Driver Pt 11

Driver Pt. 11 In The Deep End

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

Marvin made it back alive. Just. The tender's cold-room was emptied and Goldstein's body laid down to chill. Below decks in the tender's brightly-lit infirmary- it was standing room only.

Sitting back in a swivel chair, still dressed in his blood-stained work gear, Blair looked the sullen prisoners up and down. Stripped to their boxers, they stood staring into infinity, waiting for the show to start. "A Dutchman, a Russian and a Mexican walk into a firefight." Blair began, "Have you heard this one?"

Holding their tongues, the unwilling guests shuffled from foot to foot.

Arms crossed, legs out, slumped in a chair by the wall, Carter stirred. "How did you know we were coming? You? Dutchy?"

"Sorry." the Dutchman shrugged. "No speak-a de Eeenglish."

Carter gestured at the desktop translator, a squat, black, triple-armed starfish with flashing green LED-eyes. "No problem. She can help."

"If it's okay with you I'd rather not say."

"And if it's not okay with me?"

"Then you can eat a dick."

Smiling grimly, Carter gave a nod. "Kudos for being such a conscientious employee. You. The Russian. Who do you work for? What was your brief?"

Ignoring the translator, just like his buddy, the Russian shrugged.

"You don't understand, boys," Blair said reasonably, "there's no getting out of this. You're deep in the bowels of a private vessel, bound for international waters. It's just us," he twirled a finger, "and no one else. No lawyers, no advocates, no one to speak in your defense. And no one knows you're here. No one. You've got no choice. You've got nowhere to go."

"As de-facto combatants," the Dutchman spoke up, "we are now technically prisoners of war. As such we are protected by the Geneva Convention, and if you should so much as lay a finger on us..."

"Then what?"

"You know what. It's against the law."

"Well, you guys started it. Two extralegal killings. AND you killed one of my guys."

"Is business," the Russian sneered, "same like you."

"Correct." Blair nodded. "And so is this. The business of gathering information. I mean, what would YOU do if the situation were reversed?"

Lip curled, the Russian muttered under his breath and was surprised to hear the chick who lived in the black plastic starfish speak up. In crisp, lilting AI English she said, 'I would give you twenty-one roses.'

Blair's expression darkened and the Russian's buddies edged away. Leaning against the wall, Wendy wrinkled her nose. "Twenty-one roses? Is he hot for you or something?"

"Nah," Blair shook his head, "twenty-one roses. Only the Russians could have come up with it." Raising his hands, he drew three lines with his right forefinger down the left. "They slice each finger and thumb down to the bone, like so. Then peel the flesh back, like petals."

"Eww..." Wendy grimaced, "that's not very nice."

"No, it's not. Ten fingers. And ten toes. That's 20. So what's number twenty-one I hear you ask."

Wendy thought about it for a moment, then shoved herself away from the wall. "Is that so? Would you mind Tony? I'd like to sit down."

With a glance at his comrades, Blair relinquished his seat, whereupon Wendy sat, shaking her hair back. "If you ask me," she said, shucking her sleeves up, "doing that sort of thing takes a special sort of a guy. To inflict that much excruciating agony on another human being... well... it takes balls." Looking around, she snapped her fingers at Tower. "Here, Tiny. Lend me your pig-sticker."

"It's Tower, Ma'am." Tower replied, drawing his knife from its sheath, a huge, black, razor-edged affair with a ripsaw back.

"What evs." Wendy shrugged and the Russian licked his lips. Wheeling herself to the desk, she crooked her finger. "Rasputin." she said, patting the table, "Over here."

The Russian took a step back, and Wendy clicked her fingers again. "Boys."

The scuffle was short and one-sided, and the Russian was duly delivered to Wendy's side. Reaching into a calf pocket of her borrowed black fatigues, she extracted a pair of blue latex gloves and snapped them over her hands. "Now," she said, eyeballing the Russian's junk a few feet away, "this nice man is gonna ask you some questions and you're gonna answer, mm-kay?"

"Pig fucker Western bitch. One day I make you fucking big black dog."

"Thanks mate, but I'm more of a cat-person. Tony?"

"How did you know we were coming?" Blair asked. "Who told you? What was your brief?"

"Pussy schoolgirl ass-fucker bring whore mother for fighting. Fuck you. Fuck your mother."

Wendy heaved a sigh. "You're still not winning me over. Here, Sardonic Phil. Pull his pants down."

"You mean?" Phil said, miming the act of dismasting the Russian's filthy boxers.

"Yes, I do mean."

With Blair and Tower gripping his arms, the Russian jerked as third pair of hands wrenched his dignity down to his ankles. Doing their best not to look, the men did so anyway, unable to resist darting glances at the Russian's equipment. "Down a bit." Wendy said, "His balls. Park 'em on the table."

While he struggled and cursed, Blair kicked the Russian's feet apart till his wrinkled, hairy scrotum was resting firmly on the table. Wendy raised the knife. "Last chance, Ivan."

Unleashing a spittle-laden torrent of expletives, the Russian called into question Wendy's parentage, ancestry, species and sexual proclivity while the starfish of Babel faithfully interpreted. Waiting till he finished, Wendy opened her mouth to speak and off he went again, on another prolonged, profanity-laden rant. Wendy looked around. "Jesus Christ! He's like a walking talking thesaurus of rude words. Here. Someone hold his penis out of the way."

Blair and his men swapped glances, each daring the other to move. Wendy looked from one to the other, frowning. "Come on lads, it's just a penis. You've all held one."

His buddies pushed Chimbo to the fore. "Go on, Chimbo, you've held one before."

"You ALL have," Wendy glared, "some of you probably quite recently. Preacher man?"

Preach raised his hands. "Miss... if my momma finds out."

"Jesus Christ!" Wendy swore, pulling another pair of surgical gloves from her pocket. "Here, put these on and then it doesn't count."

Winkling his big, sweating hands into the tight blue gloves, leaving the fingertips flaccid and empty, Preach pinched a tiny fold of Russian foreskin.

"Bah!" Wendy exclaimed, "Not like that. Wrap your hand around it. Hold the stupid thing like you're trying to choke it. Fist! Use your fist. There!" she said, stretching the ball sac to its limit, "Now hold it out of the way."

Preach looked at her, his face pouring sweat. "You're not really gonna..."

Wendy raised the blade and everyone jumped as the edge slammed down on the table. Taken by surprise, the Russian looked down, relieved at first, thinking she'd missed, as a murmur went through the crowd. Picking up his severed scrotum between fingers and thumb, Wendy dangled it in the horrified Russian's face and down he went, poleaxed, into the foetal position, screaming and wailing as a pool of blood crept out from under him. "Jesus." Blair breathed. "Wendy."

"Well, I did warn him."

"Travis?"

"Don't look at me." Mack raised his hands. "She's her own boss."

"You know," Wendy said, waving the disembodied ballbag in front of the Russian's stunned comrades, "when I first got here, to the states, I used to work in a big city hospital. Four nights out of five they'd bring little kids in, torn apart by gunshot wounds. We'd watch those poor little lives slip away, then move onto the next patient. Which more often than not it was the shooter... and we'd bust our arses trying to save those worthless lives, when all we really wanted to do..." Lobbing the scrotum into a trash can nearby, Wendy scanned the sea of pallid, sweaty faces, settling at last on the mortified Dutchman. "You." she said, beckoning, "You're next. Cock or balls?"

"No!" the Dutchman shook his head, "NO! This is INSANE! We were just doing our job!"

"Well that's the thing." Wendy said, "This is not a job to me. To any of us. It's a sacred quest. Isn't it Trav?"

Mack crossed his arms, refusing to be drawn, while Carter, grim faced, gave a nod,

"The... creature... you work for took something we love. Some-ONE we love. So, no, it's not a job. Cock or balls, it's your choice. And hurry up, I'm a very busy woman.

Tall, powerful, having just witnessed the unthinkable, the Dutchman put up a spirited resistance that took Blair and three of his men to subdue. It took some doing, but his impressive tackle eventually wound-up centre-stage on the ad hoc operating table. "Please," he panted, "no. I'm just a contractor. A civilian."

"What?" Wendy frowned, "You were de-facto combatants a minute ago. Make up your mind."

"You can't do this! It's just barbaric! It's wrong!" The Dutchman looked at Blair. "We are all warriors here! We're brothers! You can't let her do this!"

"Love to help, Bro," Blair shrugged, "but she's on a roll."

"Cock or balls?" Wendy asked, wiping the blade on her pants. "Hurry up or I'll do both."

The Dutchman's eyes darted in the last prisoner's direction. "Take him. Take him. He works inside. Inside the base, underground."

Wendy's brows elevated, and all eyes turned on the scratched, dirty Mexican. "He does?"

Eyes rolling, swaying on his feet, the Mexican dropped his chin and began silently weeping.

"Dutchy," Blair glowered, "before she cuts your balls off. What was this dude doing out there? With a bunch of contractors?"

"Giving the orders." the Dutchman replied hurriedly. "It was he who ordered the 2 executions. Before sending us down to the LZ to wait."

"For us?"

"We were only meant to capture you."

"What for?"

"Ask him! Ask him! I'm just a contractor, I swear."

Blair snapped his fingers. "Boys. Bring him here."

Head lolling, weeping and moaning, the Mexican offered not the slightest resistance as Blair's men delivered him, and his junk, to the chopping block. His shorts disappeared and he stood, naked and afraid, his penis withdrawing like the head of a frightened turtle. Then, without further ado, he began to sing. Like a canary. In high-pitched, rapid-fire Spanish.

"I can tell you everything," he pleaded, "EVERYthing! Just don't cut my balls off."

Leaning past him, Blair switched the translator off and turned to his men. "Marv? Marv? Over here. Where's... oh... yeah. Here, Chimbo. You speak Spanish."

"Not as well as Sardonic." Chimbo said. Who had never been as good as Goldstein, but Sardonic Phil stepped up anyway.

The story unfolded. Victor Marquez, a one-time cartel foot-soldier, had signed up 5 years before. In that time he had risen through the ranks in Xibalba, from riding shotgun on drug shipments to perimeter patrols and, finally, the holy grail, close personal security to scores of naked young girls. Tonight's field-work was a favour to a friend, swapsies, so his pal could mingle with the fabled breeders. With a virtual goldmine of information to impart he was led away, for the time being still in possession of the family jewels, to a separate cabin, where Sally and Claire asked the questions while Sardonic Phil prompted the answers.

His sundered crotch packed with gauze, the Russian was dragged away and chained up in a store-room. In a few days time they'd deliver him to a hospital, where the wound would be closed, before he was dumped back in Europe within crawling distance of the border.

Which left the tall, handsome, as yet intact Dutchman. "What do we do with him?" Blair asked.

Carter jerked his head. "Take him up on deck." he said and the Dutchman sagged with relief. "And throw him overboard."

"WHAT?" the Dutchman cried, "What for?"

"You can swim, can't you?"

The Dutchman looked beseechingly at Blair. "Throw me overboard? What for? I've told you everything. Cooperated every step of the way."

"Well what else are we gonna do with you?" Carter glared. "Keep you as a pet?"

"Send me home."

"And let you loose again? After murdering two of my people? With another killed in battle, a fourth lying down below with a big gaping hole in his chest."

"Nooo, no, no, no," the Dutchman shook his head, "I'm done with it. I swear. I'm going home to grow vegetables and raise my kid."

"Bullshit!" Carter sneered, "you'll be back in the game in no time."

Wendy raised the knife, turning it from side to side. "Not if I cut his balls off."

"Sir," Blair raised his hand, "Mister Carter, if I might make a suggestion. Why don't we just cash him in?"

"Cash him in?" Carter frowned.

"Security companies pay good money for returns."

"How much?"

"A couple of million. You could use that to defray your costs."

"Couple of million? That's the goddam change in my ashtray. No. Let's get rid of him."

"Then," Blair said, "with respect, maybe WE could have the money. Send some to Goldy's family, give Marv the rest to help him out. He won't be able to work for months, if ever. I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

Carter heaved an exasperated breath. He had fully intended to ditch this dead weight, but Marv had, indeed, earned a hefty gratuity on top of the usual bonus. If someone else could foot the bill. "How do we make sure he never comes back?"

"Oh, he won't come back. Will you Piet?"

The Dutchman blanched. "How...?"

"Doesn't matter how. The question was, will you ever come back? Will you ever take up arms again? For money?"

The man known as Piet shook his head. "No, Sir. I swear. I SWEAR!"

"There you go then. Mister Carter?"

"And if he does, Tony? You promise to go after him?"

"Well, Sir, it won't be him we go after. It'll be his family. What do you say, Piet? Sofia or your word?"

Piet's jaw sagged at the mention of his wife's name.

"And little Beatrix? How old is she now? Eight? Nine?"

"Seven." Piet muttered.

"Old enough. So, Piet, do we have a deal? I hope so for her sake. I mean, little Beatrix must be worth millions on the open market."

"You have my word." Piet said, almost inaudibly.

"Excuse me?"

"You have... my... WORD!"

Blair rubbed his hands. "That's settled then. Mister Carter. I'll put you in touch with our repat department. Get this sonfabitch off your hands."

******************************************************************************************

The company hack, a black Agusta 109 Power, sat idling on the pad, Mack behind the controls, head down doing business with the nav computer. Movement caught his eye and he looked up to see a black SUV roll into to the lay-by. The rear door opened and Sally bailed out, her pretty floral dress billowing up in the downwash to reveal a pair of skimpy pink briefs. Pointedly looking away while she reined in the wardrobe malfunction, Mack felt a stirring in his lap. The first for ages. Headmistress, Mother Confessor, Governess. Task Master, Fire Marshal, Therapist in Chief- Sally was all those things, but if she so much as beckoned.

The left door opened and a minder helped her into the front, waiting while she strapped in before handing her a baseball cap. Slipping on her shades, she sat waiting while her travel gear was stowed in the rear, then gave the hired help a quick thumbs up. Her smell filled the cockpit as Mack wound up and his balls tightened. Adjusting her headset, Sally pulled her mike down, breathing hard like an over-excited kid. "Finally, I get to sit up front."

"All you had to do was ask."

"Didn't wanna upset your copilot."

"I don't HAVE a copilot. Not anymore."

Sally rolled her eyes behind the mirror lenses of her Oakleys. "Jesus, Trav. Are you still banging on about that?"

Mack shook his head. "Nope."

Bound for Corps Christie, settling into the cruise, Mack rattled off the checklists Wendy would have normally done, studiously ignoring the hulking black abyss of her absence. Head back, Sally scanned the overhead console, fingers tracing rows of switches and circuit breakers. "Can I help you?" Mack asked.

Finger to her lips, Sally shook her head then popped a well-worn breaker. Cockpit Voice Recorder. "There," she said. "Now we can talk."

"With no CVR? Should I be worried?"

"No. Just relieved. How are you travelling after the other night?"

Mack eyed Sally briefly then looked away. "A-okay. No different to any other time."

"The boys said you did an awesome job. In the debrief, Tony said if it hadn't been for your fast thinking none of you would have come back."

"He said that, huh?"

"Among other things."

"Such as?"

"You were cool as a cucumber when the shit hit the fan. And your timing was impeccable."

"Well, that's just planning, aint' it? Any dumb-fu... idiot could do it."

"Right. I'll tell Tony you appreciate the compliment." They flew in silence for a while then Sally spoke up. "Gee these things are small, aren't they? Not like the 139."

Mack gave the glare-shield a pat. "Nahh, she's a real little sportscar."

"And so many buttons. What do they all do?"

"Nothing." Mack said flatly. "They just put em' there so pilots have something to play with. Otherwise they get bored. And there's nothing more dangerous than a bored chopper pilot."

Sally's white grin lit up the sombre cockpit. "Really? Well, you can't complain about the view. I can see why Wendy loves it so much."

"Yeah? Well, let's just hope she signs-on with a better crew."

"Trav..." Sally sighed, "...must you?"

Mack nodded. "Uh huh. How's the search for her replacement going?"

"Jesus Christ, Trav, why are you still so butt-hurt?"

"You know why. I thought we were a team. Until she fucked off leaving me behind, cowering in the chopper like some little bitch."

"Ahhhh..."Sally nodded knowingly, "so THAT'S it! You wanted to be out there with the boys, swinging your dick around."

"No! I just wanted to be useful is all."

"Useful?" Sally hooted. "How much more useful could you be, as the sole chopper pilot? Without you NO ONE'S getting home."

"Right. But I was the only dumb fuck who didn't know. Carter knew, Blair knew, even the fuckin' cook knew. Come to think of it... did you know?"

Hesitating for a heartbeat, Sally gave a nod.

"There you go. EVERY-one knew, except the dumb fuckin' driver."

"That's right. The only person who would have said, 'No'."

Mack shot her a glare. "How do you know? How did SHE know?"

"Really?" Sally challenged, "What WOULD you have said? If Wendy had told you?"

About to utter a blatant lie, Mack opened his mouth then shut it again.

"You would have said 'No', Travis, wouldn't you? Tell the truth."

"Who gives a fuck WHAT I might have said. Certainly not Wendy."

"Time was short. There was too much at stake. There was no opportunity to discuss it."

For a while Mack sat in brooding silence. "So this is why you came? To make excuses for Wendy?"

"No," Sally said reasonably, "I came because I have a meeting in Corpus. And I need to talk to you."

"About?"

Sally heaved a sigh. "That Mexican dude, Victor. We can't shut him up. We've actually dubbed him Encyclopaedia Xibalba. Among other things he said they knew you were coming. They knew exactly which pad and when you'd arrive. Thank fuck you saw their tracks, Travis, or it would have been ugly. But the bottom line is, someone betrayed us."

Mack thought about it, then jerked upright. "Are you suggesting I somehow-"

Sally punched his thigh, hard enough to elicit a grimace. "For fuck's sake, thicko! NO! I was wondering if you could come up with any suspects."

"Me? What would I know?"

"That's what I'm asking."

They flew in silence for a while, then Mack entered into a long, complicated exchange with air traffic control.

"Someone must have been watching our movements." he said at length. "They knew where we were going and when we were gonna get there."