Jack Be Nimble: Tyro Book 2

by Ben English

  The bright scatterings of color off the flowers were nothing compared to their scent. She was beginning to realize that orchids grew aggressively and at random, even in the city, apparently.

  On impulse, she speed-dialed her cousin, then remembered the time difference. Before she could cancel the call, Irene picked up.

  Mercedes started to apologize, but her cousin stopped her. “I’m still awake,” Irene said. “Needed to work a multiple autopsy, so I’m getting down with the dead. Just catalogued the stomach contents of five vics. Want to guess what they each had for dinner last night?”

  She’d obviously been up for hours. Needed a break. Mercedes played along. “Let’s see. The psychic connection between cousins tells me – Cuban food, all across the board.”

  The response took a few seconds longer than it should have. “Oh, you’re in Cuba today, aren’t you?” Irene’s voice included an odd, guarded note. “Be careful, the TV was full of all kinds of bad news today about plots against their president, threats against tourists. Bad news.”

  “That’s all the networks know how to do. Listen, you won’t believe this: the company that hired me to shoot really did a number on my reservations, really messed them up, so to make up for it they got me a suite in the National Hotel. It’s gorgeous. You wouldn’t believe the architecture here. Havana’s like…like Paris.” Irene would get that. She’d taken her husband to a forensics conference in France a few years back.

  “Well, in that case, you should really live it up.” Irene sounded tired, but happy. “A little less Lent, a little more Mardi Gras.”

  Mercedes made a noise. “I’ve got to get back on a plane tonight and fly all over Creation to track down my client. They want to see the photos in person, for some reason.”

  She went on to describe the small sliver of the city she’d seen, including the markets. “Need me to get you anything? They’ve got some incredible clothes down here. Want to get myself a Brazillian knit shirt, but I don’t think I’ve got the rear for it.”

  “Save your money, cousin,” Irene agreed, but Mercedes could recognize sarcasm when she heard it.

  “Pink and vertical, Merse.”

  “Pink and vertical, Irene.” Mercedes hung up.

  The warm, summertime smell of fresh-cut flowers spun around her in the breeze off the sea, and Mercedes felt brilliant. The ugly morning jog had been a good idea. She lingered, unwilling to end the experience. Mercedes carried a bit of cash, enough to buy flowers this morning. But no, that wasn’t a practical thought. She’d be out of the country before the next sunrise; they’d be wasted. But still.

  She made a few pictures of the first customers of the day, capturing their faces as they gingerly, eagerly moved between the rows of blooms. Mercedes recognized one young man—half of a honeymooning couple, if she remembered right from their conversation at the front desk—who was either clearly intent on breaking some sort of world record for romantic gestures, or completely out of his mind. He moved quickly through the entire stock of one vendor, filling his arms with roses, hyacinths, and mariposas until he could barely navigate, then he got down to serious negotiations for a third armful of orchids while his eyes were still on a massive bunch of heavy-headed sunflowers.

  He had the good-natured, distracted urgency of the newly-married, and she wondered if his wife was still asleep in the hotel.

  “Whoops, let me give you a hand.” She straightened the massive stack of flora, which was in the act of toppling over as he fumbled one-handedly with his money. He remembered her from check-in, and they exchanged pleasantries as she helped him count out the local currency. As she returned his change, Mercedes slipped several additional bills of her own into his wallet. More than enough to cover the flowers.

  The flower vendor saw what Mercedes had done and winked at her. When he left, the young man was barely able to see the sidewalk, let alone his feet. “Just aim towards the two towers on top of the hotel,” Mercedes suggested.

  Off he went. Her stomach rumbled, and she considered her own path back to the hotel—

  —And there it was again, that fine, pesky sensation of epiphany. She felt great, she was at peace, but there was something coming, hard and fast. Something so big it was going to knock her on her ass if she wasn’t ready by the time it found her.

  Expectancy gripped her, expectancy and the sensation that she might be just about to wake up.

  *

  Mercedes opened her eyes under her Grandma’s heavy bedspread and a mountain of flowers. Or they might have been weeds. Under normal circumstances, every adult or child given the task of maintaining a lawn considers a dandelion to be the weediest weed of all, but not today. The yellow-headed blooms covered her bed from foot to head, and as she sat up, the petals cascaded into the crevices between the mattress and frame. The volume was so great she could actually smell the buttery scent, even with the window open.

  The little bedroom at the peak of her grandparents' house was full of dandelions. For the sake of their sheer numbers and for the sake of humoring the boy who’d gathered them and piled them on her so carefully she wouldn’t wake up, she decided that today, dandelions were definitely flowers.

  She thought the boy would already be gone. Today was the beginning of the state swim meet, and he had a six-hour drive between Forge and the first race. He was usually pretty smart, but really. What was the boy thinking?

  Mercedes carefully wriggled out from under the bedspread, leaving the flowers undisturbed. Any minute now, he might appear at the top of the stairs with another armful. She quickly used the adjoining bathroom and dressed.

  At the window, she took in a great draught of morning air. Forge was good for breathing; the air had such a clean taste it almost made her lightheaded. She wondered if he parked his truck in the usual spot. Maybe she could see it, if she leaned out, just so—

  “You going to jump?” He stood in the doorway, arms full of yellow blossoms. Enjoying the view of her. The little cousins were making all kinds of racket down below; she hadn’t heard him come up the stairs.

  “I can think of one or two things worth living for.” She hugged him through the armful of dandelions, and the little cousins on the stairs behind him giggled and careened back down to the living room. “Chocolate, jazz music, lime Jello. Scrabble.” She helped him add the flowers to the enormous pile, then firmly took his hand and led him downstairs. The bed full of dandelions was giving her interesting ideas. She’d have to think about them later, when he wasn’t around.

  First floor: breakfast, chaos. She led him out to the front porch, where there were less Cheerios and naked children.

  “You should be driving already, why haven’t you left?”

  “Al’s going to drive, so I can sleep. Hey, does your tummy still hurt?” His eyes fell to her hand on her stomach, where she’d been punched.

  “I’m fine. My back hurts a bit.” She placed her hand carefully over his heart. “I wish I could come, watch you win all your races.”

  Mercedes had made a play to accompany him, but none of the adults thought that was a particularly good idea, especially since she hadn’t had time to get a new cell phone. “My dad’s going to call this morning. Then maybe I’ll drive to Lewiston. Help Irene and Diane pick out some school clothes in that three-store mashup you guys call a mall.”

  “I hope your dad feels better.” The boy leaned up against the porch railing, almost casually. His hands did something quick, and he was suddenly holding a single rose. Almost, but not quite a magic trick. It was worth another kiss.

  She kept her eyes open during, and almost laughed when she saw Irene in the window. Her cousin was studying them, completely unaware of the tiny shaping movements she was making with her lips.

  The boy saw her, too, and grinned. “How are we doing?” he asked Irene, loud enough to carry through the glass. She blushed and vanished.

  “See you in three days,” said the boy, still watching her as he walked around to the driver’s side of his
old truck.

  “Win all your races, Aquaman. Don’t hold anything back.” She followed him halfway, and put her weight against the warm metal of the truck bed. “Careful out there,” she said. “Lot of lunatics on the road today.”

  He paused a moment, but couldn’t think of anything to say, which she found hilarious. What would eventually turn into her mental photographer’s eye clicked, captured, and snapped him, and she’d always best remember him just this way: a goofy, graceless smile; the sun turning his hair copper-gold, and his eyes - his eyes were the best: ferocious, intelligent, and warm. He loved her.

  The boy got in, adjusted things, and started the engine. She didn’t move, distracted by something at the periphery of her senses. The discomfort in the pit of her stomach and both kidneys suddenly grew solid, and she gasped. She needed to throw up.

  “Jack.” But he couldn’t hear her over the truck engine.

  The boy had his sunglasses on; she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or not. She took a step toward him, leaning against the truck for support, and realized she stood in his blind spot.

  Without warning, the pain began clawing up the inside of her hip bones, skittering upward through her stomach and lungs. What was happening? It got worse with every heartbeat.

  “Jack.”

  This didn’t make sense. Her past few periods had been very heavy and painful, but she wasn’t due for another—

  WHAM! Mercedes hit her knees, breathless and gagging. Tears sprang from her eyes. It was like getting punched, hard, in the pit of her stomach, only it didn’t stop.

  Like two huge, rough stones grinding away at each other, deep inside her.

  The side of her head hit the blacktop, a minor hurt compared to everything else happening inside. Mercedes rocked into the pain. She flinched away from the rear wheel as it rolled past her face. Her mouth filled with dust.

  “Jack!” she wailed. “Grandma! Irene!” The truck pulled away and the pain stole her breath.

  Red Sky in the Morning

  Alonzo was sweaty in places that he didn’t even have names for. Sweaty, stale, and more than a little pissed off. He needed a beer.

  Despite all their preparation and planning and security briefings, despite the meticulous placement of muscular men and women in sewer tunnels, back alleys, and crawlspaces throughout the city, and even though nearly everywhere you looked you saw overdressed guys and gals in sunglasses whispering into their lapels, with odd bulges and lumps under their clothing—and this included the men, as well—the bad guys didn’t show and the inauguration went without incident.

  And here they’d gone to all the trouble of getting ready for a fight. Alonzo felt used.

  He watched the entire ceremony from the roof across the street, in hot, sweaty black Nomex, along with a handful of snipers and spotters. The street below was wall-to-wall, standing room only for blocks in either direction. Jack was down there somewhere, in a summer weight tuxedo. Alonzo fervently hoped he had to stand in the sun, too.

  The weather had cooperated, after a fashion. It was simultaneously cloudy, humid and bright. Bright to the degree that every piece of metal seemed to throw up five or six million candlepower, and humid enough that Alonzo felt the sky, felt it like it was a few centimeters above his head, bearing down like a nice warm woolen blanket that would have been perfectly welcome in Alaska in January, but since they were in wonderfully sweltering Cuba, it was a decided inconvenience. A man can’t argue with heat. It threatened to delete breathing from his list of automatic bodily functions.

  The event itself was almost a letdown, but not for the men on Alonzo’s team. They were all local shooters, hand-picked by the Tanners from the first batch of SpecWar graduates. To a man, they were all young professionals, eager to impress him. They appeared shortly before sunrise and were all in place before the crowd started to congeal. They all kept binoculars on the people below, some of whom passed through metal detectors, while others were sniffed extensively by large dogs in a rather intimate and personal manner.

  There was a brass marching band, the members of which really would have been happier marching off toward somewhere cool and dark, instead of stomping up and down the Paseo de Marti in front of the Capitolio for an extra forty-five minutes. Judged solely by their sound, they seemed to be made up mostly of horns and drums. They’d march about twenty feet, play the national anthem, then turn around and march another twenty feet. For a reason known only to the tiny pantheon of giddy, fractious gods who ruled Alonzo’s personal luck, the acoustic qualities of the street worked perfectly in conjunction with the aforementioned humidity to magnify and multiply the volume of the band’s horns onto the roof at a sound pressure level equal to two or three orders of magnitude. He’d be lucky to retain any hearing by the end of the day. There were two or three musical tones he was pretty sure he’d never hear again.

  The day wore on, the sun really got to work, and the band did not get any better.

  The nearest thing they experienced to an outbreak of violence occurred ten minutes after the appointed start time (the event didn’t actually start until a good thirty-five minutes after the scheduled start time, to give everyone involved more quality opportunity to ponder the vicissitudes of heatstroke), when the marching band was interrupted by the leader of a string quartet, also engaged for the event. Apparently, neither group felt much respect for the craft of the other, and for several seconds a pitched battle looked imminent.

  The cellist had a carbon fiber bow, and looked like she could defend herself manfully, but Alonzo’s money was on the brass band due to the advantage of sheer numbers, accumulated frustration, and, well, all that heavy brass.

  The prospect of violence was eliminated by a sudden onrush of humans. Apparently the individuals employed to control the metal detectors and crotch-sniffing dogs were contracted to work for a certain period of time. When that time passed, everyone waiting in line did as well, and quite freely. The crowd moved forward, suddenly.

  Alonzo knew he needed to act, had to make a decisive move before lethargy and the tropical swelter wrung all thought and ability from him. He quickly got on the phone with Steve, had the man scan through the street traffic cameras and cross-reference the incoming video feeds from the other intelligence-gathering organizations. “Get ready to move!” he called to his team.

  Steve forwarded him the latest downward-looking satellite images of the entire street, but to no avail. There wasn’t a single ice cream vendor in sight. “Stand down,” he told the men.

  He used his binoculars to pick out everyone he could in the mob. Allison Griffin made an appearance with the UK security team. They were guarding some baron or earl or whatever, a perfectly awful idiot who laughed loudly and long at everything the major said. She looked good, despite the heat. Perky. Alonzo held doubts she ever permitted herself to perspire.

  Each of the Tanners led a team in the Capitolio itself further down the street; he wouldn’t see them. He did see Ian briefly, looking bedraggled, headed somewhere with the FBI crowd.

  Steve was hiding behind a computer back in the air-conditioned crow’s nest, of course, and Irene was still cutting, weighing, and measuring dead body parts. Also somewhere involving artificially cooled air, he hoped.

  And there was Jack. Standing near the base of the stairs, under the podium, talking animatedly with a Hollywood type. Alonzo refocused, and yes, he was chatting up what’s-her-name, that sleepy-eyed socialite who fancied herself a rock star, an actress, and a political probability. She was a triple threat in that she was equally terrible at everything. Her signature line of mascara was running slightly in the warm air, and Jack convinced her to brush her face. The makeup smudged even more. He gave her a confident thumbs up, turned to look up at Alonzo, and crossed his eyes.

  Over to the press box…and Alonzo saw Mercedes. She was dressed for the climate, sporting a peachy, sleeveless top and pants with more pockets than any normal person needs—unless they’re a photographer. She stood beh
ind an array of mounted cameras, at least three.

  Alonzo adjusted the binoculars’ magnification. She looks fit enough, he thought, and moves like she’s been in combat. Some people were just like that.

  He watched as she bent and spoke to a little girl at the edge of the crowd. Picked up the little girl and set her on her shoulders, then returned to the camera array. A policeman approached, shaking his head, and Mercedes pointed to her press pass, now dangling on a lanyard around the little girl’s neck. Alonzo read her lips; her Spanish was workable. See, it says I’m allowed one assistant.

  Alonzo took out his laser rangefinder and measured the distance through the crowd between Jack and Mercedes. Computed for wind sheer (none, damn it) and bullet deflection due to rising heat thermals off the road (plenty, thank you very much). Calculated how many controlled bursts from his rifle over their heads it would take to clear a short, direct path through the crowd between Jack and Mercedes. Estimated the years he’d spend in a Cuban prison for discharging his firearm without good cause, and decided that lethargy was the better part of valor.

  It was very warm.

  President Miguel Espinosa was a tall guy, dark, relatively dashing, and cultivated the kind of thick, full, monumental hair that had no place on the head of a man over fifty. The hair was actually the first thing Alonzo saw as the man emerged from the thickest knot of the masses (that romantic gesture smacked of a suggestion from Jack Flynn, if anything did) , and took the stage to the accompaniment of digitally-recorded fanfare.

  The marching band and the string quartet were probably in a bar somewhere together. It was difficult to remain murderous in such heat.

  Quick speech, much applause. Espinosa announced that the Capitolio would no longer be a museum, but would once again be the acting seat of government. More applause.