Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 02
2323. Just over half an hour to midnight. Roger Bragg sat watching the clock display, finger on the stopwatch, attempting to measure the duration of one minute. The clock was faulty, he was convinced, as each moment dragged on for a modest eternity. For someone who was always so time poor, he thought, tonight of all nights he was rolling in the stuff, as he waited, and waited, and waited for that knock on the door.
2324 blinked onto the screen and Bragg hit the stopwatch. His shoulders slumped. 60 seconds.
The buzz of his phone startled Bragg clean off his seat, and Darth Vader's theme wafted into the room. His dearly beloved's personal ring tone. Bragg swiped 'Accept' and put the phone to his ear. "Fang? Is that you?"
"Rodge?" Tanya seethed, "What the hell does Alana think she's doing? Is she there? Put her on!"
"Ally?" Bragg frowned, searching the lavishly-appointed two-bedroom apartment, on the 63rd level of a seaside luxury hotel. "No. I haven't laid eyes on her."
"Well where the hell is she? Her dad's having kittens because she didn't cancel SAR. What about Becky?"
"W... what about her?"
"Does she know what she's up to?"
Bragg's pulse rate quickened as he glanced at his battered old Garmin. Not too long ago, his wrist would have been adorned by the biggest, showiest lump of gilded look-at-me he could structurally bear, but those ostentatious days were well and truly gone. "But... Beck hasn't turned up either."
"What do you mean?" Tanya huffed. "They landed a couple of hours ago. I saw them on Flitetrak."
Bragg's scalp prickled with sweat. As much as he loved Alana- how could he not- he lived in constant fear of her crossing swords with petty authority. And this region was lousy with the species. "Have you tried the FBO?"
Tanya breathed hard down the line, as if to say, 'What do you think?' "Yes."
"And?"
"They said they didn't have any information."
"Not that they would give us any if they did."
"And you haven't heard from Beck?"
"Not a cracker." Bragg replied.
"Ally I can understand, but not Becky. What should we do?"
Bragg looked at his watch. "I might grab some wheels and swing by the FBO. It's only twenty minutes away. The girls might have broken the aeroplane or something. Or there's trouble on the ramp. Don't worry Sweets, I'm sure they're okay."
"Well ring me the minute you hook up would you, Darling? So I can rip Alana a new one."
"Settle petal, you know how meticulous she is. If she hasn't checked-in there'll be a good reason."
"Rodge, I'm worried."
"I said don't worry. That's my job."
Tanya cut the call and Bragg ran a hand through his hair. When he went to pick up his key card his hand was shaking. For Ally not to call her father, letting him know she'd arrived safe and sound, was not just unusual, it was unprecedented, and nothing short of a network failure would stop her. Bragg snapped his fingers. Of course, that had to be it. The local telco was down, situation normal. Fingers turning to thumbs, he tapped a little fairy icon on-screen, then listened while Beck's phone rang once, then twice, and a third time before a connection was made. "Rebekah?"
There was a brief, loaded silence, underscored by the sound of heavy breathing. Deep, heavy breathing, like an animal, nothing like Beck's. Cutting the call, he tried once more in case some wires had just been crossed, but this time the call just rang out. He picked up the room phone and dialled down to reception.
The concierge answered. "Mister Bragg?"
"Good evening, Marco. I need a limo. Out the front, thanks. Five minutes."
"Of course, Mister Bragg. May I know your destination?"
"That's okay, I can tell the driver."
"Very good, sir. BMW or Mercedes?"
"A Merc should do. Make it black one."
"Consider it done, Mister Bragg. Five minutes in the forecourt. It will be waiting."
For a city state that so noisily proclaimed its staunch moral probity, the place sure did have a spirited nightlife. Bragg sat slumped in the rear of the limo watching the scenery pass by, the city centre sidewalks busy with pedestrians. Most were European, members of the expatriate army that kept the locals in the state of luxury to which they were accustomed. Expats had the expertise, locals had the money, derived, in the main, from oil and gas. Here and there he saw zombie-knots of guest workers- a euphemistic term for slaves- ogling the city's wares through an impenetrable socioeconomic barrier, on the one night a month they might get off. Men from India and Pakistan, Africa, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, many holding hands, all wearing the same slightly bewildered expression, wondering what it must be like to have so much money and liberty. A few locals ambled through the mix, men only, bearded and swarthy, dressed in spotless white dishdashas and red-checked keffiyehs, with sandals on their feet and beads in their hands.
The few females Bragg did spy were mostly hookers. 'Business girls', from high-class Russians arm-in-arm with locals, to Filipinas and Chinese, from Mongols, Malays and odd little Thai, all the way down to bargain-basement panhandlers from Africa. An international smorgasbord of renters. Bragg had a deep and abiding affection for these hard-working girls, who brought so much joy into the world. In fact just last night he'd taken 2 home, a Chinese mother and daughter duet, a rare and wonderful prize, quick-turnover short-timers who wound up staying the night.
Chinese were his favourite when it came to the matter of hookers- no nonsense and level-headed, good business minds. And they knew how to do the horizontal tango, which probably accounted for their numbers back home. His least favourite were the Russians. Ice Maidens, overpriced, overbearing and hugely overrated, rude, pushy, a complete waste of time. There was a joke among the local expatriates- 'what's the difference between a Russian hooker and a corpse? A corpse doesn't keep checking its watch while you're fucking it.'
The limo hit the main drag and accelerated to 200kmh, blasting straight past a cop car parked under date palms on the median strip, eliciting not so much as a second glance from its phone-surfing crew. A way down the road, Bragg's speeding Mercedes was overtaken by a hulking great SUV, doing 220 if it was doing a kay, the inside light on and the driver with his head down, texting, while 4 small children wandered around inside. The driver glanced up and quickly made a correction, almost clipping the curb, then went head-down again to continue the message. Spectacular prangs with multiple fatalities were a common sight on these roads, all the will of god according to locals.
Scenarios streamed one after another through Bragg's mind, like the streetlights whizzing past his window. Many didn't bear dwelling upon- the region was well known for its fundamentalists and radicals, the deranged, the zealous, the dispossessed. Others were far more innocuous- Alana had Beck to herself so much these days she was starting to act like she owned her. And the Stream was empty. No prizes for guessing what was happening down the back- a pre-handover fuck on the cream leather settee. And if that were the case... well... he was going to have words with young Captain Blake, harsh words. He was going to tell that guttersnipe, in no uncertain terms, please, first things first. Call your dad before getting down and dirty. And if she didn't do what he asked then he would have to ask her again. Very sternly.
Tearing past the international terminal, the Merc peeled onto a slip road, then wound its way through a veritable maze, left, right, left, right, past long-stay parking lots, where many of the luxury cars sat cloaked in inches of dust, not so much parked as simply abandoned by wealthy locals heading overseas. While the glittering, three storey Fixed Base Operator was meant to be open 24/7, when Bragg tried the entrance it was locked. He took a step back, then approached the big, sliding glass doors once again, a little more emphatically, hoping to wake up the motion sensor. When the doors showed not the slightest intention of opening, he pressed the intercom on a wall-mounted security box. Moments later, a fat, bored security guard scuffed into view and swiped the glowering Westerner in. "I thought you guys were meant to be open twenty-four hours." Bragg fumed, striding through the foyer.
"I'm sorry, Sir," the guard replied, "there are no more scheduled arrivals tonight, so we close the doors."
"Yeah?" Bragg curled his lip. "Well, my aeroplane's outside and I can't find my crew. Where's the receptionist?"
The guard turned his back and muttered into his hand-held. A few minutes later, a skinny little Asian lass stepped out of a lift nearby, all bleary-eyed from being torn from a cat nap, still straightening her skirt as she hurried to her post. "Sorry to keep you waiting sir." she said, opening a wooden gate and slipping behind the counter. Filipino, Bragg thought, the accent was unmistakable. "How may I be of service?"
Bragg lay his hands flat on the counter and took a fortifying breath. "My GulfStream came in a couple of hours ago. November Six, Six, Lima Alpha Whiskey."
