You Only Live Once

by Haris Orkin

  Flynn, Dulcie, and Sancho hurried down the spiral staircase to the first floor just as a dozen commandos came bursting through the front doors. Flynn changed direction and immediately ran back up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Bullets ripped into the mahogany banister. Sancho and Dulcie scrambled to keep up. They reached the second floor and skedaddled down the corridor. The boots of the commandos echoed up the stairs as they charged after them.

  Flynn found an open door at the end of the hall. He dashed inside and motioned for Sancho and Dulcie to hurry. He slammed the door shut and lodged a chair under the knob. They could hear the commandos stampeding closer, their boots clomping down the corridor.

  Flynn quickly opened a small window, grabbed Dulcie, and pushed her through. He climbed out after her, but it was a tight fit. “Come on, Sancho!” Sancho was considerably wider than Flynn, especially in the ass department. He simply couldn’t get his butt through the window frame. The commandos pounded on the door as Flynn pulled and Sancho pushed. The pounding grew louder and Sancho couldn’t believe that his fat ass was going to be the cause of his demise. He wiggled, he grunted, but what finally propelled his posterior through the window was the sound of the door crashing open.

  Flynn pulled him free and the momentum sent them both tumbling down the slanted roof. Dulcie slid after them, skidding and bumping over the bright red tiles, right off the edge.

  Back on the dock, Mendoza mumbled some feeble explanation as Goolardo glared at him. “He drove right off the damn cliff. It was like two hundred feet down. There’s no way anyone could survive that.”

  “Yet apparently, he did,” Goolardo said.

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Well, that’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “I just thought—”

  “The man is a menace.”

  “He’s just a nutjob. A headcase.”

  “Yes,” Goolardo said. “And that’s exactly what makes him so very dangerous.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Blood covered Randall Beckner’s blue silk Guayabera shirt. He hid, on his hands and knees, beneath the long mahogany table on his veranda. Squatting beside him, looking wide eyed and terrified, was Bill Mumson of Mumson Microsystems. It was Mumson who pointed out the blood. Mumson didn’t actually say anything. He just pointed wordlessly with tears brimming in his eyes. At first Beckner wasn’t sure whose blood it was. He was too full of fear to feel any pain. And then he felt the shredded material and realized that the blood belonged to him. He was injured, but not too badly. At least he didn’t think so.

  “Is everyone all right?” he shouted.

  “You bloody asshole,” Rupert Breen yelled. He was on his belly on the far side of the terrace and he looked pissed.

  “Let’s not panic,” Lakshmi Mandar said in a panicky voice. He was crouched by the wall with a pasty-faced Warren Davis.

  “If I want to panic,” Breen said. “I’ll bloody well panic!”

  “My arm’s bleeding!” Sergei Belenki sounded like he was about to cry.

  “I’m gonna sue your bloody ass off!” Breen shouted.

  “Just stay calm,” Beckner pleaded. “Everyone just keep calm. My security force will be here any second now.”

  “Your security force is who fucking shot at us,” Quinton Blackstone barked. He hid under a portico with Richard Cook and Prince Adnan Bin Hassan.

  Beckner started to crawl out from under the table when he heard rifle fire from inside the manor house. He ducked and crawled back under. Bill Mumson was trying to tell him something. His mouth was working, but no words came out. Beckner smelled something very unpleasant. What the hell was that? And then he realized that one the richest men in the world probably just pooped his pants.

  “What I want to know,” Prince Adnan said. “Is where the bloody hell is my private security detail?”

  “They’re being detained.” Harper’s voice was calm and firm as he marched out onto the veranda with a detail of ten men, all armed with assault weapons.

  “Thank God,” Beckner sighed as he crawled out from under the table on his hands and knees and pulled himself to his feet. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we have ourselves a situation.”

  “Who’s detaining my men?” the Prince demanded.

  “That’s not really germane to the subject at hand,” Harper said.

  “What the bloody hell is happening!” Breen was on his feet and in Harper’s face.

  “Sir, back off right now.”

  “I will not back off!”

  “Back off or I will put a bullet in your face!”

  “Do you know who the bloody hell I—”

  Harper fired his weapon right over Breen’s head. The rifle’s report was staggeringly loud and Breen immediately shut his mouth and backed the hell off. He looked stunned. Confused. Terrified. “Thank you for shutting your fucking piehole, Mr. Breen!” Harper’s voice was almost as loud as his weapon. No one said a word. More automatic weapon fire could be heard inside the manor house. “If you do exactly as I say, none of you will die.”

  “Are you working for them?” The question came from Beckner. He looked hurt and horrified.

  “No, sir, I work for you. But time is running out and if we don’t end this discussion right the fuck now, you are not gonna make it. So, let’s go! Now!”

  “I need to change my pants.” It was Mumson. He was still under the table.

  Harper ignored him and shouted orders to his men. “Grab your man and move! Now!”

  The commandos swarmed across the terrace, each one grabbing a different billionaire. They all followed Harper into the manor house. Bill Mumson was the last one out. He shuffled forward slowly with his thighs squished together and said sotto voce, “I really need to change my pants.

  Dulcie was done. This whole being rescued thing just wasn’t working out. She hadn’t exactly been happy with Mike. He was abusive and mean and selfish and stupid. He was a lousy lover; clumsy and rough and only concerned with his own pleasure. He never wanted go to a movie or out to dinner. He could be condescending and just plain cruel, but she knew that Mike loved her in his own fucked up way. He kept a roof over her head, food in the fridge, and all the chronic and crystal she could do. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it was a whole hell of a lot better than being with this fucking nutjob. At least when she was with Mike she wasn’t being kidnapped by drug lords and driven off cliffs. Her life with Mike consisted of lots of boredom punctuated with brief moments of pleasure and longer moments of pain and loneliness, but at least it was predictable.

  Dulcie mulled this over as she sat in a smelly garbage dumpster with Sancho and James, hiding from Harper’s security men. The smell was worse than any stink she’d ever encountered. She gagged. Finally, it was too much. Death would be a welcome relief. She abruptly stood, straining to lift the lid.

  “Dulcie, sit down,” Flynn ordered.

  “Fuck you.” The lid fell back with a loud clank and she clambered out, falling into the dirt. She stood up, still gagging, and brushed off the garbage and maggots clinging to her dress.

  Flynn climbed out after her. “You’re right. For all we know Goolardo could already be spiriting away his targets.”

  Sancho stayed in the dumpster and said, “I’m not going fucking anywhere.”

  “Stay put then, amigo. Dulcie, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’re not a field agent either. You have neither the training nor the constitution for it. You’d be better off here with Sancho.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dulcie said.

  “Fine,” Flynn replied. “You can come with me, but only if you do exactly as I say.”

  “How ‘bout I don’t,” Dulcie said. “How ‘bout you go do whatever crazy fucking thing you want and I’ll find my own way out of here.”

  “Good thinking. That way if one of us is caught, the other still has a chance to complete the mission.”

  “Whatev
er,” Dulcie muttered. She started to walk away and then stopped. Tears filled her eyes and that only made her angrier.

  Flynn saw how emotional she was and put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re upset.”

  “No shit.”

  “I know it seems bad, but you know what Winston Churchill said about surrender?” When Dulcie expressed zero interest in Flynn’s pop quiz, he continued, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Dulcie turned her back on Flynn and angrily walked away. “Good girl! That’s the spirit. Never say die!”

  Harper and his squad escorted the billionaires down to the docks where Goolardo waited with Mendoza. Goolardo smiled at the frightened billionaires. Beckner was out in front with Harper. Breen was still furious, but kept his mouth shut. Mumson shuffled the slowest as his tighty whities carried a full load.

  “Welcome gentlemen, and thank you for interrupting your busy schedule,” Goolardo’s voice was crisp and cheerful.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” Breen asked.

  “Your kidnapper.”

  The billionaires looked bewildered. Beckner turned to Harper, his eyes full of hurt and reproach. “You sold me out!”

  Goolardo smiled at Harper. “You didn’t tell them?”

  “Didn’t want to take the time,” Harper said.

  “I think we can spare two minutes to tell them why they’re coming with me.”

  “Coming with you?” Sergei Belenki stared at the mini-sub with trepidation. “On that?”

  “Indeed gentlemen.”

  “No bloody fucking way,” Breen announced.

  “Then you’ll have to do without the antidote, Mr. Breen.”

  “Antidote?” Three of the billionaires said the word simultaneously.

  “To the bio-toxin in your system. I won’t go into detail as to how it got there. Suffice it to say, if you don’t come with me rather quickly, your chances of survival decrease exponentially.”

  Sancho felt nauseous and foolish sitting all alone in the dumpster. The tension of sitting there in the dark waiting for someone to find him became unbearable. He hadn’t heard a single gunshot for quite some time. What if everyone was dead? He lifted the dumpster lid and looked around. He didn’t hear a sound.

  “Fuck it,” he mumbled and climbed out. At first, he wasn’t sure which way to go. Finally, he decided to head for the docks. Maybe there was a loose dinghy he could jack.

  He hiked around the side of the Manor House, staying close to the landscaping so as not to be seen. Soon he could hear voices, actually one voice. A loud irritated elderly Aussie who sounded like he was about to pop a blood vessel.

  Sancho hid behind a pineapple plant and watched the showdown between Goolardo and the billionaires fifty yards away. He couldn’t actually hear what anyone was saying, just the occasional shouted curse from the angry Aussie. He looked around for guards or commandos and caught sight of James Flynn darting out from behind a banana tree. Flynn moved in a serpentine fashion, staying low to the ground, running quickly from one clump of shrubbery to the next. Like a ninja. Like a Comanche warrior. Like a mental patient. He was graceful and swift and he appeared to be making his way towards the helicopter.

  “Oh shit. Oh no,” Sancho mumbled. The chopper was parked on its helipad and there was one lone commando guarding it. The soldier wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the heated discussion on the docks. Sancho almost shouted a warning as Flynn snuck up behind the commando and put him in a choke hold, rendering him unconscious. “Oh, shit. Oh, no...”

  Sancho was already running as Flynn climbed into the Apache Attack Helicopter. What the hell was he doing? He wanted to shout to him, but he didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. He could see Flynn pushing buttons and pulling levers.

  “James!” It was a loud whisper; not loud enough for Harper and his men to hear. Unfortunately, it wasn’t loud enough for Flynn to hear either. The chopper rumbled to life. The rotor blade spun and the sound caught the attention of Harper, Goolardo, and all ten billionaires.

  Sancho finally reached the chopper to find Flynn still fiddling with the controls. “What the hell are you doing?” Sancho had to shout to be heard over the loud thwacking of the rotor blade.

  “He’s not getting away!” Flynn yelled.

  “Who?”

  “Goolardo!”

  “Dude, he’s in a submarine!”

  Flynn thought about this for a moment. “That’s a good point!”

  “Plus, you don’t know how to fly this thing!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend! I may not have flown this particular model, but—”

  “Dude!” Sancho was staring at six commandos charging up the hill for the helipad. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else!”

  “Hop in!” Flynn patted the seat next to him.

  The commandos moved as one, their faces grim, their eyes cold. Sancho had to make a split-second decision. He could die in a hail of rifle fire or crash and burn in a helicopter. It wasn’t much of a choice, and Sancho made his decision more from instinct than careful consideration. He clambered up into the copter. The commandos were less than twenty feet away. They raised their weapons.

  Sancho screamed, “Get this fucking thing out of here!” Flynn pulled back on a lever and pushed a big red button. Sancho heard a loud hiss and rush of exhaust as two sidewinder missiles were suddenly launched.

  “Oops,” Flynn said.

  The commandos hit the dirt as the missiles zoomed right at them, just missing them. Sidewinders are heat seekers and Goolardo’s luxurious mini-submarine had twin 300 horsepower turbocharged marine diesel engines. The next largest source of heat near the docks was Mendoza. Luckily for him, the engines generated a much higher core temperature. As stunned as Mendoza was, he was still able to appreciate the look of dumbfounded shock on Goolardo’s face when the two sidewinders plowed into his twenty-million-dollar submarine.

  The explosion was intense, creating a massive fireball and shockwave that knocked everyone in the immediate vicinity off their feet.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Stop them!” Harper screamed. He was on his knees, on the burning dock, pointing at Flynn and Sancho, both still sitting in the Apache Attack Helicopter. Flynn frantically flicked switches, pulled levers and mashed buttons, but even though the rotor was turning, the chopper refused to leave the ground.

  Four breathless commandos aimed their weapons at the grounded bird.

  “I almost have it!” Flynn pulled back two levers at the same time. Nothing.

  “Goddammit! We gotta go!”

  Sancho grabbed Flynn by the arm and dragged him off the chopper as assault rifles barked. They half-ran, half-fell down the other side of the helipad hill. Bullets whistled by.

  “This way!” Flynn took off into an abandoned sugar cane field and Sancho followed. There was nowhere else to go. Bullets cut through the cane, shredding it all around them. They ran as hard and as fast as they could, plunging deeper into the dense vegetation.

  Goolardo couldn’t hear a thing. He was stunned and dizzy and as angry as he’d ever been. He always had an issue with anger management. It didn’t take much to set him off and more than a dozen men had died at one time or another as a result of his inability to contain his fury, but this…this was beyond the pale. That madman would have to die, slowly and painfully. He looked at Mendoza. Was that chingado smiling? Was that pinche pendejo enjoying this?

  When Mendoza saw Goolardo’s angry glower, any hint of a smile immediately disappeared.

  The billionaires were reeling. Ears were ringing. Some were on their knees. Others were staggering aimlessly or on the ground.

  Sergei Belenki started to cry. “Are we gonna die?”

  Bill Munson clutched his stomach. “I’m a little nauseous.”

  A discombobulated Richard Cook agreed. “I feel rather punk as well.”

  “It’s Anthrax, isn’t it?” Belenki blurted. He staggered
towards Goolardo. “You infected us with Anthrax!”

  Goolardo saw Belenki moving his mouth, but all he heard was a faint ringing. The sound gradually grew stronger and behind it he heard a mumbling crowd; a muffled jumble of voices. The voices grew more distinct as the ringing receded. Rupert Breen’s voice was the first to cut through the indistinct blabber. “I am really starting to lose my bloody patience!”

  “I’ve lived through a lot worse than this,” Quinton Blackstone said. “I survived a hotel fire by hanging out a third-floor window by one hand…for fifteen minutes! So, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let this little son of bitch kill me!”

  “What?” Breen asked.

  “This little son of a bitch!” Blackstone pointed at Goolardo.

  “We’re all going to die here,” Belenki whimpered.

  “What?” Breen repeated. He was still suffering the effects of the explosion and hadn’t yet regained his hearing.

  “We’re all going to die!” Belenki yelled into Breen’s ear.

  “Is it Ebola?” a pasty-faced Beckner asked Goolardo. “Is it botulism? What did you infect us with? Viral hemorrhagic fever?”

  “What does it matter now?” Goolardo said. “That stupid asshole sunk my submarine!”

  “What?” Breen shouted.

  “I was going to take you to the antidote!”

  “Take us to what?”

  Warren Davis helped up a stunned and bleeding Ingvar Knudson and said. “Why don’t we fly?”

  “Yes!” Belenki was ecstatic. “We can take my custom 767! It’ll easily hold everyone!” Goolardo nodded and smiled, “You gentlemen humble me. You’re all professional problem solvers and just like that…problem solved.” He turned to Belenki. “Is your pilot on the plane?”

  Belenki nodded enthusiastically. “That’s where he sleeps.”

  Harper stepped forward. His uniform was torn, but he didn’t seem the slightest bit rattled. “If you gentlemen want to come with me, I’ll take you to the runway.” He stepped closer to Goolardo. “But first I have a question for your kidnapper.”