Driver Pt. 10 Ambush
This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.
Carter, Sally, a brace of security and, unbelievably, one of Carter's sons, climbed on board the company's brand- spanking new 139, idling on the pad beneath the Big House. The flight was a quiet one, out to the Lightwave where Carter did much of his business, as it cut laps off the coast south east of Corpus Christie. Then off once more after a quick slurp of fuel, to Requiem, one of Carter's private islands where the family spent much of its time. With nought but Kingsley Carter down the back, all alone, brutally torn from the bosom of his natural environment. The gigantic playground in which he usually dwelt, a magical world where he had twins to bully, fawning staff to push around, and the witch Veronica to wipe his ass and blow his nose. Ten minutes into the flight while Mack and Wendy sat, not daring to speak, the Carter boy's whining voice came over the intercom. "Are we there yet?"
Mack and Wendy looked at each other, both silently nodding and shaking their heads, each mouthing, YOU do it!, in a brief but spirited duel.
"Driver? Can you hear me?"
Lips compressed, Wendy shot Mack a quick, filthy glare. "Sorry, Sir." she replied. "Say again?"
"Why aren't we there yet?"
"There?" Wendy floundered. "Where?"
"Requiem, you fool. That's where you're taking me, isn't it?"
"Requiem, Sir? There's still fifty miles to go."
"Well it didn't take this long last time. If this is another hijack."
"The ship might have been closer last time." Mack piped up. "It... like... moves around."
"I know what the ship does." Carter Jr. said petulantly. "But can't you go any faster? I'm hungry. And I need to go to the bathroom."
Mack's eyes met Wendy's again and they swapped some ocular dialogue. This idiot had to be in his thirties, surely. Yet here he was whining like a toddler.
"I'm telling Veronica." Carter Junior huffed, confirming their diagnosis. "Fifty miles? What a joke!"
Overnight, Requiem had gone from an island retreat to an offshore stronghold, patrolled by massive black RIBS with quad fifty-cals, powered by 4 mighty outboards apiece, backed up by 2 massive rig tenders, dragged in from the oilfields, powerful water cannons poised to ward off uninvited vessels. On shore, in 3 locations, camo nets disguised improvised missile batteries, borrowed from Carter's Red Sea fleet where they'd been busy shooting down drones. And, once the helicopter arrived with radar watching their every move, the minders who greeted them were a new model too, no longer run-of-the-mill, gum-smacking posers, but grim-faced operators- the real deal- in black fatigues and bulging Kevlar utility vests. The rear door opened the moment they set down and Kingsley Carter departed, throwing the gold-plated headset on the ground as he stormed away. They watched him angrily gesticulate for all the world to see, before commandeering a cart and driver. Reaching up, Mack popped the Cockpit Voice Recorder CB. "What the fuck?"
"Looks like someone finally cut the umbilical cord."
"Why the fuck did they have to send him with us?"
Wendy thought about it briefly then looked at Mack, grinning behind her microphone. "Maybe the boss was hoping we'd ditch."
Mack sat bouncing up and down with laughter while the engines cooled down. When the blades whooshed to a stop, a heavily armed security goon opened the door, assault rifle slung over his chest. "Captain Mack." he nodded. "If you'd be so kind to step out."
The hair stood up on Mack's neck. This was how it started the last time. An old hand, the operator picked up on Mack's alarm. "Sir," he said wearily, "these protocols apply to everyone. Miss Kershaw asked me to give you a message. 'If you don't like it, just remember who it's for'."
"Who?" Mack asked, climbing out, raising his arms as a second squaddy waved a wand over his torso.
"Miss Viviani." the trooper replied. "Who else?"
On the other side of the aircraft, undergoing a similar routine, Wendy stood with her feet apart, watching the wand slide up her inner thigh. "Watch where you're putting that swizzle-stick, cowboy."
A smaller guy, looking way too young to be mixed up in this sort of business, the trooper replied, "Sorry, Miss. I'm being as careful as I can."
Wendy's eyebrows elevated. "Oh. I mean cow-GIRL."
"Well," the girl smiled, stepping behind her, "you wouldn't want one of those knuckle-draggers doing it."
"Says who?"
"Sorry, Miss Stamp, I'll have to pat you down wherever I pick up a tone."
"Bra-catch and underwired cups," Wendy nodded, "and the zip on my pantaloonies. You go for it."
"Appreciate it."
"Do I get to feel yours?" Wendy asked, testing the envelope.
"So, what's that accent?" the girl asked, refusing to play, "Swedish or something?"
"Australian." Wendy said, "But don't hold it against me."
"Say," she smiled, "are you the chick who jumped onto that burning rig?"
"Why do you ask?"
"She was an Aussie. Was it you? Pretty sick if it was."
"Well," Wendy shrugged, "I'm not gonna lie."
"Wow! I saw the footage. Hecking amazing."
"Well, don't forget my buddy over there, busy having his balls weighed. He got us there."
The girl looked up, her sweating face smeared with camo stick under the shade of the black Kevlar helmet. She smiled a dimpled, disarming, perfect white smile. "Then they're gonna need a bigger set of scales."
Mack's own screening concluded with a pat on the back. "Thanks," the squad leader nodded. "I know it's a pain in the ass."
"Can't be helped." Mack shrugged.
"Did they warn you? When you signed up?"
"Warn me what?"
The squaddie looked around. "That you'd be going to war? Cos' that's what it is. This competition among the elites. A real clash of the titans. Sooner or later there's only gonna be one left, and he'll own the planet."
Mack hefted a shoulder. "What'll he do with it?"
"Whatever he goddam likes." the minder shrugged. "He'll be a god. Literally. While the rest of us just live from pay check to pay check, creeping around in our miserable little lives."
"I quite like mine."
"Cos' that's all you know. But for them. There's nothing in the world they can't have with a click of the fingers. Nothing. Anything guys like you and me can imagine, plus a lot of stuff we can't."
"Maybe. Till they end up on the slab one day. Dead as a maggot. Naked and pathetic, just like the rest of us. And then they'll go where all of us go."
"To Hell?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of the great DMV in the sky. At the back of a perpetual queue. Forever and ever. But sure, if you like, they'll all go to Hell."
"So, are you guys hungry?" the trooped asked as Wendy joined the huddle with her pretty little shadow in tow. "We can't let you leave the pad, but we can whistle up some sandwiches and soda."
Wendy patted her flat stomach. "You know, now you mention it. I could use some tucker."
The troops squinted at her. "Some what now?"
"Food." Mack cut in. "You'll have to excuse her, she's Australian."
A message went up to the summerhouse. Moments later one of the ubiquitous golf buggies appeared, a pair of domestics in the front trying to avoid any sudden movements, gunslingers in the back looking none too happy to be playing nursemaid. None of them wanted this gig, where the chances of shooting anyone was virtually zero, but the pay was eyewatering and protocols were protocols.
Wandering to and fro beside the aircraft, Mack and Wendy wolfed down the snack, Mack Marine-style, quickly and deliberately while he still had the chance, Wendy as if she were sneaking a clandestine break in the ER. Meanwhile their cordon scuffed around, weapons slung, ready to mow them down if they wandered away from the pad. Nothing personal, just client's orders. Movement caught Mack's eye and a convoy of golf carts appeared, snaking down the brick-paved path through the coconut grove surrounding the summer house. "Well," he sighed, brushing his hands, "here's our fare." Head back, Wendy skolled her soda then heaved a deep belch. Mack gave a grunt of laughter. "Spoken like a true Marine."
"Better out than in." Wendy shrugged, handing her empty can to the young female tactical. "Wanna feel me up again?" she winked. "I might be stealing the silverware."
The girl took the can, patently embarrassed, as the first cart drew up and four burly men in black fatigues rolled out brandishing assault rifles. One twirled his finger and Mack gave a nod, climbing into the cockpit, deftly cinching the 5-point harness by feel, an action he'd performed thousands of times. The second cart arrived, slewing to a stop under the rotors, close beside the open rear door, and a minder hustled a diminutive figure into the cab. Viviani, Mack presumed, though it was impossible to know, with her head covered by the hood of her pullover, her face invisible behind a surgical mask and gold-mirrored eyewear. Her half-brother, Kingsley, followed in her steps, trailed by a pair of sweating, heavily-armed, grim-faced minders and, last but not least, a small blonde woman, likewise masked, in a pink frilled-skirt and loose white top, a pink baseball cap two sizes too big, and gold-reflective wraparound shades. Marching quickly between the cart and the helicopter's open door, she made fleeting lens-to-lens contact with Mack and gave a small nod.
The Agusta was airborne in four minutes flat, powering away, low, over the water, before turning its nose towards the Carter estate. Not a word was spoken by the passengers in the rear and, settling into the cruise, Mack punched the autopilot awake then sat back to enjoy the scenery. This was his happy place. In the sky, flying low over a restless seascape in 14 thousand odd-pounds of screeching metal fatigue, under 5 pounding rotors, driven by a pair of fire-breathing turboshaft engines guzzling kerosene at the rate of 900 pounds per hour. With a leggy blonde tomboy sitting beside him, head down tapping a message into her phone, pretty face in the shadow of her faithful old baseball cap, eyes hidden by her shades, boom mike nestled against her pink, pouting lips.
Mack cracked a private smile, thinking, 'The idiots are actually paying me to do it.'
Wendy looked up as if overhearing his thoughts, only to be stopped in her tracks by a sudden thumping down the back. "What the..." Mack breathed, seizing the controls, heart-rate red-lining as he called up the systems page. Even as he was checking the temperatures and pressures, they heard voices shouting over the residual din of noise-cancellation. "Skip?"
Twisting in her seat, Wendy reefed the privacy screen open, half expecting to find a crowd of hijackers had somehow beamed into the cab and were taking Viviani hostage. Instead she saw Carter's eldest, way down the back, trading kicks and slaps with the strange little blonde seated across from him in an aft-facing armchair. "What the FUCK?" Wendy exclaimed. "What do you two think you're doing?"
The pair ignored her, shouting and slapping, while the security goons, seated either side of Junior, stared out the windows in simmering embarrassment.
"STOP IT YOU TWO!" Wendy shrilled while Mack steeled himself in case the brawl should enter the cockpit. "I SAID STOP IT!" Throwing off her straps, Wendy looked at Mack for a nod of approval. Arching out of her seat, insinuating her body into the rear with feline fluidity, she stood doubled over in the cabin between the combatants, "What the FUCK do you think you're doing?" she scolded, arms braced on the ceiling. "This is a chopper you fuckin' idiots, not the fuckin' octagon."
"Well SHE started it." Junior cried, pointing at the small blonde stranger. Wendy shot the girl a searing glance of reproach, then her eyes went wide as she did a sudden double take. "Vivi?"
