Lauren already had a hand on her small pistol, but nothing happened. The sky above had turned black, the clouds scudding across the moon. A moaning breeze put her in mind of an old loyal john she used to service maybe once a week — the young guy moaned like a banshee throughout the entire hour-long session, making her seriously consider the implementation of noise-suppressant earphones. Smyth caught her attention, pointing to the third tent along — Bell’s tent — and she nodded.
Softly, they slipped around the canvas side, pausing once more before reaching Bell’s tent. Lauren tried to penetrate the shadows behind her where Drake and the others were waiting, but saw only a thick slab of darkness. It made her feel isolated.
Smyth indicated this was as far as he could go. Lauren nodded and crept to the front of the tent. There was a small gap between the front flaps. She steadied her heart and peeked inside.
Nicholas Bell hadn’t changed a bit. He sat at a makeshift desk, writing in a notepad, head down. He wore a dirty T-shirt, brown jacket and cargo shorts. Boots were unlaced but covering his feet. Within reach of his right hand was a small tumbler filled with a golden liquid and an oversized cellphone.
Lauren gave Smyth a final thumbs-up and slipped inside. It was now or never, and she didn’t like to show a moment’s weakness. As she moved inside the tent Bell looked up, the expression on his face changing from questioning to shock and then to outright fear. Lauren moved closer.
Bell stammered. “Wha… what are you… shit.”
Lauren put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”
“Are you here to… kill me?”
“No, you dope. I’m here to help you.”
Now Bell looked utterly confused, shaking his head slowly. “What? How?” His hand inched closer his cellphone.
“My friends want to kill you,” Lauren whispered, moving over to the table and within grabbing distance of the cellphone if required. “I told them you were a good man. I told them you’re trapped inside an organization where you don’t really want to be. Was I wrong?”
Bell stared for a moment, brain working. “Go,” he said then. “Just get out while you can.”
Lauren liked that comment. “You see? You are good. Any other Pythian would be shouting for the guards right now but you just want to help me escape.”
“I don’t know who or what you are. A hooker? A government agent? Is your name actually really your name?”
“Well, it’s not Nightshade if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You certainly wield a whip well.” Bell smiled in fond recognition.
“Okaaaay. Well, there’s something on the table, Nicholas, but it’s not my body this time. It’s an offer. Are you listening?”
“You’re in incredible danger,” Bell hissed. “Go. Just go.”
“Do you want out?”
“It’s complicated. The things I have been a party to…” Bell drank deeply of the amber liquid. “I never imagined. But once you’re in—”
“Like I said. There’s now a way out. Total immunity.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, it’s a promise. But you have to tell us everything. If your information helps takes Webb and the rest of the Pythians down you get your deal.”
Bell drained the last of the liquid, then reached under the desk. Lauren couldn’t stop a flinch when he moved; her left hand questing for the hidden weapon. Bell frowned, but came up with a bottle of Jack Daniels Firewater.
“And if I say no?” he said, pouring the drink and watching her face. “Do you shoot me?”
Shit! Why are men always so fucking dumb?
“I’m offering you a deal,” she said. “If your answer is ‘no’, then I walk away. But it won’t ever come around again, Nicholas, I can promise you that. I mean, shit, it’s surely a no-brainer, ain’t it?”
Bell closed the notebook he had been writing in and sat back. “Tyler Webb is more than a megalomaniac. He’s unhinged. No way in hell do I want to show up on his radar, and even I dread to think what might happen if he’s successful at Ramses’ last bazaar.”
“Okay. We’ll talk about that later. First — we have to get you out of here.”
Bell exhaled fast and hard, then finally managed a small smile. “If I say yes do I get to date you?”
Lauren winced as she heard a growling cough from outside the tent. That would be Smyth, already prepping his weapon. “Let’s talk about that later,” she said, oddly flattered. Despite his mistakes, Bell was at heart a nice man. His only problem was the lack of courage to do the right thing.
“You coming?”
“They will shoot you. Shoot me. Perhaps it’s best staying put.”
“Never good advice,” Lauren said. “You should move with life and life never stops.”
“But, the consequences of leaving…”
Lauren watched him drain the tumbler again and knew she was in trouble.
Smyth bounced quietly on the balls of his feet, ear to the canvas, listening to Lauren’s coaxing and Bell’s whining. Smyth had known some pussies in his time — some of them in the military — but Bell was starting to rank with the weakest of them. Shit, if Lauren Fox walked toward him anytime he’d follow her into hell itself and without a fucking excuse.
Four minutes passed and then the guard came past, staring mostly at the ground in front of his size-ten clown feet. Smyth could have taken him with a noisy suppressor, a knife or even a rock, but the mission was all about stealth. Realistically, they should escape without leaving a single mark of their presence, and that was something he had been well-trained to do.
As Lauren continued to persuade her mark, Smyth became aware of another presence stalking toward the front of the tent. He recognized Clifford Bay-Dale, the jumped-up, arrogant Pythian, the energy boss.
Fuckboy!
Smyth crept low, a slinking shadow. He saw Bay-Dale pause and then lean forward as if listening. Yes, the reptile had heard Bell and Lauren talking and was now eavesdropping on their conversation. There was no doubt in Smyth’s mind what Bay-Dale would do with the new information.
He slid as close as he dared, right to the front edge of the tent’s side, then rose silently. Bay-Dale was three feet away. Smyth prayed that the guard’s rounds wouldn’t send him past now and ruin everything. He could hear Lauren’s voice enticing Bell over to the noble side, but the effort was taking valuable time. Bay-Dale grunted as he listened, the sound outraged and disgusted. Destiny and fate suddenly hung in the balance.
It all hung on Smyth’s next decision. Wait too long and Bay-Dale could sink them all. Let the energy boss inside the tent and his inevitable demise might then put Bell off. Trying to turn him was out of the question. In the end, there was only one course of action.
Smyth pounced like a desert phantom, as black as night and deadly as original sin. Bay-Dale cringed on sensing the shadow, perhaps already weirded out by the desert and its ghost stories of ships, bottomless sand pits and enormous worms. His mouth froze in a rictus. By then, Smyth was on him, cupping his mouth and throat, and dragging him deeper into shadow, a lethal spider hauling its victim back to its den. Bay-Dale started to struggle. Smyth couldn’t let go of his mouth or vocal chords. His hands were fully occupied. Bay-Dale kicked, feet striking the side of the tent and sending up a flurry of sand. Smyth bore down.
“Naaagh.”
It was all Bay-Dale could manage and it was at a very low pitch. It wasn’t enough. Smyth held on and played the only move he had — he pushed Bay-Dale’s face into the sand; nose, mouth, cheeks and all. Grimacing himself, he strained hard, feeling no sympathy for the immoral, murderous Pythian but experiencing some distress for the plight of his fellow man. Being smothered by sand couldn’t be an easy death. Nonetheless, Smyth knew his mission and leaned on Bay-Dale’s head until all movement stopped. Then, he rolled the lifeless body into deeper shadow.