‘You gave it up, remember?’ it screamed in his mind, along with the sickening feelings he had suffered when he first learned that his wife-to-be did not survive their run in with the arms ring all those years ago. Short of envisioning her split open face on the morgue slab, Sam was jerked out of his excitement by his trigger response and reminded of his vow to distance himself for any more high risk ventures for the sake of investigative journalism or any other incentive offered for sticking his nose into deadly situations.
“You’re right. You’re right,” he said to himself as he opened the bottle of anti-depressants for his daily dose of normality, “Let others get themselves killed. You are just a spectator. Just watch. There is nothing wrong with keeping track of developments, yeah?” He swallowed the capsule and slammed down his cup. It was a new bad habit — coffee. But he refused to quit smoking, so he needed a new bad habit to even out his impotent will for danger.
There was more harm to the medication and therapy than any good, he thought, apart from getting through his days without the threat of death around every turn. But being Sam, he missed the rush, the adventure of waking up every morning having no idea what the new day would bring.
There was an addiction there and most addictions had a purpose, no matter how dark the need for them. There was a reason for getting hooked, regardless of the high you sought. For Sam, it was the excitement of ancient knowledge, the travel to places he could not even point out on a map before. His thrill was the excavation of the unknown, the uncovering of sinister things coursing under the thin layer of everyday life, like a veil hiding them to prevent panic, yet they undeniably existed.
In front of the LED screen he sat in some variation of contemplation, leaning toward indecision. Should he share?
According to his last conversation with Nina, she was in Spain with Dave Purdue, the thrill-seeking millionaire she suddenly became romantically involved with. Sam could not understand how she could finally yield to Purdue’s affections after years of vehement refusal, based on an apparent dislike for the man. There had to be more to it. Nina was a firecracker. She was a brilliant professional. She was a vulnerable and defensive hothead as well. But one thing he knew her not to be was a gold-digger or a woman who engaged men purely for financial or career improvement. Sam knew her to be someone who could not be bought, less even seduced. Many times since he saw her last he had considered just coming out and asking her what compelled her to become involved with Dave Purdue, the man she just about hated. Even if not for his annoying nature, she would certainly have loathed him for always luring her into adventures that soon became life threatening, leaving her less satisfied in her accomplishments as she had been before. But Sam cared greatly for the petite historian and did not allow his childish insensitivity to spoil things between them, no matter how curious he got.
He found himself staring at her name on the screen while the cursor was pulsing on the empty body of the e-mail. Come now. Are you going to write or not?
Suddenly his choice was made for him. Bruich jumped up on the desk and walked carelessly over his keyboard, closing the program under his second paw while dragging his tail across Sam’s face in an arrogant display of authority.
“Thank you, Bruich,” Sam said evenly, his fingers still stretched in mid-air from the surprise.
Meow.
Like Nina, his cat always had the last word.
Chapter 3
“His death was unfortunate, yes, but that is no reason for you to act like a shivering simpleton and leave the organization because you have a sudden influx of emotion!” Lita chided loudly in her intimidating tone. Like a teacher, she circled her subordinate in the hazy room filled with her cigar smoke. He looked up at her, weary of her, as they all were. From her lips, the thick smoke seeped as she mouthed her words, giving her the likeness of a human dragon.
‘No wonder they call her “Fire Breather” behind her back,’ he thought. To make matters worse, the ambitious Lita had flaming red hair down to her waist. It impressed upon her employees and associates her fiery disposition and passionate pursuits of her goals. Once Lita set her mind on something, no amount of discourse or argument could deter her.
She most certainly had the means to support her confidence, being an heiress of a great fortune and boasting an education most could only covet. Now she was sucking on her Dominican cigar, pacing around the chair where her best thief sat shaking. Her eyes flashed to his, quickly reading his every facial expression to determine his attitude and loyalty.
“Sebastian, you are one of my best people. Please don’t make me…” she stopped to take another drag of the choice tobacco and Sebastian’s pleading brow followed her tall silhouette crossing the daylight-lit window. Through the smoke that curled and billowed as her figure disturbed it, he saw her as a primordial deity. Perfect beauty, even in mature age, she walked gracefully. “…get rid of you. You have given me over two years of promising service thus far and I would hate to see you… go,” she sighed, clearly finding it tedious to have to select her words to sound less malicious.
But by reputation, all who knew her name knew that Lita was malicious without pardon. Fearful of her vast knowledge of history, science, physics, and anthropology, many of the people she employed never corrected her or dared call her bluff on anything. She was as reckless as she was smart and she made no secret of her intentions.
‘If Lita says she is going to kill you, you had best update your will.’ Sebastian recalled the words of his first colleague after he joined the ranks of her organization. At the time, he thought it a rookie joke, something to warn and unravel the new guy, but he soon noticed that some of the men he worked with had disappeared after failing at missions on occasion. Now, here he sat, confronted by the Dragon Lady herself, only just managing his bladder control.
“Now, tell me again: why you did not collect the vial in the store room, as you were told?”
“Madam, the vial was not there. It really wasn’t. I checked the lock box you showed me in the picture, but it was empty, I swear! Even the other containers — I checked them too! Nothing,” he explained, hardly capable of keeping his voice even.
“I lost a man, Sebastian. A very capable man whom I have trusted for years. He was killed while serving as a decoy…” she lunged at him, the devil in her low growl as she planted her slender hands on either sides of his chair, frightening him to the bone, “…for you! For you! And all that for you to fail? You could not bring me the one thing I sent your party for, Sebastian! And I lost Jürgen! I should put your fucking head on a spike for this!” she roared in her damaged voice, hoarse from smoke and a childhood stint of chronic bronchitis, which almost destroyed her vocal chords. Many of her subordinates imagined she would sound like Marianne Faithfull if she ever tried her hand at singing. But the only singing one could expect from Lita would be the Banshee keening of a death omen.