A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  “Nice,” Bobby said smiling. “You could do a lot up here.”

  “That fractal antenna looks handy,” Ace observed, pointing to a small apparatus jutting from the top of the observatory, a steel wire, multipurpose transmitter-receiver that looked like a large spider web. “You could intercept any frequency with that thing. Satellites, cell phones, law enforcement channels. Cool.” He grinned in a manner that indicated he had a little criminal in him. It was then I decided to like the geeky bastard.

  “'Handy is what we were shooting for,” I told him. Cool wind blew hair in my eyes. I smoothed it over my head. Whipped out my BlackBerry and hit the garage app, typed in a quick command. One of the sheds to our right buzzed, the rolling door began cycling open, interior lights illuminating a small airplane. I walked over to it, licking my lips. You know that feeling you have when you get to show off something really cool to your pals? Imagine having built that “something” yourself, and, as far as it being cool, it was fucking liquid nitrogen.

  “That's a drone,” Ace exclaimed, eyes bright in fascination.

  Shocker's eyebrows couldn't possibly go any higher. “Does it fly?”

  I acted offended. “Do balls smell funny? Of course it flies.”

  Blondie patted my arm. I turned and she showed me some pills in her palm. Two 10 mg Valium. She popped them in my mouth. All she needs is a nurse outfit… She gave me a drink from her water bottle and said, “Chill pill, Babe. You'll need to calm yourself if you plan on flying her. You remember what happened last-”

  I kissed her to cut her off.

  She laughed. Stroked my cheek. “I'll go meet Big G while you handle up here.”

  Her perfect rump attracted my hand like a powerful magnet sticking to high-quality alloy. The affectionate smack caused her to yelp. She spun on her toe, throwing a hook that I ducked. She harrumphed, glowered and shook her fist, then stalked over to the ramp entrance to meet our associate.

  “So what happened last time?” Bobby asked me, arms folded over his pink bodybuilder tank, smiling hugely.

  I grumbled, “An old woman shot it down with a twelve-gauge. I was shooting video of her husband's marijuana field.”

  “Ha!”

  The distinct brrraattt of a Honda V-Tec engine could be heard racing up the garage ramp, tires chirping faintly. A moment later Big Guns' lime green Prelude eased through the entry like an alien spacecraft cautiously scouting the earthly terrain. The wide body kit, barely clearing the ground, looked like it might start blinking and looking around with some sort of laser eyes. Black superturismo wheels and low-profile tires completely filled the wheel wells. He parked next to Blondie's Ford, enormous chrome exhaust pipe buzzing, going quiet as he killed the ignition and stepped out. Blondie hugged him. They turned in my direction.

  Big Guns wasn't tall for a Vietnamese. But he was certainly one of the most muscular Asians I've ever seen. At five-five, one-ninety, he looked much heavier than he actually was. Jet black hair shaved on the sides, short and spiky up top. Hooded eyes over a wide nose, thick lips. Brown-gold skin sporting a colorful dragon that wrapped around his entire right arm, guns and girls tatted on his left, vintage Asian gangster. Loose Silver Tab jeans sagging slightly with a wide black belt. Lugz boots. Plain gray tank top that showed off his flat stomach and stout, vascular muscles. His serious face split into a wide smile when he saw me, silver teeth blinging chrome in the moon light. “Razor! You cracker bastard.”

  “Good to see you, little yellow man.” We gripped hands, embraced. Stepped back. “Are you getting shorter?”

  “Nah. You are getting skinnier.” He flexed one of his guns, biceps jumping up like a veined baseball. Crossed his arms, nodded at our other guests. “You got me surrounded. Who are the squares?”

  I gave Shocker a meaningful look. It was up to her how she wanted to introduce her crew. She quirked a brow in question. I nodded an affirmative. Big Guns could be trusted; being a sometimes fugitive himself, he knew the meaning of discretion, and certainly wouldn't do anything stupid like turn them in for reward money.

  Shocker looked to be grinding her teeth in hesitation. Finally she said, “I'm Shocker. This is Ace and Bobby.” Her guys jerked their heads up in greeting.

  Big Guns had no idea who they were. His mouth flashed silver at them. “Big G. You must be significant if Razor and Goldilocks let you into their lair.”

  Shocker frowned in response. Her guys chewed over the statement.

  Were they significant? my subconscious asked.

  Odd how I didn't even hesitate to bring them up here.

  Enough preamble. “Let's get down to business,” I said, motioning for everyone to follow me into the drone shed.

  The plane had a matte black exterior, aluminum and carbon fiber fuselage. The wing span was an even sixteen feet. It looked like a miniature Mitsubishi Zero, the Japanese fighters from World War II. The high-powered camera attached to the underbelly indicated its primary purpose: spying. Behind the propeller, on each side, were engine covers that housed a 125 hp rotary. A Wankel engine. Airbrushed on either one were demons with dragonfly wings, dark gray, ghostly over the black base. The evil entities looked to be writhing excitedly through the air, in ecstasy, teeth gnashing and claws ripping into the shady mission they flew towards.

  Shocker admired the artwork, said, “What's her name?”

  “Demonfly,” I responded, walking around my current favorite creation to a large steel desk. Sat in the chair behind it. Blondie ushered them to the couch adjacent to the desk, walked over and plopped in my lap, chair squeaking a protest. Bobby, Ace and Big Guns took places on the couch, burgundy leather, no pillows.

  Narrowing her eyes at me, Blondie, then the couch, Shocker said, “I think I'll stand.”

  Yes. We have done mucho freaky-deaky on that couch, my smile and shrug said to her. I looked at my Viet friend. “We need a meet with Trung.”

  His hooded eyes went to mere slits as he pondered my request. In a firm, decisive voice he said, “I can get you in. Maybe Blondie. No one else. Security is tight these days.” His eyes tightened. “And you will call him Anh Long.”

  The “no one else” in the shed looked unhappy about that. I said to Shocker, “I'll go talk to Anh Long and see what the Dragon Family's position is on our objective.”

  “Anh Long?”

  Big Guns turned to her. “That's a formal title for the head of the Dragon Family. Anh means Elder Brother. Long is dragon. Trung is the head of the DF.”

  “Ah.”

  “Thank you,” I told the Viet expert. He bowed with mock solemnity, making the girls laugh. I looked around at everyone, turning serious. “We'll need Anh Long's support if we hope to succeed in this. If we start an operation on their turf without permission, we'll have their enmity as well as the Tiger Society's.”

  “Not good,” Bobby remarked.

  “Right. The OGs don't normally work with outsiders, especially on business between Families. But considering what's at stake, and all the people that could be affected if the enemy takes over, I think Anh Long will be open-minded.”

  “Let's hope so. I'd hate to bump heads with him, too,” Shocker said in a deadly quiet voice. Her expression told everyone she planned on taking out the trash regardless of who helped or got in her way. Ace and Bobby looked from her to us, matching her determination. Big Guns eyed her warily, her ripped physique and boldness breaking through his deadpan demeanor.

  A woman after my own heart, I grinned at her. “I believe you and I will be pals.” She looked skeptical. Blondie tensed in my lap. I tried to stroke her leg, and just avoided getting a plug of skin pinched out of my hand.

  “You guys are going to need tech support,” Ace chimed in, fingers typing in the air. “I can handle that.”

  Blondie looked at him curiously. “You have a rig?” she said, meaning a computer setup capable of more than just updating Facebook or downloading porn.

  He gave a secret smile. “Oh yeah. I have a Wrecker.”

/>   I wasn't sure what that meant, but it pleased my girl. She twisted around. Said to me, “I believe he and I will be pals.”

  I reached up and gave one of her nipples a quick twist between my fingers, too fast for anyone to notice. Enjoying her sudden inhalation, I addressed our team. “It's late. How about we meet back here at noon? Ace and Blondie can collaborate on the tech side of the job while the rest of us devise a war strategy.”

  “Sounds good,” Shocker yawned. Everyone agreed, standing.

  As the roaring exhaust of the El Camino and Prelude faded down the garage levels, I picked my girl up, carried her over to the couch, threw her down on it and jerked my shirt off. Unbuckled my belt. “No sleep for the wicked,” I growled low.

  She chortled agreement, unzipping me.

  My Johnson twirled around in happy expectation.

  V. Our New Recruit

  “Oh, I'm so wet! Give it to me now, motherfucker!” Blondie cried out, lithe wicked arms reaching for me with eagerness. Mouth open in teased anger.

  I tisked her. “Babe, if you keep up that attitude, I'm not going to give you the umbrella.”

  Rain poured forth from a gray summer sky, dimming the concrete of the parking garage and sidewalks, graying the sand of the beach we walked towards. We had finished our morning run, but canceled our usual workout on the heavy bag and punch mitts to get ready for our team meeting. Blondie had primped her hair, makeup, and dressed in a black halter top and camouflage skirt. The outfit showcased one delicious midriff, her long fit legs, sexy tapered calves, rock hard above black boots, sharp pointed toes with four-inch heels knocking wetly on the highway as we hurried across. I handed her the umbrella, saving her thirty minute hair and face job, allowing her to run ahead so I could admire the view.

  The Gulf's water was excited, frothy waves pounding the sand, dark sky promising worse to come. Lightning made a spectacular show far out to the east over Cat Island. I ignored it. Blondie's heels held my attention. There's just something about the sound of heels… No matter who wears them, Big Baby on Sexy Lady, when you hear them clacking down a hall or sidewalk you just have to look, knowing you'll see a set of jacked up legs and pumped up butt. “She's got legs. And she knows how to use them,” I sang, jamming my trusty air guitar.

  I was soaked as soon as she ran off. But I didn't mind. The white tank and Diesel jeans I wore weren't anything special. I'll just change again, as soon as we find the sack of weed she lost during our run.

  “Found it!” she turned and yelled at me, walking in the sand awkwardly. Squatted down, plucked a Ziploc from the beach. “It fell out of my damn bra.” She smiled, held up the treasure. The four inch baggie held half a dozen joints, rolling papers bright white inside the glistening plastic. The last of our stash. Losing it had terrified us.

  I wiped my brow in relief. “Good find, Lean Meats. Now, get your blonde furred self over here. We have to make up for lost high time.” I grinned in anticipation, pulled a chrome Zippo from my jeans.

  We stood on the beach, twisting the umbrella around to block the wind and rain, smoking a joint the size of my thumb. Wake and bake, bitch, I exulted, gliding on the superb quality herb.

  Cars passed on the highway, headlights obscured by the storm. One turned off on the road next to the garage, the blue-white Xenon lights directed at the entrance. I squinted, trying to see the vehicle more clearly. It was a dark green Scion FR-S, a cool little sports car with a boxer engine and 6-speed. Blondie nudged me, as curious as I was to see it up close, and we put out the doobie to amble across the flooded four lane gauntlet, her negotiating the umbrella, holding my hand, trusting me to guide us through traffic.

  We walked into the entrance, senses reasserting awareness now that we were out of the deluge. Blondie closed the umbrella. Shook her hair out over her shoulders. We looked around for the Scion, knowing it had to be on the first level; we watched for the headlights to appear on the second level, but they didn't.

  The first level was nearly full, with only a few available slots. We followed the wet tire tracks, which abruptly ended in front of an empty slot, curving and crossing over one another, indicating the Scion had backed into the slot. But it's empty.

  “What the fuck…” Blondie muttered, squinting hard.

  I kept looking at the empty slots, the tracks, over and over, tripping, thinking that joint must've had more than THC in it, when Shocker appeared out of thin air in the slot with the tracks, not forty feet in front of us.

  “Hi, guys,” she said with a wave and brilliant grin. She closed the invisible door, and the air to her left shimmered, like a computer screen resolving an image, and dark green digital paint formed front-end, hood, fenders, then the rest of the car as if it were a hologram in 3D. Straight out of Popular Science. Tall concrete pillars blocked the lights, putting the slot in shadow, supplementing the effect.

  We were stupefied. “Nice,” I breathed. “Scion would pay a mint to have that in their commercials.”

  “Liquid crystal display. On a car,” my girl said, impressed beyond belief.

  The thin video screen covering the windshield rolled up into a slit in the roof. Ace stepped out of the driver's side, closed it. Walked over next to his girl, wide grin on his angular face. His blonde spikes seemed sharper. “I took a picture of your faces,” the geek said, smug and pleased.

  We walked over to the car, ignoring them for a moment, peering closely at the masterpiece in front of us. Ace was a hell of a materials scientist. The electroactive polymers he created for Shocker's compression sleeve were impressive, but this was downright mind-blowing.

  Blondie said, “You have cameras on the back of the car?”

  Ace nodded. “Integrated in the taillights and tag lights, the undercarriage, and in the door handles. The paint is not real paint, of course. I can select dozens of colors or graphic art designs from the program menu. Its pixels, in molded LCD monitors. The body panels are made from a clear, very durable plastic and carbon nanotube material, highly polished to look like clear coat. The LCDs are behind the panels, perfectly contoured to form the lines of the car. The exterior is essentially a giant TV screen.” He gestured at the rear of the car. “The cameras capture whatever is behind, under and beside the car. A modified processor with a simple algorithm governs the image. The cameras also track movement, and the projections on the front, sides, and roof will adjust relative to the direction of the person or other vehicle the program is trying to hide from. The rear of the car is completely visible, so I have to make sure the front of the car faces whoever I'm avoiding. Shadows help, as you can see. The car is visible in bright light.”

  “I fucking love it,” I declared. Blondie murmured consent.

  He shrugged, hands deep in his gray cargo pants. “The technology has been around for years. Just not on cars. It's probably illegal.”

  Shocker inhaled proudly, cut her eyes lovingly at her man. She told us, “He can't drive fast, so there's no way he'll ever outrun the cops. We had to come up with something else, a way he could hide from them if he gets chased.”

  “I'd say you hit the bull's eye,” I replied. I ran my fingers over the fender. The “paint” looked like it had a very thick clear coat, which made it very glossy, but you'd never guess it was a digital screen under a meta-material. “I love anti-authority devices,” I said with emotion.

  “What other materials have you developed?” Blondie quizzed the geek, stepping closer to him. His skinny chest inflated his blue Apple Computers shirt, face and arms becoming animated as they began conversing in nano tech.

  I motioned for Shocker to walk with me. Our squad headed up the ramps, rain muffled then loud as we opened the door to the sixth level. We hurried to the canopied area between the sheds, through it to the drone hanger, collective sighs huffing once we were out of the rain again. I left the door open, the sound and smell refreshing, breeze cool. Blondie and Ace sat on the couch, still chattering away. I gave Shocker the chair behind the desk and stood. “Where's Bo
bby?” I said.

  “He has a wife and kids, plus a paint and body business to run,” Shocker answered. Her brown hair was in a tight ponytail, hazel eyes bright over a piggish-but-cute nose. She wore a black warm-up suit with “Adidas” embroidered in pink stitching on the sleeves and legs. She folded her arms, leaned back. “He'll be there when we need him.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Big Guns will meet us at Anh Long's place shortly. Have you thought about how you want to do this job?”

  She frowned, held up a fist. “I only know one way to take care of business with gangsters. Fire with fire. Stupid with stupider.”

  My canines lengthened. I gave a smile fit for the cover of Savage. “Team.” I held my fist out, she bumped it.

  She thinks just like you, my subconscious observed, surprised but not displeased.

  A familial feeling struck me. In another life this chick could have been my sister. Or more appropriately, you could have been her brother, my subconscious corrected, reminding me of her status.

  I tried not to scowl at that, said, “We need to set an example for the Two-Eleven and OBG, and make sure they know why they are being attacked and what they can do to make it stop.”

  “OBG?” Ace said.

  “Oriental Baby Gangsters. When they turn eighteen they call themselves Oriental Boy Gangsters. We have to make them-”

  “Stop being such greedy little pricks,” Blondie said, face tightening.

  “And fucking up our hometowns,” Ace added, glancing at Shocker, Blondie.

  Everyone chuckled. “You don't have to be vulgar to be a part of the team,” I told him. He had no business trying to curse. He sounded like a lame, though I decided to keep that to myself in the interest of team morale.

  Blondie had a hand to her mouth. Shocker smiled at Ace, at us. She elaborated, “He picked up some bad habits in prison.” She put a hand on her chest and exaggerated, “I swear he doesn't get that from me.”

  Ace looked defensive. “I can curse better than that,” he muttered. We burst out laughing. Blondie grabbed my shoulder and slapped her thigh. My abs cramped. “Well, I can!” he yelled.