Highfire

by Eoin Colfer

  “We seen that on TV,” said Bodi. “You kicked up quite a firestorm across the bridge. There’s a special army unit from Washington dug in over there analyzing rocks with lasers, looking for your ass, but they ain’t coming this way, not yet, at least.”

  Vern sucked the straw in the sippy cup, trying to get at the last of the water. He got plenty of air bubbles, but no H2O.

  Elodie gently straightened the cup. “Don’t tilt the sippy cup, Mister Vern. The straw goes all the way down.”

  Vern did as he was told, and this time he sucked the cup dry. “Memory foam and sippy cups,” he murmured. “What a day.”

  “Quite a day for all of us,” said Bodi Irwin.

  “Take my word for it, Miz Moreau, you don’t need to fret over Regence Hooke. He won’t be making trouble for you no more.”

  “Lord forgive me for saying it, but you did the world a favor there, Mister Vern,” said Elodie, hugging herself. “He’s twisted, that one.”

  Vern grinned, anticipating his segue. “He’s twisted all right. Into little pieces.”

  They all giggled at that, though maybe Elodie felt a touch guilty. Only a touch, though.

  “Where’s the boy?” asked Vern. “Where’s Squib?”

  “He went to the bar,” said Elodie, “to fetch your skin and some barrels of oil. He said they might perk you up some.”

  Vern swung his legs from the bed. “That they surely would. I couldn’t rescue no one in this state. Hell, I couldn’t barbecue a chicken.”

  The dragon stood, and he felt as though the floor was pitching underneath his feet, although in reality, he was the one doing the pitching.

  “I ain’t all the way right,” he said, resting a hand on Bodi’s shoulder. “I might need some help. You up for that, Green Day?”

  “Well,” said Bodi, “I guess you ain’t gonna murder me, huh?”

  Vern said something along the lines of which he’d never said before. “Any friend of Squib’s, I guess.”

  The dragon blinked, surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth, which were downright civil. What the hell am I saying? Humans killed my entire race, more or less.

  Then he thought, A long time ago. Long time.

  And then:

  Not these humans.

  Chapter 18

  REGENCE HOOKE HAD NEVER BEEN A MAN TO WASTE TIME. WHILE it was true what his daddy always said re: idle hands doing the devil’s work, Hooke reckoned that active hands must surely perform that work more effectively. So while other men might have hidden under the duvet waiting for Homeland Security or the Feds to follow a trail of blood from the Marcello debacle to Slidell’s Deluxe Inn, Constable Hooke got busy on the phone and rethunk his strategy vis-à-vis Vern the Boar Island dragon, who was no doubt back on his patch pissing away his immortality.

  First and foremost, Regence no longer believed that Vern’s power could be harnessed, an idea he’d been tinkering with. This meant that Vern had to go, which could be challenging, but there was not room in this ward for them both. Plus Vern was injured now and, even more importantly, Hooke knew that he could be injured a lot more. No doubt the dragon and his pet boy were high-fiving each other over Regence Hooke’s demise, so they would never even see him coming. It was true that Vern would be healing more with every hour that passed, which would diminish Hooke’s own advantage, but even so, better to lay low for a couple of days, let the cinders settle, make a plan, and gather his troops.

  Just leave, idiot! said his little voice. You got a bag of cash and big prizes, so head on down south of the border and find yourself a Tijuana rose.

  But Hooke refused to listen to sense. My name is Regence. I am a king and I will have my kingdom.

  He would never happen across another chance like this one. He had seen men seize their fortunes before, in Iraq. A man had to be ready for the vacuum, and when it came, he had to be willing to step into it. There was certainly a vacuum in the French Quarter now, and nature abhorred a vacuum. Regence Hooke is just the man to plug that hole, he thought, but not just yet. First, I need to dispose of one scaly impediment to my ascension.

  And it cost him not a second thought that he fully intended to be the cause of an ancient species’s extinction. In fact, he’d had a little practice in this area, having hunted and killed the last Caspian tiger seen in Iraq because it happened to wander into his sights during a desert stakeout.

  He smiled at the memory. That tiger had had the self-same smug look that Vern favored.

  You think you’re top of the food chain, don’t you, Vern, buddy? Well, you can discuss that with the tiger when you see him.

  HOOKE HUNKERED DOWN for a few days and kept an eye on Fox 8 while he worked the prepaid phone he’d picked up in RadioShack over on Gause. The Marcello “bombing” was the lead story for two days straight; then it dropped down to the second segment, but the various Vern videos boasted insane numbers on YouTube and Instagram and would go on to hang around home pages for years. Explanations ranged from “big dog” to “publicity stunt” to “total hoax,” with only the usual conspiracy-peddlers actually employing the term “dragon.” The people who believed it tended to believe that sort of thing, and the folks who didn’t did not. So in many ways, it was business as usual, though the Marcello crater did become something of a shrine for the LOTRingers.

  None of which Hooke could give a good goddamn about. All the constable listened for was his own name, and whether it would find its way into the narrative.

  It did not. There was not a peep re: Constable Regence Hooke.

  There was plenty of chatter about Ivory Conti and his place in the criminal underworld, but no mention of a mere constable out of Petit Bateau. Why would there be? So far as his own office was concerned: Regence Hooke was on vacation. Plus the one thing Hooke was grateful to Vern for was the lack of survivors. The dragon appeared to have carbonized everybody who might ever have had dealings with Constable Hooke in the Marcello.

  It occurred to Hooke that he was free and clear, should he wish to remain that way, but this was a fleeting notion.

  Free and clear so long as he kept his head way down. Who the hell wanted to live like that?

  If there is a hell, then I’m going there anyway, so I might as well earn the ticket.

  And if there wasn’t a hell, then that would mean he had won at life.

  On the third day, Hooke emerged from his motel room.

  The third day, he thought, like Jesus coming out of that cave, huh, Pops?

  The motel was not bad as these places go, but Hooke had finer things planned for his future. No more highway roadside stops for him.

  I want to live somewhere that ain’t within hollering distance of a Chick-fil-A—and no McDonald’s neither, for that matter.

  He didn’t intend to go all Ivory-bling like every wannabe gangster he’d ever met. “But I won’t be stepping out into a goddamn parking lot,” he promised himself.

  Dark wood. There would be a lot of dark wood, polished to a high shine. And one of those lounge chairs that came with a footstool. A coffee machine built right into something so it couldn’t be moved.

  Hooke laughed aloud at himself and his fancies.

  You’re a rube in that world, son. What you gotta do is cozy up to someone with class.

  Someone like Elodie Moreau, he’d daydreamed until recently, but since her boy had joined the ranks of his abductees and survived, that was, he had to admit, a little unlikely now.

  Still, Hooke thought, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

  And by “cat” he meant Cajun lady.

  And her son.

  And a dragon.

  So, three cats in all.

  HOOKE ARRIVED AT the Seabrook Diner maybe forty minutes in advance of his noon rendezvous and ordered himself a twenty-ounce rib eye with the works. It came on an enamel tray with fries, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, and kale chips, for some reason. He followed it with two beers and a slice of lemon pie submerged in whipped cream fres
h from the nozzle. It was nice to be eating out in the open again, so to speak, and he enjoyed every mouthful.

  The constable briefly considered actually paying for his meal, but decided that would send the wrong message, and so he contented himself with tipping the waitress and advising her good-naturedly that she might increase her percentages if she got those front teeth straightened out.

  The diner had that vintage-Airstream kinda look that a lot of these places went for in thereabouts. Maybe the proprietors thought folks would be bamboozled into believing themselves in Happy Days or some shit by the red vinyl booths and menus secured under a sheet of acrylic bolted to the table.

  While the girl cleared, keeping her lips buttoned, Hooke set out Ivory’s notebook and his own map. Time for business.

  He knew he was being surveilled through the diner window: Of course he was. He’d expect nothing less. No doubt there was a weapon trained on him right now, maybe two, but that was all right; they wouldn’t go pulling the trigger unless they were real stupid. Or green. And these people were neither.

  A thought occurred. They could be crazy.

  He hadn’t accounted for crazy.

  But that was the thing about crazy: You couldn’t account for it. Hooke had once ridden shotgun on an arms heist from an air base south of Basra where Colonel Faraiji, who had underwritten the operation, was forced to slit his own driver’s throat during the robbery when the driver had lost his nerve and threatened to start shooting.

  The colonel had commented later to Hooke, “My friend, when you work with disturbed people, it is like building your house on sand.”

  As usual, Hooke had wished the colonel didn’t feel the need to talk in riddles, but now he appreciated the elegance of the image.

  Have I built my house on sand? he wondered.

  If he had, it was too late to do anything about it now. He wouldn’t even hear the bullet that killed him.

  He tugged at his left sleeve to reveal his watch, a fake Rolex he’d picked up in some souk or another. The thing still ran just fine, in spite of a dunking in the bayou. He raised his wrist and tapped the watch face for the benefit of anybody scoping him from the tree line across the highway.

  Tick tock, ladies and gentlemen. We all got places to be.

  Five minutes later, three striking individuals trooped in. Hooke studied them as they entered the diner and knew by their demeanor that he’d chosen well.

  They’d all checked out their exits and sight lines. Pros, every one of ’em: a real kill-team.

  Vern, that’s all she wrote for you, buddy. If I can put one hole in your scaly hide, these guys will cook your goose for sure.

  From Ivory’s extensive list of bent cops, he’d chosen three pet pigs, all military trained. Two he’d heard of already. There was ex-marine sniper Jing Jiang, four feet eleven inches of laser accuracy who had once, according to barrack legend, put a 9mm slug into the eye of the Jack of Clubs through the window of a moving transport. That was Gunnery Sergeant Jing Jiang’s specialty: moving targets. They said crazy things about Jing Jiang: Her old man was a ninja, her weapon’s barrel was forged from the samurai sword of her ancestors, all sorts of stereotypical shit like that. One thing her current peer group in SWAT air support could agree on was that when they strapped Officer Jing Jiang into a chopper harness, she rarely missed who she was shooting down at.

  Hooke was almost disappointed in her: Imagine going from decorated sharpshooter to working for Ivory. Ain’t nobody’s ancestors would be proud of that gear shift.

  I shall be her redemption, Hooke thought, and that made him smile. Like a bloody limb makes a shark smile.

  Second on the list was Army Corporal Jewell Hardy, originally from the south side of Detroit. Bare-knuckle bouts brought her to Hooke’s attention; apparently she supplmented her army pay with illegal bouts off-base. She had to be quietly discharged when she stoved in one head too many during a tour south of Doha, as most folks were not aware the US even had a base in Qatar. Kid was barely twenty-five and already bigger than three average GI Joes strapped together, with fists like anvils and a forehead like the front end of a snow plow. Now she was a patrol officer, stomping the French Quarter beat with NOPD, and breaking bones for Ivory on the side. In looks, she was reminiscent of a grizzly bear in crew cut and moisture-wicking sports gear.

  That girl will relish wrestling a dragon if she gets close enough, thought Hooke. And she just might get close enough.

  And finally, the sailor: a lieutenant from the US Coast Guard, New Orleans sector, an Oregon native who grew up shooting the Celestial Falls long after they were closed down to kayakers. Some dumbass from NYC getting himself tangled up in his life vest and choking to death trying to live-stream his adventure put a stop to all that, so DuShane Adebayo sidestepped into the navy, a route which Hooke could appreciate, and put his nautical skills to good use manning a Riverine small boat buzzing the Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf. Word had it that DuShane did more than guard the fleet, spending his downtime during the oh-darks nipping ashore for shipments of opium and local girls to amuse the waterlogged salts. Lately, DuShane was turning a blind eye for Ivory in a different gulf, or rather, he had been. Now the lieutenant was at a loose end, with only his legit wages, and there weren’t many people who could survive on what the USCG shelled out.

  This guy is starving for extracurricular employment, thought Hooke, and I have just the job interview.

  So the lineup was as follows:

  Officer Jing Jiang, all J.Crewed up, looking twenty-two, although Hooke knew she was forty.

  Patrol Officer Jewell Hardy, the baby of the group, in sports gear, like Ivan Drago’s sister.

  And Lieutenant Adebayo in camo vest and Beavers baseball cap, with a sour face that would curdle cream.

  That’s okay, thought Hooke. I’ll cheer this little bunch up quick enough.

  He was expecting the silent treatment from the bunch, in case this was a wire sting, although Hardy, he reckoned, might get a little verbal on account of her age, but it was Jing Jiang who let fly.

  “What the fuck is going on here, Hooke?” said the countersniper, sliding in opposite him. “Cryptic messages? Summoning us here? Summoning? You think you’re some kind of samurai warlord? I shoulda popped you from the parking lot. Fuck, I could’ve been back in New Orleans eating muffulettas by lunchtime.”

  A hothead sniper? thought Hooke. That’s unusual. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Traffic is pretty heavy on the bridge this time of day. You mighta got held up.”

  Jewell Hardy’s chuckle sounded like a log going through a chipper. “Hooke is right, traffic on the bridge can be a sonuvabitch.”

  Youngsters, thought Hooke, warming to Hardy.

  DuShane Adebayo sat, an intense-looking bony-faced man with gray twists in his goatee, sweat sheening his high forehead. He was a mouth-breather, sounded like, which could be a deal-breaker if Hooke was planning on sharing a sniper hide, but for water work it should be fine.

  “This is some bullshit,” said DuShane. “Are you shaking us down here, Constable?”

  The “Constable” was thrown in so Hooke would know he was made.

  “No, Lieutenant, I ain’t shaking no one down,” said Hooke equably. “What we got here is a trial by fire, followed by a business opportunity.” He felt something nudging his groin under the table, flattening his ball hair. A silencer, he reckoned. Looked like Jing Jiang was not in the mood for no preamble.

  Trying not to think about the bullet six inches from his nuts, Hooke got directly to the point. “Okay, people, here’s the situation. Ivory is gone. We step in and move the black tar up from Mexico for starters. Then we sever ties with South America and switch to guns only. We cut out highways by using the Pearl River. Simple. Between the four of us, we marshal Ivory’s pet pigs—that’s what he called us—and we run this operation with a little military precision. I got nearly a hundred names in Ivory’s notebook. Outta those I picked you three, ’cause you’ve all seen
considerable action. All we gotta do is what we were already doing, only more so. There ain’t none of us think that Ivory was officer material, am I right? All he had going for him was an inheritance. Little prick was pouring cash into that operation and barely breaking even. In six months we could all of us here be millionaires. In ten years we’ll be billionaires.”

  Hooke was waiting for a reaction to his speech, but it did look like his chosen disciples were chewing things over and finding themselves pretty much in agreement with every point.

  “Billionaire”: that was the word that did it. A word like that carried weight. Hooke felt the silencer retreat a little, and his ball hair spring back into place.

  Jewell Hardy spoke first. “Billionaires, huh? I bet you didn’t run no numbers on that, Hooke. I bet that there’s a sales pitch.”

  “Maybe,” said Hooke, “but it’s there or thereabouts. And I can hand over a hundred grand cash, right now, for today’s work.”

  He laid three envelopes on the table, slowly and deliberately.

  “One hundred thousand. Each,” he said, tapping each packed envelope. “For twenty-four hours. After that you can walk away and I ain’t gonna bother you again, but could be you like the sound of being a billionaire?”

  Hardy chuckled. “They even got your constable stamp on the front of the envelope. Nice touch.”

  “So you don’t forget where they came from.”

  “Might be you’re full of shit, Hooke,” said Adebayo, cracking a smile and looking like a different person. “But I do like the sound of a hundred grand.” The pilot pocketed his haul. “Now tell me about this trial by fire.”

  SQUIB WAS BACK in the Pearl Bar and Grill lockup. Same old, same old, he thought.

  Except this time he had himself a key—more than a key, in fact. A fob.

  It might be fobs were commonplace out in the world where people had electric gates and hybrid automobiles, but Squib was having himself a right old time clicking the hell out of that fob on account of it being the first one he’d ever held.