposes.
I’m introducing it to my readers now as a way to understand a little more about the man, the myth, the legend: Troy Clint Bodean. It is a pretty cool little story and I enjoyed discovering some of what makes Troy tick as well. Keep in mind, this is before the iconic cowboy hat, but I think he’s still an interesting character. Hopefully, you’ll want to read more!
Interestingly, Troy’s time in the military doesn’t show up with much consequence until his 5th book - called SKULL WAVE. I only hope that I’ve done at least a tiny bit of justice to what it is to live with a warrior’s past.
I hope you enjoy this and my friend, Troy.
1
Knucklebones
Troy Clint Bodean didn’t know the I.E.D. would go off in exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds burying a piece of jagged metal almost two inches deep into his k
nee and blowing both of Harry Nedman’s legs off at the hip. If he had, he would’ve smoked his last Morven Gold cigarette before stepping down out of the cockpit of the AH-64 they’d dropped in the middle of the road just outside of Kabul. Hell, if he’d known that, he would’ve put the chopper in the air and gotten their asses out of Dodge!
Harry had been his co-pilot for the entire year in Afghanistan and neither he, nor Troy, had taken so much as a scratch… until the bones had started showing up at the safe house. One by one, in a small, blue velvet lined box about the size of a deck of playing cards, the knucklebones were delivered to the house designated as safe for U.S. officials to hide out in when terrorist chatter began to get heavy in their direction.
Without proper lab facilities at their disposal, it was impossible to determine whose fingers these bones might’ve come from American, Afghan, or otherwise. The bones were clean of flesh and blood, but not yet bleached from the sun, meaning they’d come off of the person missing them recently. Relatively intact, they all seem to have been removed with some care… not just butchered or torn off. Someone was sending them a message.
2
Finger - Three Days Earlier
It all started with the pinky finger delivered lying in the box like an exhibit in the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. All three pieces of the separated digit were laid carefully in a row: proximal phalange, middle phalanx and distal phalanx.
The second day brought the ring finger, the next, the middle finger and so on. By that time, a full on investigation had begun bringing top brass on site and sending non-military personnel into the safe house. Troy’s Apache had escorted the UH-60 Blackhawk carrying General James “Buff” Summerton in to sort out what the hell was going on. The sixth day brought silence, no box, no finger, no nothing. The seventh brought the note.
Special Envoy to Afghanistan, Sid Phillips, had been kidnapped. The note was short and sweet. Deliver 1.5 million U.S. dollars to a specified drop location, Sid would be returned unharmed (except for his right hand.) If the ransom wasn’t paid, they would continue to send bigger pieces of him to the embassy.
“The hell we will!” Buff slammed his fist down on the table, “The United States of goddamn America does NOT negotiate with terrorists!”
“But sir,” Ambassador Williams protested.
“No buts!” the general stood up, “Goddamn Phillips went and got himself kidnapped, so he’s on his own.”
“With all due respect, sir,” the Ambassador remained calm, “not retrieving Mr. Phillips will send the message that we are weak and they will simply escalate their operations to abduct more personnel.”
“Which is precisely why you people shouldn’t be over here in the first place! He was about to be downsized out of a job anyway for Christ’s sake,” General Summerton raised both hands in a gesture of futility, “This is a damn war with an enemy who don’t want your diplomacy.”
“But the people of Afghanistan do.”
A long moment of silence passed before the general asked, “you so sure about that, Ambassador?”
“Yes, I am.”
Summerton inhaled deeply through his nose, his lips pursed together tightly. He drummed his fingers on the table.
“And the president?” the general asked.
“Has been informed and has agreed to the transfer of funds.”
“In cash?”
“In cash.”
“What in Sam Hell is happening here?” the general growled, “There once was a day not long ago that we woulda told these cut-rate terrorists to kiss our asses. When you come into a warzone, you take on the risk that you might not come back.”
He stared into Ambassador Williams’ eyes, “do you think Sid would want us to come get him? Negotiate with these bastards?”
“General, you’ve got to be kidding me,” it was the ambassador’s turn to put his hands up, “these people are surgically removing his body parts one at a time. I’m pretty sure he’s open to the idea of negotiating with them at this point.”
“Shit,” Summerton exhaled.
No one spoke for a long moment. Outside the office, they could hear the distant rumble of explosions. They weren’t as common now that the enemy had been pushed back, but there were still roadside bombs, car bombs and the occasional RPG fire. Most of that was non-casualty fire though, taking down the odd drone every now and then.
“Are we thinking sting?” the general asked after a time.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Pretty simple,” the general scratched his chin, “tracking device, follow the money, shoot the bad guys?”
“You don’t think they’ll expect this?”
“I don’t think these guys are savvy enough to see this coming,” Summerton stood, “and besides that, I don’t care what they think, once we’ve got Phillips out of harm’s way, we blow these idiots to kingdom come.”
“I don’t know, general…”
“Bill, give me twenty-four hours to get some intel on the situation,” the general headed toward the door, “See if anyone in the office can come up with somethin’ on who’s delivered these packages, where they came from, where they headed when they left. Let me do a little recon and I’ll get these bastards.”
“Okay, but at the end of 24 hours, we ransom Phillips and get him out of there.”
“You bet,” the general flashed a thumbs-up sign and a not-so-genuine grin.
“General,” the ambassador shook his head, “what would you do if they were cutting off your right hand one finger at a time.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t care,” he shrugged his shoulders and held up a hand, “I’m left-handed.
3
Intel
Troy Bodean was leaning against the front quarter panel of the General’s Humvee tamping down a new pack of Morven Gold cigarettes. Morven Gold was not his preferred brand, but it was the best he could come up with out here in the friggin’ desert. He used to smoke Winston’s but the local terrorist wannabes had started lacing them with battery acid. It wouldn’t kill you, but your lips would be scabbed over for weeks.
General Summerton slammed out through the consulate’s front door like a customer headed for a Black Friday sale. The doors crashed closed behind him and he blustered out, clearly fuming about whatever had happened inside. Troy shoved his pack of cigarettes in his pocket and slapped his hand to his forehead in a salute.
“At ease, Troy,” the General gave him a compulsory salute in return, “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’m tired of listening to all this diplomacy shit.”
“Yessir,” Troy opened the rear door of the Humvee for his passenger.
The General climbed in and Troy shut his door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and his partner, Harry Nedman lumbered into the passenger’s seat. Troy fired up the engine and stomped the clutch. Harry put his hand on Troy’s arm to stop him from shifting.
“What do you make of that?” Harry said pointing out the windshield.
A young Afghani boy stood directly in front of the vehicle holding a small box. It was slightly bigger than the ones that had been delivered earlier that month.
“Um, General?” Troy looked back at his passenger.
“What the Hell is it now?”
“I think we got another box.”
“Shit,” the General opened his door and hauled his considerable bulk out onto the dusty road, “Troy, I’m gonna get that box. You wait here and follow the kid. See where he’s come from. Copy?”
“Roger that, sir,” Troy nodded.
He watched the tense exchange between Summerton and the kid. He thought for a second that the General was going to grab him by the shirt and drag him into the consulate, but he didn’t. He took the box and held out a hand, presumably offering the kid a handshake. The boy stared blankly at the proffered hand, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He took two steps and then broke into a jog. General Summerton whistled toward Troy and nodded in the boy’s direction, get going.
<
br /> Troy mocked a salute and strode quickly after the kid. He didn’t have to run to keep up, but the brisk walk in the heat of the day had him sweating before long. He took a red bandana from his pocket and mopped his brow. Troy only took his eyes off the kid for a second, but when he returned the cloth to his pocket, he was gone. Dangit, he thought, kid must’ve known I was followin’ him. The street he found himself on was empty except for a wandering dog and an old man crouched down at the corner. The old man was rocking back and forth and humming. Troy walked up to him and held up his hands in the palms-up universal, I mean no harm gesture.
“Sir?” Troy spoke softly.
Many Afghans in the city had a passing knowledge of English. The wizened old man looked up at him. His eyes were kind and he smiled covering his face in a map of wrinkles.
“The boy?” Troy asked, “He come this way?”
The old man nodded, yes. Troy waited, but the man seemed as if that was all he was offering.
“Which way?” Troy shrugged and pointed from one direction to the other.
The old man nodded again and smiled a little bigger.
“Right,” Troy sniffed and looked around.
He glanced over at the dog, who was poking his nose into a gutter, maybe looking for a leftover snack… or dead rodent.
“How ‘bout you?” Troy jutted his chin toward the dog, “You see the kid?”
The dog, maybe a golden retriever mix, looked up at Troy then turned his head to look down the road to his left. Troy raised an eyebrow.
“Why not,” he muttered to himself and started down the street.
The dog loped up beside him and heeled perfectly along with Troy. As they walked, the street slowly became less deserted. People were mulling about, glancing only once or twice at Troy, but then turning back to their business. The city was an odd juxtaposition of hundred-year-old tradition and modern life. A woman sat outside scrubbing clothes in an old metal tub while a little girl sat beside her jabbing her finger at an iPad. Across the street, a wooden cart was piled with fresh vegetables overflowing into plastic crates below it while the man selling them spoke into a touchscreen cell phone. There were some reasonably appealing apples stacked in a pyramid and what looked like cured bacon wrapped in brown paper on the cart. Troy chose two apples and a couple of pieces of the meat. He paid the man and offered the slices of meat to the dog. Surprisingly, he took the treat gently from Troy’s hand and made quick work of the meat. He rubbed his head against Troy’s leg in appreciation and then pointed his nose farther down the street.