by Liz Grzyb
Jo Jo nodded her understanding.
“That’s better.” The shop assistant handed her a jacket. “Put your clothes back on. We’re leaving.”
Jo Jo obeyed, mutely pulling her dress over her head and shrugging into her leather jacket. She felt in her pocket for her phone, relieved to find it still there. She checked that it was switched on: at least there was still a chance she could be traced.
The shop assistant reached out, holding a heavy scarf. The strong, sweet smell of chloroform filled the little changing room as the woman wrapped the scarf tightly over Jo Jo’s mouth and nose.
The heiress crumpled to the floor, her blonde curls catching in a tangle of haute couture clothing that now lay, discarded, in a very expensive heap.
The woman pulled open the door. “Ready,” she said, brushing down her formal black clothing, straightening her jacket and adjusting her fashion consultant name badge.
The floor manager grunted. He picked up Josephina-Jocetta and stuffed her, unceremoniously, into a wicker laundry basket on a waiting trolley. He threw a dust cover over the top, and wheeled the trolley towards the goods entrance. The shop assistant checked that the front door was locked, placing a discreetly lettered card that read “closed for private consultation” in the display window. It would be some time before anyone thought to check: Valentino’s wealthy clients were used to such courtesies.
* * *
“Let’s go!”
The first faint pink streamers of pre-dawn light were streaking the sky when Brunelli signalled to her operatives it was time to move out. There would be no more fire drones tonight. The clearance crews never risked operating by daylight.
The Rat was still filming, shooting background footage as Brunelli’s mercenaries emerged from hiding to head back to the ramshackle, camouflaged huts they’d laughingly christened Base Camp.
In full carbon-fibre body armour, Brunelli seemed huge. She loomed large in the pale light of dawn, flexing her muscular shoulders, easing the strain: the plantation was steep, and rocket launchers were heavy—even for Brunelli’s surgically enhanced musculo-skeletal physique.
“Let’s go, everyone,” she said. “The enemy will be here soon, looking to see what happened to their precious fire drone.”
The mercenaries moved out, silently shouldering their weapons, taking with them a serious arsenal of anti-aircraft artillery.
“That means you too, Raffi.”
“But . . . ”
“Wind it up. Now.”
The Rat shrugged, hunching his narrow shoulders. He wanted to argue, but thought better of it. No-one argued with Brunelli. No-one dared. Brunelli was undeniably beautiful: dark eyed, dark haired, superbly fit. She was also an ex-Imperial guard, with all the superior body-tech that her former Special Ops rank implied. She had a full set of expensive personal weaponry—state-of-the-art physical augmentations which were constantly updated by her current employers. Even standing still, Brunelli was a lethal weapon.
“Right, boss,” was all the Rat could find to say. He followed her along a narrow path and through the plantation, where the white flowers of Coffea arabica already exuded their heady perfume in the chilly morning air.
Back at base, breakfast was almost ready: today, the man designated to stand guard overnight was doing double-duty as camp cook. The smell of hot toast and reconstituted scrambled eggs filled the little hut, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of the substance they were all risking their lives to protect. The guard was making coffee.
Brunelli inhaled deeply as she ducked under the sagging lintel and accepted a steaming mug. “Thanks,” she said. “I need this. It’s been a quite a night.” She pulled off her helmet, shook out her black curls, and sipped at the thick, black coffee. “Too hot,” she said. She put down the mug, and unbuckled her chest plate. Carefully, and with a tenderness that surprised the watching Rat, she eased the tiny capuchin out from beneath her body armour.
“Let’s have a look at you, then,” she said.
The little monkey blinked in the light, its wrinkled face as wizened as an old man’s. It was whimpering slightly. It had fouled itself in fright, making a mess on the front of her T-shirt.
Brunelli affected not to notice the stink. She stripped off her top and dumped it into the recycle bin. She grabbed a damp towel, cleaned herself up, and pulled a clean T-shirt over her head, oblivious to the staring reporter. Then she rummaged through a ration pack until she came up with a travel-size container of long-life milk.
“Here,” she said. She dipped her finger in the milk for the baby to suck. “Sorry, little one: it’s the best I can do till I get you home.”
“You’re taking it back with you?” the Rat asked. “Shouldn’t you be returning it to the jungle?”
“Use those big blue eyes of yours, Raffi,” Brunelli said. “Can’t you see this little guy’s way too young to fend for himself? He’d never find his mother. He’d starve out there.”
One of the mercenaries sniggered. Brunelli’s crew were all ex-military, one way or another, and the civilian Rat wasn’t a popular addition to their mission.
“The whole troop is likely starving anyways,” said Luca, a stocky ex-marine. “Capuchins are seriously endangered. Outside our perimeter, the fire-boys are having a field day.”
The Rat shrugged. “I guess so,” he said.
“I know so,” Luca replied.
The Rat turned back to Brunelli. “What will happen to the monkey if you take it back?” he asked.
“There are dedicated programs for orphaned wildlife,” Brunelli said. “Especially endangered species. I’ve rescued my fair share before today.” She stroked the tiny capuchin, gentling it as it sucked more milk from her finger. “But maybe I’ll just keep this one.”
“Maybe you can call him Raffi,” Luca said. “Then the Rat can be a monkey’s uncle.”
The other mercenaries applauded. “Great idea,” the cook said.
“Very funny,” the Rat said. “And my name’s Raphael.”
The big marine sniggered. “Sure. Whatever you say, Raffi.”
“Leave it out, Luca,” Brunelli said. “The Duchess de Glorian herself authorised Mr Totaro to film this operation, and the Duchess is a major patron of the wildlife protection agencies. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
The Rat smiled his thanks. He thumbed his mike to record, still collecting footage. “People will be amazed to see that wildlife habitat destruction still happening on such a massive scale,” he said. “Surely we now have enough new technologies to make slash-and-burn farming unnecessary? Surely we can have bio-diversity as well as food security?”
Brunelli shrugged. “New technologies, old politics,” she said. “The politics never changes. We do what we can.”
“It’s always politics,” Luca added bitterly. “The guys at the top don’t give a damn for the future unless there’s profit in it. Folks like us are expendable—we do the dirty work, they go right on making money. Right, boss?”
Brunelli didn’t answer. She was too busy concentrating on the urgent, coded message now flashing across her implanted retinal lenses. She turned away, sub-vocalising her response. “Understood,” she sent. Finally, she turned back to her crew. “We may have an operational difficulty,” she said. “I’ll have to leave you for a while. A chopper will be here for me shortly. Luca, you’re in charge.”
“No problem,” said Luca.
“What about me?” the Rat asked.
“Have you got enough footage?”
“Sure.”
“Then you can come with me. I’ll drop you at the airport.”
“Thanks. I’ll pack up my stuff.”
“My thanks too, boss: that’ll be one less problem for me to deal with,” Luca said. “Okay if I keep on with the border raids?”
“Sure,” said Brunelli. “But mind how you go.” She grinned broadly. “It’s a jungle out there!”
* * *
Jo Jo was unconsciou
s for several long hours. When she finally woke, in darkness, she rolled off a rough blanket thrown over a wooden pallet and onto bare floorboards. She felt in her pocket. Her phone was gone. So she crawled about, her questing fingers finding only the uneven walls that surrounded her, hemming her in: she touched shelves, and realised, at last, that she was in some sort of storage closet. She rattled the door, fighting down the panic that threatened to engulf her, but the cupboard door was firmly locked.
Her head ached. Her throat was dry. Her mouth felt furry. She was desperate for water, but there was none. She thought, at that instant, that she had been left to die. She was stiff and sore: everything hurt.
Alone in the dark, she wept.
* * *
Out in the rainforest, the camouflage-painted chopper arrived, whipping up a whirling cloud of gritty, stinging debris as it negotiated the mountainous terrain and settled into a muddy clearing. The aircraft was small and light, stripped back to save weight and gain maximum manoeuvrability—no doors, no stowage—just two seats and a bench behind.
Brunelli, dressed casually now in T-shirt, jeans, supple leather boots, and her favourite scuffed red leather jacket, focussed for a moment on her incoming messages before she turned to the Rat. “Right, Raffi,” she said. “Let’s go. The pilot thinks he may have been spotted—we have to move fast.”
She checked that the baby capuchin was safe inside her jacket, slung her heavy kitbag over her shoulder, and set off at a run, leaving the Rat to stagger along behind, hauling his heavy camera gear.
“We can only take what’ll fit in the back,” the pilot yelled over the noise of the rotors.
“Understood.”
Brunelli surprised the Rat: she threw her kitbag onto the back seat then boosted him in on top of it as if he weighed nothing at all. Then she hefted his camera gear and shoved it in after him. “Right,” she said, watching him squirm into place amid the tangle of equipment. “Let’s get on with it.”
The pilot handed the Rat a set of headphones, showed him the button on the floor to press if he wanted to speak.
“Buckle up, Raffi,” Brunelli said, her voice booming loud in his earpiece. “No safety nets here—if you fall out, we won’t be coming back for you.”
The Rat grinned at the pilot. “Can you fly over the burnt-out drone, mate?” he asked. “I’ll get some great footage of what’s left of the forest. Might even catch some fire-boys down there.”
The pilot turned to Brunelli. “Okay with you?” he asked.
“If we can, yes,” she said. “Just so long as you’re quick about it—I don’t want to risk a fire-fight.”
“Me neither!” The pilot powered up his chopper, and headed skywards.
Brunelli checked the machine gun she’d just pulled from under the seat. “Just in case,” she said.
The Rat swallowed hard, gritting his teeth as he pulled his seat harness as tight as he could before he swung the camera out the side of the open chopper, already recording.
The helicopter headed out over a devastated, fire-scarred landscape. Luca had spoken true: the only remaining patch of thick, green jungle—home now to the beleaguered wildlife that huddled within it—was inside the perimeter that Brunelli’s mercenary crew were guarding. And inside that, the precious coffee plantation clung precariously to its uncertain existence.
* * *
The closet door opened a crack, just wide enough for someone to toss in a bottle of mineral water and a couple of muesli bars.
“Breakfast!” a woman said.
Jo Jo recognised the voice of the shop assistant who had assaulted her. “You can’t leave me in here,” she said.
“I can do whatever I want,” the woman replied. “I don’t have to put up with the likes of you any more—always whining about a hemline or the drape of a dress while other people starve. You disgust me.”
Jo Jo took a deep breath, calming herself as she had been taught to do. She tried another tack. “I need the toilet,” she said.
“I’ll get you a bucket.”
Jo Jo gasped, shocked. “You can’t expect me to use a bucket!”
“You’re not really getting the hang of your situation, are you?” the shop assistant said. “You’re a caged animal now. Get used to it.”
“Let me go. I can pay.”
“What with? I already have your wallet. Do you really think you can pay your ransom with a platinum credit card?”
“My parents will pay cash for my release,” Jo Jo said.
The shop assistant allowed herself a bitter laugh. “Of course they will,” she said. “That’s the whole point of kidnapping you, don’t you think, Miss de Glorian?”
She slammed the door.
Jo Jo heard the key turn in the lock. She sat back on the pallet, clutching the water bottle to her chest, desperately trying to think what to do next.
* * *
When the helicopter swung away from the devastated battle zone, Brunelli relaxed a little. She switched her mike on. “All right back there, Raffi?” she asked.
“Sure. Where are we headed?” the Rat asked.
“Airport,” Brunelli said shortly.
“And then?”
“I’m for Florence. The Duchess has a private plane waiting for me.”
“Can I come?”
“As far as the city, yes,” Brunelli replied. “But not to the Villa de Glorian. That’s private.”
“But I’m authorised . . . ”
“Not for this, you’re not.”
“But . . . ”
“I have your number, Raffi. I’ll be in touch if we need you.”
The Rat knew when to shut up. He slouched in his uncomfortable seat, mentally reviewing his options. At least I’ll get as far as Florence, he thought. Then we’ll see what’s what.
* * *
Alone in the stuffy darkness of the storage closet, Jo Jo was losing track of time. When the door opened suddenly, she shrank back against the wall, shielding her eyes against the sudden light.
The erstwhile floor manager had changed his formal suit for grubby jeans and a black pullover, and with it he had changed his deferential manner for brusque insolence. He thrust a newspaper into her hands.
“Here. Hold this.”
Jo Jo wasn’t quick enough.
The floor manager slapped her, leaving a red handprint on her creamy pale cheek. “Hold it up, like this,” he said, arranging the paper so that the banner page faced outwards. “Now stay there.”
Jo Jo cringed, almost blinded by a white camera flash.
“One more, for the social pages,” the man’s female accomplice said. She did something complicated to the camera, and took a second shot. “For your parents,” she explained. “To prove you are still alive. For now.”
The pair left the room again, but Jo Jo could hear their conversation on the other side of the locked door.
“I say we ditch the brat as soon as we get the cash,” the woman said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll play nursemaid for the likes of her.”
“Take it easy, my dear,” the man said. “The de Glorians are the richest family in all Europe. They’ll pay up. We put in enough hours in that miserable shop—surely we can cope for a while longer. Right now the girl’s worth more alive than dead, whatever you might feel about her. She’s can’t help who she is, after all.”
“You can keep the sociology lecture,” the woman replied. “To me, she’s just a commodity to be traded.”
“So let’s keep the product in good order,” the man said. “I promise you, we’ll be rid of her soon enough.” He shrugged. “Besides,” he added, “our employers are paying us a bonus at the end of all this—and I, for one, wouldn’t want to cross them.”
* * *
When Brunelli landed in Florence in Duke Frederico de Glorian’s private jet, she was met on the runway by an armoured car, its bulletproof windows tinted almost black. Customs formalities had been waived. Francesca de Glorian was taking no chances.
Brunelli
was rested now. She dashed quickly down the metal steps to greet the driver. “Hey, Dominic,” she said. “Long time no see.”
“Welcome back, Captain Brunelli. The car is ready.” He held the back door open for her.
“Thanks.” She gestured at the Rat, who was struggling with his camera gear again. “Okay if we drop the reporter in the city?”
“Sure. No problem.” Dominic popped the trunk lid open, but did not offer to help with the equipment. He just waited until the Rat had manhandled his stuff into the cavernous limousine boot, and scrambled to join Brunelli in the luxurious back seat.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” the Rat asked. “The problem—whatever it is—might be part of my assignment. I won’t be any trouble. Promise.”
“You’re always trouble, Raffi,” Brunelli said softly. “Don’t whine—I told you before you can’t come.” She pulled open the mini bar. “Here,” she said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“Thanks.” The Rat eyed the well-stocked bar suspiciously. “What do you want that’s worth an expensive drink?”
“I want your footage downloaded, stat,” Brunelli said.
“But I need to edit . . . ”
“I know what you need,” Brunelli said. “I’ll give you an hour, no more. After that, just stream me what you’ve got.” She held out her hand. “Give me your comm unit.”
The Rat handed over his wristband and watched as Brunelli punched in a complicated set of numbers.
“This is a private, secure feed,” she said. “One use only. Make it count.”
The Rat grinned. “Sure, boss,” he said. “An hour will be plenty. I won’t let you down.”
“Good,” said Brunelli. “This mission is about to get seriously complicated.”