The Vance Venture

Author's Note:

This is but one scene in a much larger tale. I recommend checking out the previous chapters, or most of this one may make little sense.

Time for someone to check up on Lena...

o

THE SOLDIER

Thursday, May 26th, 05:23 hours. His cell phone rang.

Cy opened his eyes and sat up in bed, turning to the phone on the nightstand nearby. It rang a second time. He obtained the phone and activated the call as it travelled to his ear.

"Cy."

"Hi Cy." Lena's voice, sounding relieved. "Sorry to wake you." Elevated stress patterns in her lie. She was glad he answered, but something was seriously amiss, and Cy was not one to beat around the bush.

"What's wrong?"

She laughed, and he nearly winced at the pain he heard in it.

"That's why I love you Cy." She was exhausted. "You know it before I say it."

"Where are you?" He got out of bed as he asked the question and grabbed a stack of clothes folded neatly on a chair nearby. He slept nude, but he had no time to dress now. He tucked the clothes—jockeys, jeans, socks and a tee shirt—under his arm and left the bedroom.

"I'm at home," she said as Cy crossed the living room to the front hall. "Can you come over?"

He was already calculating the fastest route there at this time of day. His keys and wallet were placed neatly on a small side table near the front door, his boots standing together below it. He stepped into them and grabbed his effects.

"I'll be there in fourteen minutes."

"You mean forty, right?"

"See you soon."

He disconnected the call, tucked the phone into the pocket of his folded jeans, and then yanked open the door. He marched briskly to the end of the hall, to a door marked EXIT. He always took the fire escape when he needed to save time.

Outside, he descended the first flight of metal stairs, but only because they took him in the direction he needed to go. When the staircase switched back to go down another flight, Cy simply grabbed the rail and vaulted over it, dropping swiftly through the air the remaining three stories. He landed in a crouch in the parking lot below, cybernetic implants helping his legs and back easily absorb the impact.

He could run real fast, too.

As he stood, he glanced around. The place was deserted this early, except for a pleasant old woman, seated comfortably in a rocking chair outside her first floor patio door. Cy could swear she sat there so often just for the rare occasions that he happened by. He nodded to her casually as he strode past, his clothes tucked under his arm. She was harmless.

"Ms. Johnson."

Her wide eyes followed him, but she said nothing, only grinning happily, mesmerized as he walked by completely naked.

His truck was parked close by, and by 05:25 hours, he was mobile.

Cy's truck looked like some old heap from the outside, but its rust-bucket façade was marred by a few discrepancies. All the windows, windshield included, were tinted to an opaque black. The tires, though on plain steel rims, were high performance racing tires, mounted, if one were to look beneath the vehicle, on a top-grade racing chassis. The truck also rode several inches low, and the cargo area was concealed beneath a filthy fibreglass cover.

Inside, the cab of the 'old beater' looked more like an aircraft cockpit than the interior of a pickup. Two bucket seats with racing harnesses were mounted where a bench might once have been. The entire dash and centre console were custom, wrapping the pilot and passenger in dials and readouts of blue, switches, knobs and buttons of black. The main instrument panel was entirely digital, and lit a deep cobalt blue.

When the engine fired, it was more Richard Petty than Pa Clampett, and Cy drove it as such across town. Traffic was light at this early hour, and he managed to keep the needle over 120 most of the trip. He dressed as he drove, quickly but carefully, keeping his attention on the road. Two close calls, thirty-seven traffic violations, and eleven minutes of adrenaline-pumping speed later, he reached Lena's lakeside bungalow.

He hammered the brake pedal to the floor as he approached her place, and then threw the truck into a sideways skid, screeching to a halt in the middle of the road, facing her driveway. He then gently accelerated down the long paved drive. She didn't like it when he roared up to her house.

05:37 hours: fourteen minutes. Right on schedule.

Lena lived on the lake in a single-floored beach bungalow. The roadside yard was grass and fruit trees, with the drive down the centre from the road above. Manicured lawn. Landscaped gardens in front of the house. Very nice. Behind the house, the waterfront side showcased a rock garden, but was otherwise strictly beach, with a long pier, wide enough to entertain on, extending out onto the lake.

Cy pulled his truck off the drive and parked next to Lena's Hummer, then calmly cut the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. He paused a second, then reached down under his seat for the handgun strapped there before closing the door. He tucked it into his jeans at the small of his back as he inspected her truck. It was bathed in mud, but seemed otherwise normal—until he spotted the door latch, smeared with a substance that was neither dirt nor water.

Blood.

Cy made for the front door. It was unlocked, so he let himself in.

"Lena?"

No answer.

His electronic eye took quick stock of the main room as he moved though it. It was a comfortable living room spanning the depth of the house, with huge windows opening onto the beach out back. A high ceiling sloped to either side; over the open kitchen to a single door on the left and across the living room to three doors on the right. The centre of these, the washroom door, was ajar. Cy could smell steam.

"Lena?"

He spoke her name more loudly this time, approaching the washroom door, yet still received no reply. He could hear running water.

He laid the fingers of his left hand next to the gun in his waistband, but didn't draw it. He put his shoulder to the door frame and gently nudged the door open with his right hand. It swung wide without a sound, and Cy peered into the steamy bathroom.

The glass doors on the shower stall were closed, but through their misty panes Cy could easily make out the form of the good doctor. She moved slowly, washing herself with unusual care.

"Lena."

She stopped her cleansing ministrations, but kept her back to him in the shower as she finally replied.

"Hi, Cy."

Cy drew the pistol from his pants, but only to place it on the polished countertop next to his keys and cell phone as he approached the shower doors. He opened both, and water began to rain out onto the velvety bathmat.

Cy's brow furrowed slightly as he beheld Lena's slashed and scraped, bruised and battered body from behind. Twenty-nine deep lacerations criss-crossed the backs of her legs, her buttocks, and her back, and the wounds looked as yet untreated. A large bruise purpled most of her left hip, and her right shoulder was a swollen mass of red, black and blue. He counted well over a dozen other minor abrasions, scratches and bruises before she turned around.

Cy noted the four slashes down her chest, the wretched, disjointed Vs carved down each breast, before looking up to behold her pitiful smile, her face battered and bruised. He smiled back, the crooked, awkward grin he reserved for her alone, his effort to make her feel better.

Several cuts and bruises marred the beautiful features of Dr. Lena Lang, including a deep gouge in her forehead that looked terrible. The rest looked rough—scratches on her cheeks, a bruise along her jaw, a shallow cut down the ridge of her nose; but Cy was confident he could take care of them. At the moment she looked bad, like her face had been slammed or ground repeatedly into the earth, but he would make it better.

As her hazel eyes met his, he saw a crack in the grim determination that had taken her through whatever misadventure she had endured tonight, and as her pitiable smile faltered, he saw her defences crumble. Her lips shivered into a frown as the tears spilled, and Cy stepped into the shower to catch her as she melted into his arms.

Without a word he held her, sheltering her soft sobs for a long time. Then slowly he made his way about gently washing and cleaning each of her wounds, taking special care not to cause her any more pain than she had already felt. The gouges down her chest were the worst of her injuries, but she had apparently already cleaned and treated them once, and they looked better already. The other wounds—those she couldn't reach—were cleaner for having been in the shower, but still contained bits of sand and dirt. He decided not to deduce her whereabouts the previous evening. For now.

When he had finished cleansing her injuries to his satisfaction, he helped her from the shower and gently patted her dry with several towels. She had an ample first-aid kit out and ready, and Cy carefully and methodically treated and dressed each of her wounds. It took some time, and when he was done, Lena was littered with swatches of gauze and bandages.

"I'm finished," he stated as he completed taping the nasty laceration down the bridge of her nose. He knew it wouldn't scar.

He stood back and beheld his work, smiling his crooked smile in what he feared would be another vain attempt to reassure her. He nodded once, and had to agree with her summation when she checked herself in the mirror.

"It looks like mummy lingerie."

She looked up at him, and her eyes were no longer weepy. When she smiled, it was no longer pitiful. She looked decidedly better already.

"Cleopatra herself never looked so good." He liked making her smile.

She stepped to him and wrapped her arms around his broad back, and Cy gently embraced her in return. He stood a full head taller than Lena, and she wearily rested her head on his chest. The scent of lavender rose from her long red locks, and Cy savoured her favoured allure.

"Thank you Cy."

He hesitated.

"May I ask?"

It seemed an eternity before he heard her soft reply.

"No. Not yet."

Gently he led her from the bathroom to her bedroom. He wanted to carry her, would have, except that her wounds denied that option, but even her severely bruised hip she favoured only lightly as she walked. She was a strong woman, he knew. He had seen that strength many times before, but rarely was it as shaken as it had been earlier. Something serious had occurred, but he would respect her wishes first, and would not inquire further.

He helped her to bed, then stripped off his wet clothes and lay down with her for a while, gently holding her, soothingly caressing. It was not long before she fell into a deep restorative sleep. He listened to her steady, easy breaths for a long time before rising from the bed. He returned to the bathroom, where he cleaned up quietly. When he re-entered the bedroom, Lena had rolled over but was still peacefully asleep.

Cy put his wet clothes in the hamper and then quietly opened the bottom drawer of her antique oak dresser, where he kept a few changes of clothes here for just such an occasion. He grabbed a new pair of jeans and a shirt, and then silently bent over Lena to leave her a soft kiss before exiting the room. He dressed in the main living room before returning to the bathroom for his effects.

There was a text message on his phone: PRE-OP TONITE 1730. There would be a similar message on his voice mail, both of which he had been expecting. It was 07:20 now. The Vance job would begin in less than twenty-four hours. The pre-operation meeting could be on no other day than today.

Cy sent his reply to Jack: MESSAGE RECEIVED + LENA.

He had barely slept after his own endeavours the previous night, but then sleep was not something Cy required a lot of. He preferred answers. He thought he'd wash Lena's truck for her. Maybe discover where it had been.