Twelve

by Dustin Stevens

  No amount of money was going to keep Winston from seeing the inside of a prison cell. Once inside, Manus had already worked out a couple of deals to ensure he never came out.

  Manus walked back through the cabin of the plane to Kelly’s coffin. He gazed down at the polished silver for several long minutes.

  “Sleep well my friend.”

  He fell into a chair and stretched his feet out across the aisle as the Gulfstream picked up speed and lifted itself into the air.

  “You sleep well too, Pop. It’s finally over.”

  One Hundred Four

  Despite their bruised and misshapen appearances, the Honeycutt’s were in good spirits. The terror of two nights before was behind them, replaced by a lot of rest and family time.

  The two of them had a few brief discussions about what had occurred, but neither was ready to open up yet. Heath had spoken with a staff psychologist about the possibility of them stopping by at some point. The psychologist had responded to wait at least two weeks to gain a bit of perspective before trying to cope with it.

  Both readily accepted the advice.

  Physically, Will received thirty-two stitches to close the two gashes on his arms. He was diagnosed with a concussion and told to take at least three days off before returning to work. A week off before returning to any fires.

  Heath also had a concussion. In addition, he sustained a cracked rib, two separated ribs, and a bruised sternum. He too was ordered to stay home for a few days.

  Both couldn’t have been happier with the diagnosis.

  The smell of pizza filled the air. Every so often laughter could be heard spilling through the windows, followed by Heath gasping in pain and scolding everybody for being too funny.

  His ribs weren’t up for it yet.

  Heath and Serra sat on the couch, eating from a pizza box spread open on the coffee table in front of them. Will and Jenna both sat in chairs off to the side, eating from a second pizza box.

  Each time he thought Serra wasn’t looking, Will nodded approval at his brother.

  Ever the opportunist, Maggie worked her way around the room garnering bites of pizza and mounds of hugs everywhere she went.

  In the background the Red Sox were beating up on the Yankees, though nobody seemed to care.

  Not once did the brothers speak of the incident a few nights before. Instead, they regaled the room with embarrassing stories from their childhood.

  Will got a good laugh from everyone with his rendition of the girl with the squeaky voice Heath had dated in high school. Heath brought the house down when he told of how he had once intercepted a whipped-cream bikini intended for Will.

  At exactly eight o’clock an antique Cabriolet rolled to a stop in front of Will’s house. A man with a bushy white beard and top hat emerged from it with a brief case.

  The sound of his knocking on the door stopped the laughter from inside the house cold. Will handed Maggie to Jenna as he stood and glanced over. Heath rose from the couch and crossed behind his brother.

  Using his left hand, Will pushed the door open a couple of inches. “Yeah?”

  “Is this the Honeycutt residence?” the man asked. His voice was thick with a German accent.

  “It is.”

  “This is for you.” The man presented Will with a silver briefcase, then handed him a plain linen envelope. “Good evening.”

  The man turned on his heel and went back to his car without another word.

  The brothers stood and watched until he drove away before pulling back inside.

  “What’s all that?” Jenna asked.

  Will held the briefcase to his ear and shook it. “I have no idea.” He held the card out to Heath and continued to examine the case.

  The envelope was sealed with a heavy wax imprint that broke away as a single piece. Heath slid a piece of fine linen paper from within and unfolded it.

  Dear Dr. and Mr. Honeycutt,

  I apologize for not delivering this to you in person. My status as a Duke has granted me diplomatic immunity within your country, though I have been asked to leave immediately. Despite my wishes to see that you received this gift before departing, my wife and I felt it was more prudent to do as was requested of us.

  Please know that neither of us had any idea what was going to happen when we agreed to take part and came to Portland. We were told that all fighters consented to being a part of the contest and that no lives would be lost. I guess that just goes to show how naïve we really are.

  My wife and I only became involved with these people in recent times, told that our shipping conglomerate was being used to haul luxury automobiles. It wasn’t until we were too far involved to get out that we really learned the truth.

  We have no grand illusions of our own innocence and don’t expect you to grant us forgiveness. Watching you two the other night reminded us that character and integrity are still found in this world, as is the unbreakable bond of brotherhood.

  Please accept this gift as a token of appreciation for reminding us that there is still in a place in the world for honor and courage. You have both earned every bit of it and we trust that you shall always put it to a good and proper use.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Duke and Duckess August F, Klauff

  Heath refolded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. He raised his eyes to Will, who slid aside the pizza boxes and placed the case down on the edge of the coffee table. With a deep breath he snapped open the hinges and lifted the lid.

  Inside, filling the entire the body of the briefcase, was stack after stack of one hundred dollar bills.

  One Hundred Five

  “Alright, let’s put it to a vote.”

  Bruce Carmichael leaned back in his antique leather chair and surveyed the room. Behind him, the setting sun glistened off the buildings of Cairo. The muddy brown waters of the Nile creased the city in two.

  In front of Carmichael, two brown leather couches extended perpendicular away from his desk. A glass table separated them, sitting atop an ornate Oriental rug with brown, black and white interwoven into a design.

  The walls were made of brown sandstone, with thick columns jutting out every ten feet. A collection of spears, masks, sarcophagi and assorted Egyptian artifacts lined the room in glass cases.

  “As you gentlemen know, I as Chairman of the Board do not vote. You five choose how we proceed and I act to carry out your decision.”

  Carmichael motioned to the couch on his right. “Paulo?”

  Paulo Fernando leaned forward to the edge of the couch. A thin black beard and a long black ponytail framed a thin and jaunty face. “Si.”

  Carmichael nodded and moved to the man beside him. “Gunnar?”

  Gunnar Bjarkason remained resting against the back of the couch. He peered around the back of Paulo and bobbed his thick blonde hair. “Yes.”

  Carmichael nodded again and motioned to the sofa to his left. “Liam?”

  A short, wiry man wearing a yellow shirt and tweed jacket threw a glance around the room. “I think we cut our losses here and be on our way. I vote no.”

  Carmichael studied him for a moment, then moved down the couch to a tall man with a shaved head and high cheekbones belying mocha colored skin. “Assan?”

  Assan Pengali looked from Carmichael to each of the men sitting around him. “I agree with my Irish friend, Liam. I believe we should forget the Portland incident ever occurred and resume conducting business as we always have.”

  Carmichael motioned with two fingers toward either side of the room. “As it stands right now, the vote is split at an even two apiece.”

  He turned his gaze to the man sitting in a wooden high-back chair across from him. “Seems fitting that you should be the one to cast the final vote on this one. How do you vote Mark?”

  Mark Rosner slid his glasses off the tip of his nose and polished the lenses. As he did so, every man in the room could see the heavy bruising that traced across his scalp and along the side of his
face.

  “I have to side with Liam and Assan on this one. Portland was a mess and Winston was a joke. We should let it go.”

  Wincing, he slid the glasses back on atop the still-healing scars.