Krystal suddenly starts snoring, interrupting me from my thoughts. The trashy reality TV show she had been watching just moments before is still blaring out of the sides of her visor. I wave my hand, causing the volume of the show to drop a good twenty decibels. I seriously cannot stand Krystal’s trashy reality shows. They drive me up the wall with their idiocy.
A sudden sea of weariness descends upon me. My eyes flutter as I struggle to stay awake. My eyes finally close and I doze off for a few seconds. It might have even been a few minutes. I’m not exactly sure, but my eyes fly back open when a rugged, calloused hand grips my shoulder.
I instinctively grab a knife strapped to my leg and spin around in my chair. Grenade steps back and removes his right hand. His metallic left arm hangs limply at his side. It’s a good thing he didn’t grab my shoulder with that hand. He probably would have dislocated it.
An amused smile creeps across Grenade’s scarred, battle-weary face. His lit cigar dangles between his clenched yellow teeth. “Didn’t mean ta startle ya, kiddo. Just checkin’ on ya,” he says in his gravelly, raspy voice. His robotic eyes glow fiery red, adding a demonic quality to his already intimidating presence. If I was a crime lord and I knew Grenade was coming after me, I’d blow my own brains out to save myself the terror of having to look into those sinister eyes as he prepares to gut me. Rumor has it that’s Grenade’s favorite way of dispatching his victims, especially serial rapists and sex traffickers.
“It’s okay, Grenade. I was just resting my eyes,” I say, sheathing my blade.
Grenade nods, takes his cigar out of his mouth, and blows a cloud of smoke into the air. I cover my mouth to muffle my coughs. I’m almost positive Grenade got his raspy voice from decades of smoking like a chimney and chugging hard liquor like it’s water. It’s a wonder he hasn’t already expired from alcohol poisoning or lung cancer. Although I guess I can’t really blame him for not being too concerned about his health. I suppose if I spent four decades hunting down murderers, rapists, and drug kingpins, all the while avoiding assassins hired to take me out, I’d probably guzzle tequila by the gallon as well.
Grenade leans against the back wall of the cockpit and crosses his arms. His metallic limb gleams under the cockpit’s harsh white light.
“So how you holding up, kid?” Grenade asks, his red eyeballs glowing ominously.
“I’m okay, I guess,” I reply with a shrug. “Just tense about the mission. So much is at stake.”
“This ain’t nothing, kid,” Grenade says dismissively. “It’ll be a piece of cake compared to some of the missions I’ve had to endure. Hell, it’ll be a piece of cake compared to half the shit you and your buddy Lance have done over the years. Especially that little adventure you guys had up in Alaska. I’m still pissed you guys didn’t invite me, you know. That woulda been a helluva time.”
“You are a strange individual, you know that? Most people don’t enjoy getting shot at, but you seem to thrive off of it.”
“I just like action, that’s all.” Grenade points his cigar toward the windshield. “So whaddaya see?”
I spin around in my chair and lower my visor, granting me a birds-eye view of everything the mosquito is capturing with its miniature video camera. I glance at the dozen or so flying cars and helicopters sitting on the top deck. We’re definitely going to need to sneak in and out without being seen. Otherwise we could have a repeat of what happened in Sanctuary 7; a mile-high chase through the sky.
“There are a handful of people still up on deck, but most of Blackbird’s goons have gone to bed,” I say. “We should be able to commence with the mission shortly.”
“It’s a helluva thing, ain’t it?” Grenade asks, almost as if he didn’t hear anything I just said.
“What is?” I inquire.
“The ship,” Grenade says in his gravelly voice, still jabbing his lit cigar toward the windshield. “The fact that it flies. Who woulda thunk they could get something that massive up in the sky? Who you think built it? That Exodus guy?”
I nod. “Jeremiah Exodus, yes. The bane of the civilized world’s existence.”
Grenade scoffs. “Ain’t much of this world that’s civilized, but I get your point. Things would be a helluva lot better without that lunatic selling his hi-tech weapons to the highest bidder.”
I continue nodding. Jeremiah Exodus, arguably the most dangerous man in the world. He is known by many names. The Shadow… Mr. Armageddon… The Archangel of Death…. Some people even call him Leonardo Da Vinci reincarnated, due to his morbid fascination with designing horrific weapons of war. (Da Vinci wasn’t just known for his paintings, you know.) For the past two decades he has been selling his futuristic weapons and flying airships to America, China, Bavaria, and everyone in between, including drug kingpins, terrorists, warlords, you name it. In the process he’s made untold billions, nearly rivaling Blackbird himself in terms of accumulated wealth. The guy has made more money off of the deaths of more people than anyone in modern history. If Klaxton had gotten her way and managed to trick China into a never-ending Orwellian world war, Exodus would have been the one to benefit the most. His nomad empire of followers (consisting of war-hungry engineers, scientists, mobsters, and assassins) call themselves ‘Shadowland’, and it’s a fitting name, considering the entire world is darkened by their ‘shadow of death’. With his slender build, golden locks, icy blue eyes, and intense charisma, Exodus is also considered something of an international sex symbol. He’s the most mysterious, desired, sought after man on the planet, yet few have ever seen him in person. The man might as well be a ghost. And maybe one day Lance, Krystal and I will hunt the son of a bitch down and turn him into a real apparition. I find it appalling that one man has the ability to propagate unending war simply by selling his weapons of mass destruction so he can live a life of unimaginable luxury. I believe in my heart of hearts that if Exodus were out of the picture, the world wouldn’t be nearly as fucked up as it currently is. But the ‘Exodus’ problem will have to wait. Right now we have more immediate concerns, namely nabbing one of Exodus’ biggest and most affluent clients.
Lance barges into the cockpit, reeking of marijuana and alcohol. He nearly trips over his own feet, and the only thing preventing him from smacking his forehead against the control panel is Grenade’s metallic left hand, which grips Lance’s right arm and yanks him back.
Lance winces and clutches his forearm. “Damn Grenade, you nearly snapped my arm off.”
Grenade flexes his cyborg hand. “Sorry kid. Sometimes I forget my own strength.”
Lance takes another sip of his beer and slurs, “So what’s the hold up? We gonna go get Blackbird or not? It’s Christmas morning, for Christ sake. Do you guys really wanna spend the holiest day of the year floating off the coast of Antarctica?”
“Oh shut up, Lance, you’re not even religious,” I snap. “Holiest day of the year,” I mutter in derision. “You’ve probably never even cracked open a Bible.”
Lance scoffs and says to Grenade, “What crawled up her ass?”
Grenade yanks Lance’s beer out of his hand and downs the entire can before crumpling it in his metal hand. “She’s pissed that you went and got wasted right before the most important mission of your life.”
“Hey man, you’ve been drinking, too,” Lance says, sounding like a petulant child.
Grenade’s eyeballs glow brighter than usual as he replies, “Yeah, but I can handle it a lot better than you can, chump. Now sober up and get ready.”
Grenade yanks a bottled water out of the fridge and shoves it in Lance’s face. Lance disgruntledly grabs the bottle and takes a few sips.
Grenade glances at me and quietly asks, “How long has he been like this?”
“He started drinking and smoking like crazy almost as soon as we returned from Alaska. But that…”
I point at the scars on Lance’s left arm, signaling his newfound addiction. They’re just barely visible beneath his long sleeves, which are halfway rolled up at th
e moment.
“… that started about a month and a half ago.”
Grenade scowls as he takes a gander at Lance, who is currently slouched against the back of the cockpit, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“If it’s only been a month and a half, then he ain’t too far gone,” Grenade says. “Once we’re done with all this shit, we’ll work on getting him better again. I sure as hell ain’t about to watch someone else I care about fall into the cold, unforgiving chasm of addiction.”
Grenade has no idea how much his gruff words mean to me. The fact that someone else sees what I see… that Lance has a serious problem…. It makes me feel like I’m not alone. And really, that makes all the difference.
Grenade glances at the holographic clock in the back of the cockpit and says, “It’s after 3:00am. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Are you sure we should go in now?” I ask hesitantly. “There are still people on the top deck.”
“Yeah, I know. I can see them from here with my magic eyeballs,” Grenade says, pointing at his glowing eyes. “There are seven drunk, half-naked jackasses in the Jacuzzi, four men and three girls. Everyone else appears to have gone below deck. Now we can wait until those jackasses go to bed, which could be 6 in the morning for all we know, or we can strike now, while most of the ship is incapacitated in a drunken stupor.”
“What do you want us to do then?” I ask. “Shoot everyone in the Jacuzzi?”
Grenade sneers. “That would be my recommendation, but I know how squeamish you get about taking out unarmed targets. So let’s compromise. We’ll dispatch of them with this.”
Grenade whips out a small black sphere with blinking blue lights.
I return Grenade’s devilish smirk. “Knock-out gas. Nice. What about the guards in the watch towers, though?”
Grenade gazes at the cruise ship way off in the distance, no doubt utilizing the telescopic function of his freaky yet effective cyborg eyeballs. “Yeah, I see em. Two guards on opposite sides of the ship. Although I wouldn’t exactly say they’re guarding anything. They both appear to be as shit-faced as the occupants of the ship. The guard in the right tower is guzzling down boxed wine while watching one of those stupid trashy reality shows Krystal seems to like, and the other moron appears to be pleasuring himself to hardcore porn.”
I stick out my tongue. “Ew, gross!”
Grenade chuckles. “Hey, what else you gonna do on Christmas Morning when half the world’s asleep? I can’t blame the buffoons for being so lax about their job. Nobody in their right mind would attack a ship off the coast of Antarctica during the wee hours of the anniversary of Jesus Christ’s birth.”
“Nobody but us, that is,” I correct him.
Grenade’s grin widens. “I said nobody in their right mind, didn’t I?”
Grenade smacks Lance upside the back of his head with his non-robotic right hand. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. You can sleep off your hangover later.”
Lance stumbles forward and curses as he rubs the back of his head. “Alright, I’m awake. Jeez.”
Grenade hovers over Krystal, who is still slouched down in her chair, snoring up a storm. Grenade clutches her nose with his right hand, cutting off Krystal’s air supply. Seconds later Krystal starts thrashing around like crazy.
“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy son of a bitch!?” Krystal screams, leaping to her feet and pushing Grenade away from her. “You almost killed me!”
“I don’t almost kill people. If I want someone dead, I kill them. Now get your ass ready, we’re going in.”
Krystal glares at Grenade with her beady little eyes for a few seconds before focusing her wrath on me. “Why the hell did you bring that crazy old motherfucker along, anyway? He’s bat-shit crazy!”
“Um, excuse me, you and Lance were the ones going on and on about how awesome it would be bring him along,” I remind her.
“Y’all know better than to listen to my crazy ass,” Krystal says, adjusting her lopsided wig. “I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about half the time.”
“Admitting your flaws is the first step toward fixing them,” Lance says in jest.
Krystal responds by smacking him upside the back of his skull, prompting Lance to once again curse and clutch his head.
Krystal, Lance and I slide our visors on so we can see what’s going on inside the ship via our mosquito’s all-seeing electronic eye. Grenade doesn’t need to wear a visor, obviously, since his eyeballs are already connected to the internet.
“So what’s the best way to take out the guards?” Lance asks, gesturing toward the guard towers. He pulls out a handgun and cocks it before adding, “I could probably take them out from here.”
“Please, your drunk ass couldn’t take out those guards from five feet away, let alone five miles away.”
Lance glowers at me. “I’m not drunk. I just had a few alcoholic beverages to calm my nerves.”
“Yeah, and you also smoked a shit-ton of pot, and you’re still doing this.”
I grab Lance’s left arm and pull up his sleeve, revealing his heroin track marks. Lance rips his arm from my grasp and pulls his sleeve back down, proving to me that he’s not proud of his addiction. That’s actually a good sign. Maybe Grenade is right; maybe Lance isn’t too far gone. Not yet, at least.
Lance opens his mouth to say something, but Grenade steps in front of him and snaps, “Both of you shut up. We don’t have time for another one of your lover’s quarrels.”
My mouth drops open in disgust. “A lover’s quarrel?! Are you out of your freaking mind?! Lance and I are not lovers.”
“You sure fooled me when you two were moaning and groaning in your bedroom two weeks ago,” Krystal quips with a mouthful of chips.
I stare daggers into Krystal’s skull before focusing my fury back on Grenade.
Grenade puts his rugged right hand up and gruffly says, “Back to the task at hand, what do you wanna do about the guards? Unlike Lance, I actually could take them out from here. Want me to try?”
Grenade cocks his massive, gleaming machine gun (it’s literally twice as big as a regular-sized machine gun) and grins, revealing his disgusting, yellowed teeth.
“Er, thanks for the offer, Grenade, but let’s go another route. I think we should get our money’s worth from our expensive mosquito.”
Grenade nods and continues flashing his toothy grin. “Good idea. It’ll save my ammunition.”
I’m not sure why Grenade is worried about preserving his ammunition when his ginormous gun probably holds a thousand bullets, but whatever.
I turn back to the cruise ship and telepathically take control of the mosquito, which is still in the process of whizzing through the ship’s inner corridors, taking a head-count of Blackbird’s goons (so far it’s counted over 300). With the help of my visor I navigate the mosquito back up on deck and send it hurtling toward the guard tower on the right side of the ship. The mosquito zooms inside the guard tower, lands on the oblivious guard’s forehead (he’s still chugging down his boxed wine), and zaps the hapless moron with a barrage of electricity. The guard drops his wine and starts spazzing out in his chair. A few seconds later the mosquito lifts into the air and the guard collapses onto the floor in a smoldering heap.
Grenade cackles jovially and claps his hands together, no doubt using the telescopic function inside his robotic eyes to watch all the action.
“Ho-boy, that was fucking awesome. I might have to invest in one of those mosquito thing-a-ma-jigs. Is the guard dead?”
“No, I lowered the voltage,” I reply, tilting my head and sending the mosquito hurtling toward the guard tower on the right side of the ship. “He’s just unconscious.”
I notice Grenade staring at me out of the corner of my eyes.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing,” Grenade says, staring back out the windshield. “I just hope you realize we may have to shed a little blood in order to nab Blackbird.”
“I’
m quite aware of that,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m not some pacifist wallflower, you know. I’ve killed before, and I’ll no doubt kill again.”
I catch Grenade out of the corner of my eyes again, this time throwing a look at Lance. Does he seriously think I’m going to hesitate pulling the trigger if our lives are in danger? Just because I prefer not to murder every dumbass criminal I come across doesn’t mean I won’t blow someone’s brains out if the need arises. I hate how Grenade and Lance treat me like some fragile little girl who’s afraid to get her hands bloodied. I’ve probably killed twice as many people as Lance has! (Not that that’s something to brag about.)
World War Forever (Highway To Armageddon Book 2) Page 12