Roen wound his immediate instincts to punch the guy in his perfect teeth into a tight ball and stuffed it deep down into his gut. “What are you doing here?”
Marco took off his jacket and held it out to him. Roen was perfectly content standing there, not taking it, until a glare from Jill gave him second thoughts. He accepted the jacket and hung it on one of the coat hooks lining the room. It must have been raining outside; the thing was soaked all the way through. He pulled his hands away and noticed that they were stained red.
With newfound concern, Roen tapped on Hurley’s shoulder. “Wake up Ines. She’s down in the safe house. Tell her we have injured.”
Hurley hurried off. Roen reached forward to help Marco, but was waved off.
“Don’t worry about me, old chap,” Marco said. “Most of it isn’t mine.” He grimaced. “Ran into those fine Interpol folks coming in from Vancouver. That border of yours is like the Thirty-eighth Parallel now.”
“You fool,” Jill berated Marco, ushering him into the main room. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured?”
“Really, hardly that.” Marco winked. “I couldn’t by any chance trouble you for a drink?”
Roen led him into the sitting room and noticed the Brit wince as he sat down on the couch. He also limped, though that might have been an old injury he had sustained protecting Jill several years back. The reality was, Roen owed Marco for that one. The man was responsible for her still breathing today. However, as much good as he had done for Jill, he had always equally been an ass to Roen.
When the Great Betrayal swept across the world, Roen was smuggled from the Queen’s Hospital to the Cook Islands to the same remote Prophus-run recovery facility at which Marco was staying. Roen had tried to thank the guy for keeping Jill safe. Instead of being gracious about it, Roen received a good-natured lecture from the egotistical jerk about how he should have been at her side instead of gallivanting around the world like a bachelor, and how she was too good for him. He might have let that slide, if Marco hadn’t continued on about how once he recovered from his injury, he would teach Roen how to act like a real man. And somehow, the Brit had had the audacity and glibness to say all of that in an affable manner.
The two had exchanged harsh words while both were wrapped up like mummies. It was a sad spectacle. Nothing looks more pathetic than two recently near-dead men getting into a fight. The two pushed a seventy-four year-old nurse to her limit when she had to restrain them both at the same time. They got into it three more times before Roen was finally well enough to leave and rejoin his family.
God he hated that guy.
The worst part was that Jill and Marco had kept in touch. The truth was, Roen was to this day jealous of Marco, not only because of the man’s close friendship with his wife, but also his suave ways, money, and charm. The damn guy had been dealt all the good cards in life. And now he was good friends with Roen’s wife. To top it all off, Roen had to grudgingly admit that Marco was better than him at just about everything.
Jill went to the infirmary to retrieve the necessary supplies while Roen and Marco sat across from each other in the living room. She shot them a worried glance before disappearing around the corner. They sat in silence for a few awkward moments, Roen staring intently at Marco, and Marco acting like he was alone in his own house. They began speaking at the same time.
“So how’s our bird holding up?” Marco asked.
“What’s going on out there?” Roen said.
Another awkward pause followed.
“Well, you first,” Roen said.
“A gentleman gladly waits,” Marco replied.
Do not bite on everything. Let it go, Roen. You have bigger things to worry about.
That’s what Tao would say if he was here. His friend’s phantom voice in his head came across loud and clear. He took the imaginary voice’s advice and elected to remain civil. “Jill’s good. She’s prospering in her command post.”
Marco nodded. “I don’t get to catch up with her as much as I’d like – or as much as you think I do – but I hear good things about her when I drop by Command. By the way, old chap, could you hand me a glass of water? I’m parched.”
Roen looked at the red stains on Marco’s shirt. He went to the kitchen and returned with two cups, a pitcher of water, and a bottle of scotch. He found Marco limping around the room, examining the cheap knick-knacks they displayed to make the house look homier without actually giving away any personal information. Of course, none of the pictures were of the family.
“You’re dripping blood all over my imported carpet,” Roen said, putting the tray down on the table.
Marco looked down at the floor. “Swedish?”
Roen nodded.
“I hope you didn’t pay for it.”
“Cheap. Moving sale.”
“You paid too much, then.”
Marco brightened when he saw the bottle of scotch, the glass of water now forgotten. He gave the twelve-year a nearly imperceptible upturn of the nose before taking a glass.
“Do you need ice?” Roen asked.
Marco sniffed. “A touch of water will do.”
Roen poured them both a drink. They sat back down in awkward silence, both raising their glasses only slightly to acknowledge the other.
“So how’s the boy?” Marco continued. “Rumor mill says he might be the second Prophus Adonis.”
“Who’s the first?”
Marco raised his glass again and grinned.
Roen rolled his eyes. He had walked straight into that one. “He’s doing very well, but I don’t want him to be an Adonis.”
“Aren’t you too old now to still be full of self-loathing?”
“I just want what’s best for my son, and being a hardcore Prophus agent isn’t it. If I could get him away from all Quasing and have him live a normal life, I would. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for him. How is the war going in the rest of the world?”
Marco took a sip and shook his head. Roen wasn’t sure if it was because of the bad news or the bad scotch. “Well, old boy, the world is in a bit of a jam. Seems aliens as a whole are just a step below taxes on the world popularity scale.”
Roen grunted. “At least the Quasing are still above politicians then.”
“I would put them about even,” said Marco. “Right now, Asia is a total loss and Europe a powder keg.”
The bad news continued to pile on. Between Asia solidly behind the Genjix and most of Europe and North America hunting all aliens, the only relatively safe zones for the Prophus were South America and Africa, both of which had so many problems they couldn’t care less about millions-of-years-old visitors from outer space.
The rift between the two factions had precipitated tensions across definitive lines, and now countries were picking sides and preparing for global conflict. The world was on the cusp of World War III, which played right into the Genjix’s hands, and the Prophus were smack dab in the middle of it all. The worst part was that nobody wanted the Prophus on their side. They were their own little island about to be crushed between several juggernauts trying to crack the planet in two.
“A little histrionic, no?” Roen said when Marco finished.
The Brit shrugged. “Well, while you’ve been playing Lost Boys in your forest, I’ve been out on the front line.” For the first time, Roen noticed the man’s overly confident facade crack a smidgeon. “It’s rough out there, Roen. Consider yourself blessed for having this.” He gestured at their surroundings. “I haven’t had a place I could call a home for more than five years now.”
“What about your estates?”
Marco shook his head. “All under my sister’s name. Haven’t seen my family either. Wasn’t able to make mother’s funeral. Couldn’t risk having my family linked to an alien.” Anguish flashed across his face. He picked up his glass of scotch and raised it to Roen again. “But that’s the life we lead, right, old boy?”