You Only Live Once

by Haris Orkin

  “Yes!” Flynn said, but Dulcie shook her head no. “Dulcie, it’s okay! We don’t have to maintain our cover! They need to know the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?” Harper asked.

  “I told you! What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

  “You wanna calm down, sir?”

  Flynn started to rise and one of the commandoes forced him back down.

  “He’s telling you the truth!” Sancho said.

  “He’s a secret agent with her Majesty’s Secret Service?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “He has a license to kill?”

  “Well, no, but the part about the kidnapping, that’s totally—”

  “Are you a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”

  “No, dude, just listen to me—”

  “You have no identification. Nothing. Just a cockamamie story about some drug dealer. For all I know you could be al-Qaeda. Or Isis. Or Hezbollah…”

  “al-Qaeda?” Sancho almost laughed. “Look at me, man! I’m from East L.A.!”

  “Quite a few terrorist types are coming across the border, passing themselves off as Mexicans,” Harper replied.

  “We have no weapons,” Flynn pointed out. “If we were terrorists, wouldn’t we have weapons or explosives or—”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you’re trying to play us. Make us think you’re on our side, so we let our guard down and you can use our weapons against us.”

  “Are you out of your bloody mind?” Flynn asked.

  Harper focused on Dulcie, who hadn’t yet said a word. “Sweetheart, I know you want to tell me the truth.”

  “We have been!” Flynn shouted. “Why won’t you listen to me!” He jumped to his feet and the armed guard pushed him back down, but this time not so gently.

  Harper stood, put both hands on the table, and got in Flynn’s face. “Why won’t I listen to you? Because you’re not making any sense! The security on this island is tighter than a nun’s pussy, pardon my French, ma’am. Angel Island is impregnable. We got radar, we got gun boats, Apache helicopters, anti-aircraft guns. A mouse can’t fart within ten miles of here without me knowing. It just ain’t possible.”

  “You can’t defeat Goolardo with conventional weaponry. He’s using highly-advanced top-secret technology.”

  “What kind of technology?”

  “It’s top secret.”

  “So, you can’t tell me.”

  “No.”

  “How ‘bout a hint?” Harper smirked at one of the guards.

  “Do you think this is a joke?”

  “No, Mr. Flynn, I do not. How about I contact Her Majesty’s Secret Service and see if they know who you are?”

  “They will disavow any knowledge of me. It’s standard procedure. I’m a double O.”

  “So, you can’t prove who you are and nobody else can either. We are gonna be attacked by some Mexican drug dealer using cutting-edge top-secret technology that you can’t tell us about. Does that pretty much sum it up?”

  Flynn bolted to his feet, angry, frustrated. “He’s not Mexican.”

  Harper looked at one of the guards and he grabbed Flynn from behind. A sap somehow appeared in Harper’s hand. He brought it down hard on Flynn’s collarbone. Flynn grunted and the guard shoved Flynn back into his chair. Harper was about to hit him again, when Sancho stood up to stop him. The guard slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Sancho’s head. Sancho fell to the floor. Dulcie was horrified.

  “I have boys here who worked in Iraq,” Harper said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Contractors. Interrogators. They aren’t as gentle or understanding as I am. They’ve worked with terrorists and know what it takes to make ‘em talk. So, you either stop fucking around with me, pardon my French, ma’am, or you three are gonna find yourselves in a world of hurt.”

  “All right,” Sancho said. He was still on the floor. “We didn’t tell you everything, ‘cause some of it might make you think that some of us are…you know…a little crazy or something.” Harper nodded to a guard and he pulled Sancho to his feet and planted him back in his chair.

  “Go on.”

  “Sancho, the man doesn’t have a high enough security clearance,” Flynn whispered. “You can’t just tell him—”

  “You shut up,” Harper said. “Or I’m gonna shut you up! You understand me, boy?”

  “I work in a mental hospital in L.A. I’m an orderly. Flynn was one of the patients.” Harper glanced at Flynn. Flynn wouldn’t meet his gaze. Sancho’s explanation came out in a rush. He talked as fast as he could to fit it all in before Harper could cut him off. “He escaped and carjacked me and we found Dulcie, who was also a mental patient. And her boyfriend kicked Flynn’s ass and he stole a bunch of cash, and then later we kicked his ass.”

  “Who’s ass?”

  “The boyfriend’s ass. But the money wasn’t his. It belonged to some vato named Kursky and Flynn thought he had Q.”

  “Who?”

  “Another patient. But he didn’t and he caught us and then his boss thought Flynn knew about his plan.”

  “Who’s boss?”

  “Kursky’s boss. Goolardo.”

  “Flynn knew about his plan?”

  “No, he thought he did.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No, it turns out he did. But not the plan he thought he had. He had a different one.”

  “Who? Kursky?”

  “No, Goolardo. So, he tried to kill us and we got away and stole a fishing boat because Flynn wanted to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “The plan!”

  Harper stared at Sancho. He looked at Dulcie. He scratched his chin.

  “I’m gonna take a piss, grab some coffee and have a cigarette.” Harper backed for the door. “Then I’m gonna get the boys I was telling you about. Those interrogators who know how to make terrorists talk. They’re gonna get you to stop fucking with me. Pardon my French, ma’am.”

  Harper nodded to a guard. He opened the door and Harper and the four guards left, locking the door shut behind them.

  Flynn looked at Sancho. “Good try, but I don’t think he bought it. That whole mental hospital cover just may be a little too hard to swallow.”

  “What did he mean about bringing in boys who know how to make terrorists talk?” Sancho asked.

  “They’re going to torture us.”

  “T-torture us?” Dulcie’s voice grew tight with fear.

  “No matter what they do to us, we can’t reveal the existence of Q’s mind control technology,” Flynn whispered. “We don’t know who we can trust and who we can’t. It’s likely, in fact, that this room is wired for sound.”

  Dulcie looked like she was about to cry. “Jesus fucking Christ! This is so…fucked up.”

  “Why would they torture us?” Sancho was beside himself. “We can’t tell them anything!”

  “My point exactly,” Flynn said.

  “Fuuuuuuck.” Sancho sat down on a chair. With his wrists Flexi-cuffed together, Dulcie watched as Flynn had to contort himself to reach into his inner jacket pocket. He retrieved his silver laser pointer. “Luckily, they neglected to confiscate this. They must have thought it was harmless.”

  “What is it?” Dulcie asked.

  “A laser pointer,” Sancho said listlessly.

  “Shhh,” Flynn whispered. “It looks innocent, but, in fact, houses an ultra-high-intensity laser. It’s one of Q’s most ingenious creations. A CO2-based terawatt laser that breaks new ground in axial flow resonator design.” Flynn turned it on and aimed the red beam at the metal door. He slowly moved it across the brushed aluminum surface, tracing a square big enough for him to step through.

  Dulcie sighed and looked at Sancho, who wasn’t even paying attention to what Flynn was doing. “I don’t understand it,” Flynn whispered.

  “You and me both,” Dulcie said.

  “It doesn’t seem to be penetrating the metal. This door must be constructed out of some sup
er-anodized titanium steel alloy.”

  Dulcie’s eyes filled with tears as Flynn stubbornly continued to shine his laser pointer on the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Randall Beckner crossed his colossal terrace and admired the magnificent terrazzo floor that reflected the natural environment of the sea, the sun, and the sand. Imbedded in the floor were native shells, slivers of sea glass, semi-precious stones gathered from the beach, and hand-painted ceramic tiles. The terrace extended off the east side of the manor house and overlooked the small harbor and the Sea of Cortez. There were fruit trees and flower beds and a five-foot-tall burbling fountain made of granite and copper. The bright early morning sun was partially shaded by the long white pergola that covered half of the veranda. Below it was a long, glass-topped table made of teak surrounded by chairs filled with the butts of billionaires. The table was laden with platters of indigenous fruit, pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice, bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and silver carafes steaming with dark, Mexican coffee. Small Mexican servants wearing white flitted about unobtrusively, serving the billionaires their preferred breakfast foods.

  Eighty-three-year-old media mogul, Quinton Blackstone, looked with horror upon Richard Cook’s full English breakfast. “What the hell is that?”

  “Poached eggs, baked beans, smoked kippers, black pudding, and a bit of bubble and squeak,” Cook said as he cut into a kipper with relish.

  “Those runny eggs and beans are bad enough,” seventy-nine-year-old Warren Davis said. “But those little kipper fish are fricken’ scary-looking. And what the hell’s black pudding?”

  “It’s coagulated pig blood,” Rupert Breen chuckled. “Mixed with fat, suet, barley, and oatmeal. It’s an English delicacy.”

  “Also known as an oxymoron,” joked fifty-one-year-old Prince Adnan Bin Hasan.

  “Well at least the English don’t eat that nasty Vegemite,” Cook said. “That’s strictly an Australian delicacy.”

  Sergei Belenki, at thirty-five, the youngest member of the group, munched on a breakfast burrito and asked, “What is vegemite exactly?”

  “A brownish, salty paste made from brewer’s yeast and mashed marsupials,” Cook replied.

  Warren Davis laughed and tucked into his blueberry pancakes.

  “It’s no worse than that nasty Marmite,” Lakshmi Mandar added. The fifty-eight-year-old info-tech king, currently residing in London, unfolded his napkin.

  “I think we need to stop teasing Sir Richard about his breakfast,” Davis said. “He needs to keep his strength up if he’s going make another attempt to circumnavigate the globe by hot air balloon.”

  Most of the billionaires laughed, including Cook.

  “Yes,” Breen said. “Don’t let us put you off your bubble and squeak. A man with your death-defying hobbies needs all the energy he can get.”

  “So does a man married to a hot wife fifty years his junior,” Cook cracked.

  “Guilty as charged.” Breen smiled with satisfaction. “My dear Natalie has perfected the art of making an old man happy. Not an easy task.”

  “I would agree with that,” Quinton Blackstone mumbled.

  Warren Davis chuckled. Sergei Belenki checked his Blackberry.

  Eighty-something Ingvar Knudson, the Swedish born real estate tycoon, didn’t crack a smile. He did, however, crack the top on a single boiled egg. Like Warren Davis, and seventy-nine-year-old Hong Kong Billionaire, Li Chu Young, Ingvar was a man who lived modestly. He drove a fifteen-year-old Volvo and only traveled economy class. Davis lived in the same house in Kansas City that he bought in 1958 for thirty-two thousand dollars. Li Chu Young favored cheap shoes and plastic watches. He was the tenth richest man in the world since the death of Canadian Kenneth Thomson, the baron of Fleet Street.

  Software mogul Bill Munson poked at his eggs. “These seem a little runny.” He tapped Li Chu Young on the shoulder. “Do these seem a little runny to you?” The Hong Kong business man shrugged as Munson handed the plate to one of the Mexican servants. “I think these are a little runny.”

  Randall Beckner smiled at his assembled guests. He wore perfectly pressed chinos and a blue, silk, Guayabera shirt. He was tall and slim and slightly balding. As the President of Beckner International, he was the fifth richest man in the U.S., and the seventh wealthiest in the world. He approached the head of the table and one of the Mexican servants pulled out his chair. But he didn’t sit; he just stood there, smiling down the length of the table.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to day three at Hacienda Del Beckner. I trust you all slept well?” Three billionaires nodded, three smiled, one frowned, and three didn’t pay any attention at all. “We have a lunch meeting at 1:00 p.m. with the head of the Federal Reserve. Before then, may I suggest some snorkeling or tennis or, for those less athletically inclined…” Beckner clapped his hands and half a dozen stunningly beautiful Asian women walked out onto the terrace in single file. “Direct from Phuket, six of Thailand’s most accomplished masseuses, expert in Shiatsu, Swedish, and exotic Tantric techniques.”

  Sergei Belenki grinned. Bookish and bespectacled Bill Munson looked like a startled deer, staring into six very bright headlights. “Are we talking happy endings here?” Quinton Blackstone queried.

  “Gentleman, you are the authors of your own destiny, so the ending is entirely up to you,” Beckner said. “Our hacienda spa also offers an astonishing Fig and Cassis Body scrub, a detoxifying hot tub, chakra balancing, and the very latest in aromatherapy.”

  “For those who believe in that sort of bullcrap,” Warren Davis said.

  “Exactly,” Beckner replied. “But then one man’s bullcrap is another man’s belief system.” Beckner was about to sit down to breakfast when he noticed Harper standing by the entrance to the terrace. “Excuse me, gentleman. I have something to attend to. I promise you, I’ll be right back.”

  As the billionaires buttered their various types of toast, Beckner crossed over to where Harper stood.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Harper said. “But about last night…”

  “More lost fishermen from San Felipe?”

  “No, sir. Actually, the trespassers claim to be U.S. citizens.”

  “Lost?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “So, what are they doing here?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out, sir. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

  “Can you do something else for me, Harper? Can you figure out a way to do your job without making such a goddamn production out of it? That helicopter woke up not only me, but most of my guests.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That kind of commotion makes my guests nervous. Which is exactly the opposite of what I’m striving for here. If they’re not relaxed and open, they can’t be creative, innovative and inspired. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “I think we’re done here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harper started to salute, caught himself, and nodded curtly before turning on his heel and heading off. Beckner returned to his guests and his breakfast. When he saw that the masseuses were still standing there, smiling awkwardly, he clapped twice and motioned for them to go. As they filed away, Rupert Breen caught the eye of the tallest of the tiny beauties. He waved at her with a baby banana while Bill Munson carefully sniffed a piece of pineapple.

  Flynn heard someone approach the holding cell door. He quickly turned off his laser pointer and slid it into his back pocket as the door clanked open and Harper walked inside. He was followed by four hulking commandos and a squat muscular man in camouflage pants and a tight black t-shirt. The muscular man carried a nasty looking stun baton. It was black and thick and eighteen inches long. The short muscular man flicked a switch on its base and six electric arcs danced around, crackling with a flickering blue light that filled Dulcie with terror.

  “Mr. Dugan is carrying an Omega Star Warrior Bat
on,” Harper said. “It delivers a charge of one hundred and fifty thousand volts. Now, I’ll give you one more opportunity to come clean, Mr. Flynn. The only question you need to ask yourself is how much pain do I want to suffer? Personally, I don’t like this kind of thing. I prefer less brutal methods of interrogation. But Mr. Beckner is not a patient man.”

  “I’ve been worked over by the best, Mr. Harper. I’ve been stripped naked and tied to a bottomless chair and beaten about the scrotum for hours. I didn’t talk then and I won’t talk now. I’m here to help to you. If you can’t see that then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Harper looked at the man in the camouflage pants. “All right, Mr. Dugan, let’s get it done.”

  A commando took each of Flynn’s arms and forced him into a chair. A third soldier produced a roll of duct tape and wound it around Flynn, fastening him tight.

  “Let him go!” Dulcie screamed. She stepped forward to stop them and Dugan blocked her with the stun baton. The arcing electricity crackled less than an inch from her frightened face.

  “Sit down!” Harper ordered. Dulcie immediately sat on the floor, cowed and docile. Sancho watched sadly from his chair. There was nothing he could do either, and he knew it.

  “Mr. Harper,” Flynn’s voice was firm and not the least bit afraid. “When you finally realize that all I’ve been trying to do here today is help you, you will feel quite foolish.”

  Flynn’s scream reverberated off the walls, high-pitched and raw. After five

  seemingly endless seconds, Dugan pulled back the baton and Flynn’s head slumped forward, his body shaking and twitching involuntarily.

  “You’re killing him!” Dulcie screamed.

  “No, lassie, I’m simply encouraging him,” Mr. Dugan countered. He had an Irish accent and that, combined with his tiny size, created the impression of a sadistic leprechaun. “The electricity is overwhelming Mr. Flynn’s natural nerve impulses, causing his muscles to contract at an insane rate of speed. This instantly converts his blood sugar to lactic acid, causing intense pain and muscle cramping. He’s disoriented and more passive as you can see, but he’s in no danger, unless of course he has a heart problem.”