As always, the two men had chosen the largest, most prominent card game in the lodge to amass their fortune. It was here that they had first witnessed a strange phenomena which they jokingly called FRPE, or the “filthy-rich-people-effect.” Simply put, many of the St. Moritz locals had so much money to dispose of, some had come to like losing at the gaming tables. If the conditions were right, these odd moneyed types could get into drunken contests to see who could lose the most. Even better, whenever anyone, usually an outsider, actually tried to win, the locals would double or triple-up on their bets, just to set up situations in which they could lose even more.
Whenever the two travelers saw conditions approaching a FRPE—booze, open drug-use and a bevy of distractingly beautiful women were essential ingredients—they would go into a little act. They would make a great display of plotting and planning each poker bet, verbally taking into account all possible permutations of a loss, and then banking on those hands most likely to win. This approach would almost always fascinate the local players, who, as if on cue, would start throwing down wildly daring call bets the other way, just to see the strangers do their stuff. More plotting went into how many cards they should pick up, and this led to even more outrageous counterbets. The travelers would even stiff a few hands, in order to crank up the excitement level before laying down a string of winners. Then they would buy drinks for everyone involved with a small part of their winnings, thus fueling the fire and the promise of even larger payoffs. They had it all down to a science. It was, in effect, like taking candy from babies.
The two men had been up to their analytical hijinks for the past two hours, and they had won themselves a lot of money. Two mountain peaks of gold chips had grown before them—each chip being worth a guldenmark, a coin roughly equivalent to an old U.S. one hundred dollar bill. As the piles grew, so did the number of available girls who began orbiting the travelers. They soon had one on each lap, another draped over each shoulder. With each win, these beauties drew closer to the men and each other. The travelers were well-acquainted with St. Moritz’s rather peculiar approach to sex. That was another reason they tried to get into the city as often as they could.
Though they were not natives, the travelers didn’t look out of the ordinary, not at first anyway. They dressed well, spoke well and in several languages, and they knew what kind of champagne to order and when. But there was something different about these two. Both had a certain look to them, an almost imperceptive swagger in their step that set them apart from everyone else. And their eyes, though capable of coldness and downright cruelty, had a twinkle to them as well, as if they were keeping a deep, dark, but most pleasant secret.
The truth was, the two travelers were different, though only a vastly perceptive person could figure out why. Once the answer was at hand, it would always remain very obvious to the observer. It was a simple secret really: the two men had been somewhere few people had ever been before, certainly no one at the gambling table, or in the lodge, or in all of St. Moritz itself. These two had been to a place so big, so spectacular, so unlike any other place else, the glow it brought to them would never really leave.
The two men appeared different because they had both traveled in outer space. And once that happened to a person, they were never the same again, no matter how many sins they went on to commit.
The New Moon had fully risen over the mountains by the time Hunter and Chloe arrived at the lodge.
The place was packed by this time—all seven floors were crowded with the beautiful people, eating, drinking, getting high, and making time. It was so congested, the last refuge with any semblance of quiet and privacy was a small dark lounge located on the sixth floor of the place and tucked in the back. This is where Chloe chose to bring him, guiding him by hand through the crowd, the fact that he was wearing a black flight suit, though cleaned and pressed, hardly raising an eyebrow.
He had fallen completely for her by this time. Love, lust, whatever—he had it bad. They’d spent the last five hours sitting on the couch in her living room, looking out at the jagged peaks of the Alps, drinking wine, nibbling apple slices, and talking. There had been no physical contact, save for the occasional touch of her hand on his knee, or the very pleasant brush with her breasts whenever they would lean forward for a fruit slice at precisely the same time.
She’d told him everything, about herself and this strange settlement at St. Moritz. She was fifteen at the time of the Reemergence. Her family, still wealthy, still prosperous, decided it was better that she remain in St. Moritz for a while, until things in the less-civilized world settled down more. They sent her stipends of gold with each season and visited occasionally. To her credit, Chloe had spent much of the time both inside the mountain and now out in the air, working at self-education. She’d studied so much, that when she was allowed to take a college equivalency exam at what was once the University of Zurich, she scored so high, they gave her a master’s degree in both philosophy and the arts.
Best of all though, Chloe had no idea who Hunter was, no concept of the Wingman, or what he had done, or the cult of celebrity that had grown up around him in some parts of the globe. She’d told him that she’d sensed he was famous right away, but such things had little impact on her. Undeniably, this had added immensely to his attraction of her. It had been a long time since Hunter had met someone who didn’t know him or care who he was. It was the most pleasant of changes.
So they had sat and talked and laughed and drank and went over nearly every topic of their lives—except what had happened down at the lake earlier in the day. Expert at self-control though he was, Hunter had to catch himself a couple of times, just moments before he was about to blurt out the big question. His gut was telling him he would learn all about it soon enough.
Still, it was hard to keep the words inside.
He couldn’t resist when she asked him to accompany her to the New Moon celebration—and now, here they were. Planting themselves at the corner table of the dark cafe, they continued their conversation. Chloe had already consumed a half bottle of Monchere Blanc 1986, and was showing signs of tipsy sexiness. As for Hunter, he was beyond getting drunk by now. Every fiber of his being had been standing at attention since the moment he’d set eyes on her. It would have taken a case of grape to distract his hormones at the moment.
Still, there was a benefit in just going with the spirits, so soon enough he was relaxed enough to slip his hand around hers. She gripped his fingers tightly—yet her touch was amazingly warm and soft. That’s when the conversation took a distinctly sexual turn.
They had just taken delivery on their third set of drinks—brandy for her now, scotch for him—when she slid over very close and briefly rested her head on his shoulder. At the same moment, Hunter was half-watching a tiny scene play out at the table next to them. A well-conditioned middle-aged man was seated there, accompanied by a glamorous woman, apparently his wife. A much younger woman suddenly appeared and whispered something into the woman’s ear. The woman smiled and then began nodding eagerly. With that, the young woman—she was brunette, poured into a snow-bunny suit and drop-dead pretty—squeezed in between the woman and the man and began paying extraordinary attention to the husband’s genital area. After about a minute of this, they all got up and departed for a more private location, each one smiling more broadly than the next.
Now Hunter could see similar things taking place at the bar, too. Young women working their way into conversations between slightly older couples. Again, Hunter really couldn’t get a handle on what was going on. There was no doubt though that everyone involved was enjoying themselves.
Chloe was watching all this, too. After a minute or so, she looked up at him and giggled.
“When’s the last time you saw any, Hawk?”
The question was so direct, so blatant, Hunter once again stumbled on his reply.
“I can’t remember back that far,” he said finally.
She laughed again, then took a sip o
f his drink.
“I’ll bet someone like you really gets turned on at this kind of thing,” she asked, pressing herself even harder against his beating chest.
Hunter could hardly speak.
“Who wouldn’t be?” he finally replied.
She smiled deliriously now. “That’s exactly what I want to hear.”
She got up, kissed him lightly on the cheek and then pointed towards the darkened hallway at the rear of the lounge.
“Down there, last door on the left, in five minutes,” she whispered to him. “I promise you’ll get more of it than you’ll ever need.”
With that, she left the table. Throwing a mischievous glance over her shoulder, she had a quick conversation with the man behind the bar, then she disappeared down the hallway and through the last door.
Hunter, frozen to the spot, watched her go, a volcano erupting from the pit of his stomach. He might have been a hero to many people in the world, but this didn’t automatically make him a saint. He’d seen his share. And done his share. And what was happening to him here definitely qualified as “something else.” It was so strange, so mysterious, so erotic. He knew the curiosity alone would kill him if he didn’t take the next giant step.
Predictably then, the next five minutes went by slower than the ice melt around St. Moritz. Hunter needed no watch to mark the passing of those three hundred seconds; his heart was keeping perfect double time. By 4:10, he was anxiously on his feet, paying their tab with two gold coins. He took another fifteen seconds to collect his thoughts, run the options through his head and make that one last decision to yes, proceed. Oddly the fact that this might be some kind of an elaborate trap, and that Chloe might be some kind of nefarious agent, never really came into his consideration of the unfolding events.
Had that been the case, his own internal, early warning system would have blown a gasket a long time ago.
Finally, he left the bar and turned down the short corridor. It seemed a couple miles in length now, long enough for every thought possible, both good and bad, to run through his mind. The next thing he knew, he was before the last door on the left, his hand on the warm brass knob. He turned it, slowly. It gave with no resistance. He took a deep breath and went inside.
He found himself looking into a small, dark bedroom, done in deep crimson and lit by many candles. In the middle of the room was a large throne-like chair and on this chair sat a naked man. On his lap sat Chloe. She was naked, too. Her eyes were glued on Hunter. Sleepily, she smiled at him.
Numb by now, Hunter closed the door behind him. At that moment, the man thrust himself mightily inside of Chloe, causing her to yelp with delight. He started pumping her, slowly at first, but quickly rising in volume and frequency. Chloe began groaning in delight, and soon, she began pumping back. All the while she was gasping for breath, and battling to keep her eyes open and locked on Hunter’s.
He stood there like a statue, not quite believing what he was seeing. He’d had a hint that things were a little kinky, here in this postwar playground of the rich. But seeing this beautiful girl that he’d fallen for getting so vigorously nailed, was, in a word, breathtaking. His psyche had been right: it’d told him he would learn all about this strange thing soon enough. Now here he was, getting a grand and graphic education. The incident down near the lake, the overt friendliness of Chloe and everyone in St. Moritz, the little dramas playing out in the barroom—they all made sense to him now.
The young and cool in St. Moritz had grown bored with just the act of sex itself. So they had taken it all in a giant step sideways. They had added a third element, another dimension. Not only would they have sex, they would have it while a significant other was watching.
“You like it, don’t you?” Chloe called out to him as she urged the young man further into her jiggling, hairless body. “Please tell me you do?”
But Hawk Hunter, the Wingman, fighter pilot and champion for causes supreme, did not reply.
For the first time in his life, he really didn’t know what to say.
Meanwhile, down in the gambling area, the two travelers had again doubled their fortune.
There was a mountain range of chips sitting in front of them now, the winnings from an hour of high-stakes poker with a table full of drunken, filthy rich kids. Between the free drinks and rubdowns from a squadron of lusty females, the two men had amassed nearly two million dollars.
This was actually an embarrassment of riches for them—there wasn’t very much they could do with the money where they had to go back to. Just carrying the two million would be an extra burden for them, as essentially it would be just a big bag of coins. But this did not deter them. They had done this sort of thing several times before, each time leaving St. Moritz richer than when they had first arrived. But this time, they had fallen into the super-lucky groove. The New Moon had indeed taken a shine to them.
To the people around them, the travelers had provided endless entertainment during the FRPE. This is why a groan went through the lascivious gathering when the two men finally announced that it was time for them to cash out and leave. A barrage of free drinks had changed their minds once before, but it would not happen again. Nothing lasts forever. The two men had their millions—now they had to get out.
They were just consolidating their piles when another, louder gasp went through the room. Up until this moment, the two men had been playing the poker table exclusively against members of the inebriated, well-heeled crowd. But when that wave went through the gathering, the two men knew someone who might actually try to beat them had arrived on the scene. It was an unofficial rule of all gambling halls that the big winners had to at least take on a newcomer, someone who might have a shot at winning back some of what others had lost. The two men began to panic. They had lingered too long! Now it was coming back to haunt them.
A shadowy figure was indeed making his way through the awed crowd. A few people recognized him right away—and they found themselves shaking with amazement that he had suddenly turned up among them, here in out-of-the-way St. Moritz.
It was Hunter, of course. He cut through the quickly parted crowd like a jet plane through cirrus. Chloe was on his arm, glowing, still short of breath, still slightly drunk. How strong was Hunter’s psychic ability to perceive danger or opportunity? Strong enough to pull him out of the small, crimson bedroom at the end of the sixth floor hallway and bring him down here, where the two men who’d walked in space were winning the mother-lode. His gut was telling him these two could help him immensely in his quest to find Point Zero.
He sat down at the far end of the card table and simply nodded to the pair. Hunter sensed both men were heavily-armed, and not reluctant to shoot up the place if pressed to do so. Hunter’s only weaponry at the moment was the .357 Magnum he kept in his boot holster. He was silently praying he would not have to use it.
The room became stone cold quiet now, all the drunken chit-chat coming to a screeching halt. The patrons were pressed into two formations, like townsfolk lined up to see a shootout at High Noon. Hunter took a single two-ounce American gold coin from his pocket and flipped it on the table. On a good day, it was worth about two hundred dollars.
“My choice?” he asked the two men.
They had to say yes.
“High card,” Hunter declared.
Both men gulped. Again, they had to agree.
“Two against one?” one asked, slightly confused.
Hunter smiled, but only for a moment. “Why not?”
The men looked at each other, and then they smiled, too. This guy, this famous pilot or whoever he was, was apparently drunk. No one would sanely play high-stakes high-card draw with the odds stacked two-to-one against them.
Or would they?
The travelers moved quickly. They loaded up on Hunter’s two-hundred dollar bet, each plopping down two hundred, then two hundred more.
Hunter turned to the astonished card dealer. “Flip ’em,” he said.
Flip them, he di
d. He dealt a king to the first man, a queen to the other.
He threw Hunter a card—down, the challenger’s prerogative. Hunter didn’t even look at it. He flipped it over to reveal the Ace of Spades.
The crowd gasped. The croupier slid the chips Hunter’s way and he let Chloe stack them one by one. The Wingman tripled the bet. The two men reluctantly did the same.
“Deal them,” Hunter told the pit boss. Another king to the first man; another queen to his partner.
Again, Hunter didn’t even look at his card. He flipped over the Ace of Clubs.
Another pile of chips came his way and once again Chloe breathlessly stacked them. Hunter guided the stack to the appropriate felt-lined square in front of him. He’d double-tripled the bet. The crowd gasped once more. Again, the men had no choice.
Two more cards came out, face up. King of Clubs for the first guy, Queen of Diamonds for his colleague. Hunter got his card and let Chloe turn it over this time. It was the Ace of Hearts.
The two men turned pale. Both instinctively reached down to their belt buckles, feeling for the huge hand guns they had hidden there. It was a less than subtle hint that they should not be trifled with.
But Hunter only grinned when he saw them do this.
“Shame on you,” he told them, piling his latest winnings with his old and now racking the bet up to an exponentially mushrooming twenty-six thousand dollars.
Both men withdrew their hands from their weapons. The truth was, they were so devastated by what they had gotten themselves into, both hardly had the gumption to start a gunfight.
Target: Point Zero Page 10