by Haris Orkin
While Anika busily texted and posted and tweeted on Twitter, a dirty, sad, and exhausted-looking Severina sat on a chaise longue and stared off into space. Mendoza hung his huge head over the wooden railing and held on for dear life as the rest of the crew bustled about doing the things crews usually do. Most carried sidearms. Some had assault rifles. Many were bearded and pierced and tattooed like modern-day pirates.
If the Coast Guard ever stopped them, they’d be in for a hell of a fight, but they weren’t looking for a multi-million-dollar yacht. They were looking for a landing craft and by now that bullet-ridden boat was probably at the bottom of the Atlantic.
“I must admit it,” Goolardo said, his voice booming and full of high spirits. “I had no idea saving the world would be so exhilarating.” He smiled at Flynn. “I didn’t intend for that chopper to crash into the rocket, but when it did, oh, my goodness! What a rush! Though I did worry that it might set off that nuclear bomb.”
“That’s not how nuclear devices are detonated,” Sancho said.
“Good to know.” Goolardo playfully punched Flynn on the shoulder. “We make a great team, you and I. Perhaps we should travel the world together, righting wrongs and doing good deeds. Perhaps, over time, the world wouldn’t see us as such pariahs.”
“In my case possibly,” Flynn said. “In your case, that seems highly unlikely.”
“You wound me, Mr. Flynn. Clearly, there are different rules for those born into the ruling class. The prisons are full of the poor even though it’s the super-rich who steal and murder the most. The entire system has been designed to enrich those on top and crush those below. So, unless you are born into wealth you would have to be a fool to follow the rules.”
“If everyone believed as you do, we would have complete anarchy.”
“Isn’t that exactly what we do have?” Goolardo asked. “The powers that be can barely keep a lid on all the anger and violence and lawlessness. That’s why organizations like Her Majesty’s Secret Service exist. To keep the dispossessed from rising up. Governments encourage the underprivileged to join the military. Then they brainwash them in boot camps and turn them into weapons. Soldiers who will take orders without question. Those in power depend on dull-witted patriots to keep the ‘haves’ safe from the ‘have-nots.’
“So, if you don’t believe in the rule of law, what do you believe in?”
“I believe in myself, Mr. Flynn. I am my own higher power. Marx wasn’t wrong about religion. Religion, like patriotism, was created to mollify the masses. Both are imaginary constructs designed to alleviate fear. The great unwashed spend their hard-earned dollars to flock to movie theaters and watch superheroes save the day. Fantasies of empowerment designed to keep the unempowered pacified. Look in the mirror. You’ve turned yourself into a pulp fiction fantasy and made that fantasy flesh. Is the belief you have in yourself any more far-fetched than the Pope’s faith in his own infallibility? Hardly. To me, reality is a relative concept. Just like right and wrong. Who decides what’s crazy and what isn’t? The people who run the world? I don’t think so. I think we should decide. Each of us. Individually. Join me, Mr. Flynn. We will be who we want to be. Without apology. Without compromise. Without selling our souls to those who would enslave us.”
As nauseous as he was, Mendoza couldn’t help but react to that. “Are you serious? You want him to join us?”
“Why not?”
“Because that pendejo is loco!”
“Have you not heard a word I said?”
“Because of him we went to prison!”
“Indeed, he’s a worthy adversary. That’s exactly what makes him such a valuable ally.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Flynn said. “But the job we set out to do isn’t yet done. Belenki will build and launch another nuclear device if he isn’t stopped.”
“And how do you plan to stop him?”
“We need to liberate Wendy Zimmerman from his island fortress and reveal to the world who he really is.”
“And do you honestly think the world will take your word over his?”
“I don’t know. But we have to try. You said yourself we should travel the world, righting wrongs and doing good deeds.”
“That was hyperbole, Mr. Flynn. I was being ironic. I’ve done my good deed for the decade. Now it’s time to take care of me. I must say; however, I do admire your tenacity.”
“So, you won’t help me?”
“I’m afraid not, though I’d be more than happy to pay for you and Mr. Perez’s flight to Seattle. We can book them under the same false names on the same phony passports we used before.”
“Thank you,” Flynn said.
Goolardo handed Flynn a burner phone. “Take this burner and keep it with you in case I need to get in touch.”
Flynn looked at the phone before slipping it into his pocket. “Of course, you realize that once this job is done, I won’t hesitate to try and apprehend you again.”
“And if you do, I hope you know I won’t hesitate to kill you,” Goolardo replied.
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Excellent. In the meantime, avail yourself of the Queen Anne’s onboard amenities. Take a shower. Take a nap. Enjoy some lunch. We’ll see if we can find you a change of clothes.”
Goolardo smiled at Anika. “What about you, my dear? Would you also like a plane ticket to Seattle?”
“No way. Fuck Sergei. You can drop me off in Miami.”
“I’ll get off in Miami too,” Severina said.
“You’ve cut ties with Mr. Belenki?” Goolardo asked.
“He cut ties with me.”
“Are you looking for your next position? I could use a world-class attorney and you might need some protection.”
“Protection?”
“From your former boss. I can’t imagine he’s very happy with you at the moment.”
“I’m flattered, but no thanks.”
“Because of the business I’m in? Do you think what I sell is any less addictive or dangerous than the social media obsession Mr. Belenki pushes?”
“I don’t. But…”
“But you’re tired of being a fixer for the rich and powerful and egotistical?”
“A little bit.”
“Understood,” Goolardo said. “I may be a sociopath, but I’m not entirely unsympathetic. So, what’s next for you?”
“Telling the FBI what Sergei is up to.”
“And when you go to the FBI and they ask you who shot down the helicopter that crashed into the Serenity 2, what are you going to tell them?”
“That I have no idea.”
“And what if they ask you, Anika?”
“I’ll tell them the same thing. You really think I want to get involved in any of this bullshit?”
One hour later, Goolardo docked the Queen Anne’s Revenge at Island Gardens, one of Miami’s most exclusive marinas. The concierge team arranged for ground transportation while simultaneously refueling, re-provisioning, and preparing the Revenge for the journey ahead. Flynn gave Severina the number to his burner phone and while she and Anika shared a limo to South Beach, Sancho and Flynn headed for Miami International.
The Queen Anne’s Revenge sailed south. Mendoza knew that Goolardo’s ultimate destination was Costa Rica, where he owned a fabulous estate on Playa Blanca in Guanacaste. It crossed Mendoza’s mind to disembark in Miami, but where would he go? What would he do without Goolardo? As much as his boss insulted and demeaned him, Mendoza knew Goolardo needed him. That thought comforted Mendoza and he clung to it like a life preserver as he began the long, queasy cruise to Costa Rica.
Severina didn’t check into the Four Seasons with Anika. Being she was now unemployed, Belenki’s former right-hand woman decided to stay somewhere less luxurious. The Swell, a slightly seedy boutique hotel, fit the bill perfectly. Built in 1926, it had a faded and grimy art deco glamor. Her fellow guests were mostly millennial hipsters, gay nightclubbers, and elderly bohemian boomers trying to relive the
ir misspent youth.
Her second-floor room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and she couldn’t open the bathroom door without bumping into the bed. A single black hair dominated the bathtub and she spotted only one clean towel. Severina considered checking herself out and finding another hotel, but she was too damn exhausted to go to that much trouble. She lay on the bed and settled into the trough created by countless bodies, closed her eyes and listened to the roar of the air conditioner as it rattled in the window. At least it drowned out the screaming partiers splashing outside in the tiny pool and patio area. She knew she needed to call the FBI, but first she had to sleep. Once she made that call, she wouldn’t have a moment’s rest. And rest was exactly what she needed at the moment.
Chapter Thirty
Sancho changed the destination on his ticket from Seattle to Burbank as soon as they arrived at Miami International. There would be a two hour stopover in Dallas Fort Worth, but Sancho could deal with that. What he couldn’t deal with was assaulting a heavily guarded island fortress with a lunatic.
It didn’t matter that Flynn was right about Belenki. So, he and Goolardo stopped him from crashing every computer on Earth, killing the electrical grid and sending humanity back to the stone age. So what? Now what? They were lucky to be alive. He was lucky to be alive. Flynn’s only superpower was dumb luck and there was no way it could last forever. Sancho tried to get Flynn to change his ticket as well, but he wasn’t having it.
“You want me to abandon the mission?”
“I want you to come back to Pasadena with me and check in with N.”
“You don’t think time is of the essence here?”
“We blew up Belenki’s rocket, dude. We did it! We saved the world. It’s done.”
“For now. You know he will try again. Meanwhile he has poor Wendy. Who knows what he’s doing to her?”
“Severina is already on this. You heard what she said. She’s calling the FBI and as Belenki’s right hand they’re going to listen to what she has to say.”
“All the more reason we have to rescue Wendy before something terrible happens. She’s our only corroborating witness!”
“The FBI can get there faster than we can. And while they’re keeping her safe and searching Belenki’s place for evidence, the Air Force will comb through the wreckage at Cape Canaveral. You know they’ll find pieces of that nuclear bomb. Belenki is done. You made the case. You won this thing. Time to take a victory lap.”
“I should be at Wembly Island when the FBI arrives.”
“It’s handled, brother. There’s nothing more for you to do. Other than let N debrief you. Let’s not keep the man waiting.”
Flynn considered Sancho’s argument. “So, you trust the FBI to take care of this?”
“I do, and at this point it’s just mopping everything up. You did the hard part. Now comes the boring part.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“No doubt about it, dude. Time for a well-deserved rest. You earned it.”
Flynn followed Sancho back to the counter and changed his ticket to the same Burbank-bound flight. They drank Starbucks coffee and shared some carrot cake and waited to board. One hour later, Flynn found himself in a center aisle seat between a large elderly gentlemen and stylish-looking woman in her early thirties. As they waited to leave the gate, she typed away on a laptop, entering numbers in some sort of spreadsheet. She noticed Flynn watching her and he offered her a smile. “I hope I’m not crowding you.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Though they do seem to make these seats smaller and smaller.”
Flynn noticed she had an Eastern European accent. She was also quite attractive, with curly red hair and striking green eyes. “Do I detect an accent? Are you Czech?”
Her eyes widened with surprise and she flashed a dazzling smile. “Very good.”
“I have an ear for that sort of thing.”
“Apparently so.”
“I’m James.” He offered his hand and she shook it.
“Michaela.”
“Beautiful name. Are you traveling on business?”
“I am. I work for the Czech tourism office. Public relations.”
“Prague is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”
“Have you been?”
“Not for many years. But someday I hope to return. Prague Castle. The Charles Bridge. Wenceslas Square. Saint Vitus Cathedral. That hilltop castle overlooking the Vitava River. The name escapes me…”
“Vysehrad Fortress.”
“Yes, of course. I once shared an excellent bottle of Blanc de Noir on a picnic there with a very spirited, very beautiful woman.”
“You’ll have to return someday.”
“I bet you know parts of the city regular tourists rarely see.”
“I’d be honored to show you my city sometime.”
“And I’d be—” Flynn’s burner phone buzzed. “Excuse me for one moment,” he accepted the incoming call. “Flynn here.”
“James. It’s me.”
“Severina?”
She spoke sotto voce and she sounded frightened. “Sergei found me.”
“What? Where are you?”
“A hotel in South Beach. He must have tracked my credit card.”
“You used a credit card?”
“I didn’t have any cash.”
“Where are you now?”
“I was heading back to my room after breakfast and I saw the door open. I heard Mr. Fergus, so I hid in a maid’s closet.”
“What hotel?”
“Hotel Swell.”
“I’ll find it. I’ll find you. Did you talk to the FBI?”
“I was so exhausted, I just needed to sleep. I was going to call them after breakfast.”
“Call them as soon as you hang up. But please. Stay out of sight until Fergus—”
Flynn heard a door open over the phone and then a woman speaking Spanish. “Quién eres tú?”
Severina tried shushing her, but she just talked louder. “Que estas hacienda aqui? Te esta escondiendo de alguien?”
Then Flynn heard another voice. Fergus’s voice. “Well ain’t this a surprise?”
“Oh, my God,” Severina whispered.
“Run!” Flynn said. “Run!”
The clatter of a bucket echoed over the cell along with a mop handle hitting the floor followed by running footsteps and other heavier footsteps from multiple pursuers.
“Stop her!” Fergus yelled. “Get her!”
Flynn heard Severina fall or maybe she was tackled. Grunting and struggling ensued. “Severina!” Flynn shouted. “Severina!”
“Severina is indisposed, Mr. Flynn.” It was Fergus. “Why don’t you save us all a lot of time and Severina a lot of pain and tell me where you are.”
“If you hurt her, I swear to God—”
“What? You’ll open a can of whoop-ass on me? Tell you what. You tell me where you are and I can arrange to make that happen.”
A perky female stewardess with a south Texas drawl made an announcement over the plane’s P.A. system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are next in line for take-off, so please fasten your seatbelts and turn off all personal electronic devices.”
“Sounds like you’re on a plane, Mr. Flynn. Where are you going?”
“I will find you, Fergus. You and Belenki both. I’m coming for you.”
“Let me make it easy. I’ll tell you where we’re all going. Wembly Island. Come find us, Mr. Flynn. I think it’s time we finish this foolishness, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Those with the most to lose have the most to spend and for the last thirty years many of the world’s richest individuals have been building doomsday bunkers. A few have repurposed decommissioned missile silos as they are designed to withstand a nuclear blast and are already equipped with power, water, and air filtration systems.
The largest private billionaire bunker in existence is hidden in a quiet valley in the Czech Republic. The luxuriou
s underground compound is protected by multiple high-security systems. There’s an underground garden with simulated natural light, a pool, a cinema, a library, medical and surgical facilities and private vaults to store gold and personal art collections.
The owner of this and every other doomsday shelter will likely survive whatever apocalypse befalls humanity, but once the threat is over and they open their blast doors and step back into the world…what then? A world populated entirely by pampered billionaires and their supermodel girlfriends would probably not be populated for long.
After the shitshow at Sancho’s apartment, Bettina O’Toole-Applebaum was determined to discover the truth behind Wendy Zimmerman’s story. With a little research, she determined that Belenki’s company did indeed employ a Wendy Zimmerman at one time. Was she telling the truth? Did Belenki really intend to bring down the world’s technological infrastructure? Is that why he put a private apocalypse bunker in every one of his homes? Or was Wendy just as wacky as Flynn?
Bettina was about to write her off as a kook before flak-jacketed commandos stormed Sancho’s apartment and kidnapped her. Who were those men? Why did they want her? Did they work for Belenki? And who was that big one who came in at the end and took Flynn?
The news reports were vague about the rocket explosion at Cape Canaveral, but there were rumors of terrorism and industrial espionage. She gleaned that info from a local Cocoa Beach police detective impressed with her credentials from Rolling Stone. Of course, he also asked her out for a drink, which she accepted in order to pump him for more information. Apparently, there was an assault on the beach and a helicopter crash, and it was all very murky. Just as murky as the mysterious attack on the star-studded benefit at Belenki’s mansion in Saratoga.
Arson investigators blamed the fire and subsequent explosion on a faulty gas line, but the guests Bettina tracked down had a different story. These witnesses were not nobodies. They were politicians and police captains, ex-Navy seals and game show hosts, billionaires and captains of industry. Lady Gaga herself said they were attacked by grenade dropping drones that drove them into the house, which then trapped them and gassed them and tried to burn them alive.