Castling

by Jack McGlynn

“Not yet no. But in my defence...We have a chopper!”

  He was right, though. They did.

  “Of course we bloody well do, Rookie. How did you think we get around?”

  “I’ve been taking the shitting tube, Molly!” Rook swore with real venom.

  “Don’t make me laugh, we’ll crash.”

  “Not the first time someone said that to me today...” He recalled a needlessly elaborate fiction concocted for the taxi driver earlier, explaining away his blood stained attire.

  “Did you keep the tickets?” She asked, punching commands into her GPS.

  “What?”

  “Tickets for the Underground, you donkey! You keep ‘em?”

  “...Oyster Card...” Rook whimpered.

  “I warned you.” Molly laughed, purposely swerving the craft. Passenger safety wasn’t something she was overly concerned with. Behind her, Sabrina yelped as the port rotor dipped low. Ocean sprayed against the hull’s underside.

  Their perpetual flirtation was annoying enough without the added possibility of plummeting to a fiery death.

  “How can she afford it?” Rook enquired, blatantly ignoring the pilot’s warning not to play with assorted dials, knobs and switches.

  “You’d be surprised the kinds of things you can afford when you don’t, in fact, pay for them.”

  “That cheeky whoore. Who’d she rob then? The French? Cubans? It was the Cubans, wasn’t it?”

  Molly’s chin motioned to the dashboard. The chopper’s ancillary interface framed a red emblem with five yellow stars in its upper left. Beneath it, in embossed characters - C.A.P.

  Chinese Army of Proto-humans.

  Well, Shit.

  “I trust the both of you realize you’re working for a crazy woman, yes?”

  Intrigued, and desperate to be included in their conversation, Sabrina leaned forward, gripping the headrest of the co-pilot’s seat,

  “Shouldn’t that be ‘we’re working for’?”

  “The Boss and I have... an accord.” Rook dodged, showing herculean restraint in drawing his finger back from a red toggle ominously labelled ‘Countermeasures’.

  “Don’t listen to him Sabs!” Molly sneered, “He works for her same as us. If anything, right now, in this thriftily acquired Chinese aircraft, I have seniority.”

  “Seniority, is it?” Rook snorted, “How old are you again?”

  “Twenty Six.”

  Evidently, this was news to Sabrina.

  “Really? We’ll have to update our files. Scan for inaccuracies. We have you listed as twenty nin-”

  “Uh, that’s enough Sabs. You just sit back and enjoy the flight. There’s a good girl.”

  For a long moment, the only sound within the canopy was the consistent drone of tilting engines. Molly could almost hear the grin sneak along her co-pilot’s smug face.

  “It’s alright Mol, you don’t look a day over thirty.”

  “That’s funny coz you look just like a jerk who should shut up and go away and leave me alone and shut up.”

  “Not the first time someone’s said that to me today either...” He couldn’t actually recall a specific instance. But chances were it happened. He had a way with people.

  Still gripping his headrest, Sabrina cocked a brow and asked,

  “Mr Rook?”

  “Please, it’s just ‘Rook’ Sabrina. I’m not married.”

  “Uh ok... Can you possibly explain what you’re expecting of each of us?”

  Gripping the lever under his seat, Rook pivoted until he faced both women.

  “There’s a good possibility I can.

  You and I are going to share a few choice words with this Big Phil, during which you, Sabrina, will be at your persuasive best.

  As soon as he reveals the location of this eh, sanctuary to us, I contact Wendy. I suspect sprinting to this safe house won’t be beyond her. She’ll scour for weapons, traps, alarms, explosives, etc. I imagine Hinge might help in that regard.

  With the location scrubbed clean by the time we arrive, Molly will take you and Wendy home. And there you will wait until Lancet and I are finished...eh... what’s a good euphemism for beating the crap out of each other?”

  Molly was less than enamoured with the plan.

  “Now just a minute! You’ll need a spotter, someone covering you, watching your back. And in this exact case I suggest from an adjoining building with a rail-gun or an RPG or an atomic-”

  “No.” Rook insisted, any suggestion of humour bled suddenly from his voice.

  “It’s policy! Not the nuclear thing but-”

  “Spotters have the nasty habit of getting spotted. What I need is to focus on getting the jump on this clown. I can’t very well do that with you lot breathing down my neck!”

  Catching the indignant expressions forming around him, Rook sought to elaborate,

  “Guys, listen. Don’t think all this help goes unappreciated. I’m all kinds of appreciative. We get this done there may even be a congratulatory High Five in it for you.

  But this isn’t a few hoods in Tesco that I’ll brawl out of morbid curiosity while wrestling a hangover. This isn’t some senseless juicer who I’ll permit to bounce me off the ceiling just because I’ve never had the pleasure.

  Side-note: It’s overrated.

  This very, very bad man might just be the single most dangerous, most frightening being on the entire continent. And your sadistic employer, in her infinite wisdom, has assigned me the task of making him piss his pants.

  As you can imagine, it’s probably one of those rare instances wherein my attentions are best undivided.”

  This rationale sufficiently allayed Sabrina’s qualms. But Molly was neither meek nor inexperienced. Nor did she have the manners to simply let the subject drop.

  “You’re not good enough. You’re out of practice.”

  “I warmed up this morning.”

  “We’ve all seen your stats.”

  “The same stats Ron is currently re-guesstimating?“

  “He is going to kill you.”

  “Then you won’t have to come back and get me. Early night.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Do you like anything, Mol?”

  “Some things. Not this.”

  “Molly...” Rook began, his voice low, kindly, “I’ll be alright.... relatively speaking.”

  “Believe it or not this right here, in this general area” She angrily gestured to the wider area of her face, her right hand keeping the chopper level as it climbed, “This is my concern-for-the-mission face. Not my worried-for-the-unfathomably-conceited-egotist face. You’re asking me to trust you with a lot here.”

  “I’m not asking you to trust me with anything. The Boss is.”

  “That is a good point.” Molly conceded, pondering. Sabrina deemed this as good a time as any to remind her superior that,

  “And she’s probably not asking.”

  “That is a better point!” Molly readily agreed, calmed.

  The tension diffused, Rook reclined, scratching his elbow as he swung his feet up onto the busy console before him.

  “Well thank some assorted gods that’s settled! I was worried I’d be reduced to charming you there for a moment.”

  “I was unaware you possessed any.” A connoisseur of deception, Molly effortlessly buried her sarcasm.

  “Some, but it’s not pretty. There’s a reason I’ve not been sent to seduce Lancet.”

  “Now there’s a mental image I could have done without.”

  As the GPS chimed, the mounds and knolls of Edinburgh’s sprawl clawed free of the horizon’s blue.

  “Here we are. Any chance you can set us down close by.”

  “For someone as funny as you Rookie, I can drop you right here...”

  Rook cleared his throat. Being remarkably intelligent, Sabrina swiftly fastened her seatbelt.

  “Ok, I’ve been working on this one, so be nice... Man walks into a bar. Says ouch.”

  The engine
s cut. The chopper plummeted.

  *

  The welcoming, unexpectedly accommodating launderette worker led them up the back stairs and toward Big Phil’s office. The middle-aged lady wished them both a wonderful day and returned to the warm, churning waft of soaked fabric and washing salts. Rook shot his accomplice a wry wink and turned the handle to the boss’ office.

  Rook smiled as he stepped inside, eyes scanning the room. They didn’t have to work especially hard. There was little within the office’s four corners beyond stained wall-paper and a framed inspirational poster.

  Big Phil was short and clean shaven. Suited in navy, he reclined with a cigarette. His flat-packed Ikea desk was topped with papers and miscellaneous stationary. The cramped confines hardly suggested a criminal entrepreneur who had made his fortune off the needs of an international fugitive.

  “Mr Phil. Mind if I call you Big?”

  The balding figure answered, drawing a gun from beneath the folds of his jacket. Sabrina inhaled sharply, tensing before the revolver’s barrel. Rook brushed her behind him with a protective sweep of his arm.

  “Put down that gun, Big” Rook ordered, his voice cool and level.

  Aligning the nozzle’s sights with the intruder’s forehead, Big Phil balanced his smoke on a nearby ashtray, cupping the pistol’s grip with a second hand,

  “Why don’t you go ahead and make us?!”

  “That is a fantastic idea actually,” Rook nodded, clicking his fingers to the young woman hidden behind him. The room swam for a moment, rippled in a chemical haze. Almost instantaneously, his body burned through the concussion of pheromones.

  Markedly less resilient, the criminal in the cheap suit threw his weapon into a drawer, gesturing to the vacant seats before him. They sat. Sabrina rested her hands on her knees, relieved as the metallic slunk of a locking drawer secured the gun away. As ever, Rook lounged, legs crossed, infinitely more concerned by his returning cephalalgia than having a pistol levelled at his noggin.

  “What can I do for you two?” Big Phil asked, his face betraying a profound confusion as to why he was entertaining these intruders rather than mopping them from his floor. And walls.

  Rook replied before he could give it further thought,

  “You can give me that same address a particularly prestigious client of yours is heading toward as we speak.”

  Big Phil’s eyes widened, a suspicious glare darkening his features between heartbeats. He scratched his jowls, asking, “You’re talking about...”

  “Well unless you’ve begun servicing the entirety of the European Meta-human Task Force’s Most Wanted list, I’d imagine we’re on the same page, yes.”

  The launderette proprietor scratched behind his ear. The pheromones were taking their usual toll, but the man’s latent fear was proving tough to shake.

  “Remind me again, why I should just offer up such protected details to yourselves...” He asked, tone more imploring than defiant. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, Big Phil sensed his predicament deteriorate with each passing moment. Assailed by airborne agents, he wanted a way out, to wash his hands of the affair. Rook was happy to oblige.

  “Sabrina. Illuminate the nice man.”

  She placed her mobile on the desk and thumbed the capacitive screen. A projection triggered, an inverted cone of glittering light consuming the roof above them. Big Phil inclined his neck, drawing the blinds closed, shuttering off the creeping afternoon sunlight.

  The projection rendered a reel of CCTV footage:

  A prisoner, clad in pink, is inexplicably freed of his shackles. A half dozen prison guards argue with his liberators. Momentarily forgotten, the prisoner works the hook of his cuffs into the nearest artery. The first guard drops, clutching his spurting throat. A second buckles, neck yanked and contorted, protruding in a fatal bulge. A third and fourth stagger a moment before toppling, temples caved in by an acquired truncheon.

  The remaining four hesitate, shaken. They make the mistake of reaching for their holstered weapons instead of raising the alarm. Lancet waltzes through them. Two fingers pop a windpipe. A driving elbow cracks open a sternum. An arcing club pulps the base of a skull.

  Big Phil flinched, physically recoiling at the sight of jagged shackles whipping out. Serrated teeth eat through the final guard’s face. The footage ends doused in red, a geyser in the arid dirt of Tartarus’ main gate.

  Sabrina’s hands shook as she killed the program. Rook is going to die. The image of a well groomed inmate strolling into the wilderness blinked, fading to black.

  “But... we agreed...” Big Phil trailed before dropping his chin to his chest, the depths of his naivety striking suddenly.

  “It gets better,” Rook coughed, his eyes suddenly fixed on the man opposite. He straightened in his seat. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands before him.

  “My guess: You sent someone to meet him. Makes sense, he won’t get far in pink PJs.

  And I’m guessing you told this someone to keep you posted, keep you informed of his every step, to keep you in the loop.”

  “Are these assumptions supposed to impress me?” the suit lashed out, clenching his fist to keep his hands from trembling.

  “No Mr. Phil. They’re supposed to scare some sense back into you.

  Now I’m guessing this fella you sent did report in. Diligently. Ceaselessly. Unfailingly.

  Until suddenly he didn’t?...”

  The man’s brow flickered, a bead of sweat forming on his crown.

  “Probably has something to do with the fact you sent him into the heart of the Alps, alone, unarmed, to meet with one of the decade’s most vilified killers.

  If I were to guess, you have not heard diddly from this previously un-shut-up-able young man for nigh on two hours now. I haven’t checked the clocks myself mind, but I would guess this time coincides with his scheduled rendezvous. The rendezvous with the star of that snuff film we just watched on your ceiling.”

  Suddenly feeling as small as he seemed, Big Phil wiped at his eyes, his nylon shirt drenched in a sweat both cool and profuse.

  “And Big?” Rook’s voice thinned to a whisper as he inched forward, his rounded frame creeping across the desk, imparting dire secrets.

  “Y-Yes!” he gulped.

  “I’m not actually guessing.

  Lancet is tying up loose ends.

  He approached you because you are small time, you are inexperienced, you will not be missed. He’s just out of Tarturus, so he’s obviously got no cash. It’s a prison, for Christ’s sakes! What possessed you to even agree to this, Big?”

  The squat man tried to answer, but his throat seemed to lack the moisture for it.

  A few thousand feet up, Molly sniggered to herself. Histrionics were very hard to resist when Sabs had a target doped. And Rook was clearly having a whale of a time discovering this.

  “He is going to take your service, your clothes, your starting cash and even your safe house. And then he is going to kill you, partially because he’s an appalling human, but mainly because he’s a frugal one. It’s cheaper!

  Hell, that’s what I di... that’s what I’d do...”

  “H-he promised. He told me... he promised.” Big Phil’s composure had evaporated, leaving a naked, desperate soul bereft of hope and poise. Rook made a mental note to compliment Sabs on a job well done.

  “Don’t feel bad, Big. People lie. My own mother made some pretty outlandish claims about toys, chimneys and a fat man dressed in red. The wagon had me well and truly duped!

  It boils down to this single question. And unfortunately you have no time to think, confer, or google the answer, because I need it from you right now.

  One answer leads me to an address where I can set a trap for this butcher before he does any more damage.

  The other leads me back downstairs, where I wait patiently for Lancet to stroll into this very establishment and murder you where you sweat...

  I probably meant sit.

  True, the former is more conve
nient but either way I’ll catch him. So I don’t actually have all that much riding on your answer.”

  Big Phil forced a shell of calm upon himself, breathing deeply, marshalling his thoughts. He had been content as he was; exploiting and swindling on the small time. Then thoughts of riches and infamy had warped his common sense. Now, given the alarming alternative, he would be more than happy to return to those roots.

  “What’s the question?” the heavyset figure sighed, sitting forward in his chair, arching his fingers in a practised gesture.

  Rook smiled,

  “Right you are, Big Phil. So, would you like to continue being alive?”

  *

  Slouched in the back of the chopper, Rook pulled off his grubby t-shirt. The bruising from his morning beating had faded, merely a yellow tinge dyeing already knitted ribs. His skin was preternaturally pale, devoid of scars, acne or even freckles. Stealing unnoticed glances in her rear view mirror, the only physical blemish Molly observed was a subtle bowing of the torso. The man’s shoulders hunched forward, bunching his front. Apish, they perhaps concealed the extent of his strength.

  Rook rummaged in a backpack, finding what passed for his uniform. He yanked a tight, black top down over his head. The sleeves, hemmed in scarlet, tapered, stopping halfway down his forearms. A red harness was stitched into the fabric, around the shoulders and under the chest. Gear loops traced its outline, but Rook left them intentionally vacant. Kevlar plates had originally been weaved through the elbows, shoulders and breast but he had specifically requested they be removed.

  Rook intended to go in, unarmed and undefended. Molly had accused him of a supreme arrogance on learning this. She was, above all things, perceptive.

  “Even Hatchet packs a little heat,” the pilot argued, plunging through the Oxford skyline.

  “Yeah! A titanium tomahawk with a blood red ceramic head! I think it’s safe to say he’s doing it for effect.” Rook objected, belting a pair of similarly tailored fatigues about his hips. The pants hugged the flesh of his legs, bulged only slightly with zippers and pouches.

  “And what effect!” Sabrina noted from the co-pilot’s chair, “You notice the way he straps it to his hip? An axe like. Just casually having a swing. On his hip!”