Jonah stumbled to his feet, allowing one glance over to Hassan’s unconscious, crumpled form.
Shit, thought Jonah. The doctor wouldn’t be much help going forward. Without a third man in the fight, it would turn into a straight-up boxing match.
“Well, now I’m fucking bored,” said the colonel.
Face and hands a mess of cuts and blood, the mercenary swung at Jonah, easily breaking through the block and catching him on the chin. Jonah felt the fight leave him as he hit the blood-splattered floor, stars dancing in his blurry vision. Westmoreland violently kicked him in the side of the head, the final coup de grâce knocking Jonah into the sweet release of unconsciousness. Somewhere deep in his battered mind, Jonah felt a small spark of happiness. He hadn’t won the fight — but stalling Charles Bettencourt was the next best thing.
Jonah stirred to life just as the cloudy glass panels to the penthouse elevator faded to clear. The elevator soared like a gondola over Anconia Island, rising high above the oceanic city. Jonah pushed himself to his knees, blood draining from his mouth. Beside him, Hassan had managed to push his battered body against the corner of the elevator, staring at him with empty eyes. Jonah looked back at him with a glance that said more than a thousand empty words. Their victorious captor stood above them, bulky arms crossed, tapping a steel-toed combat boot in impatience.
Colonel Westmoreland smirked as the elevator doors opened, revealing an angled, glass-roofed penthouse. The massive exterior helicopter pad clung from the side of the building, completing the architectural opulence. Charles Bettencourt’s gleaming white personal helicopter idled, rotors lazily spinning, ready to depart at a moment’s notice.
The colonel grabbed Jonah and Hassan by their ziptied wrists and dragged them across the marble floor towards Bettencourt’s mahogany desk.
“You’re leaking,” mumbled Hassan to Jonah, glancing towards Jonah’s bleeding leg. The wound left a long trail of smeared blood as Jonah slid along the floor.
“Shit,” Jonah groaned. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Silence reigned for a moment as the pair considered their fate.
“I was going to say this earlier,” murmured Jonah. “But now is a good of a time as any. Doc, I’ve been abandoned by a lot of people in my life. You are the first one who chose to come back. I’m sorry it didn’t work out like you planned.”
“Maybe in another life,” whispered the doctor. “We could have been friends.”
“Doc,” laughed Jonah, coughing up blood as he spoke, “in this life, you’re the only friend I got.”
The pair of wounded men passed free-standing glass panels holding parchments of colorful and ancient dragons, kraken, samurai, and geishas.
“Nice digs,” commented Jonah through a mouthful of blood. “The artwork looks expensive.”
“It’s human skin,” said Hassan, chuckling with pained, mournful snorting.
“Charming,” said Jonah. “Very Martha Stewart Living.” His face twisted with pain and amusement, joining the doctor in the absurdist giggling. Before long, the two were howling in pathetic, insane laughter at the sheer hopelessness of their situation.
Rolling his eyes, Colonel Westmoreland stopped at the foot of the desk and spun them around to face the corporate cutthroat. Hassan and Jonah drew themselves up to their knees. Charles Bettencourt stood behind the desk, arms crossed, a deep scowl on his face. His lawyer sat beside him in a wheelchair, unshaven, wearing a loose sweatshirt, and with both legs in casts.
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Bettencourt, shook his head in bewilderment. “The very fact that you both are alive is a testament to the total incompetence of my security forces.”
“Nice to see you too, Chuck,” said Jonah, a smile still on his bloody, swollen face. “You know — I never actually caught the name of your lapdog attorney. Nevermind that, I’m just going to call him Wheels.”
“You son of a bitch!” shouted the lawyer from the wheelchair. “You did this to me, you fuck!”
Bettencourt scowled and held a hand to silence the man. “He knows he did it to you,” said the CEO with a tone usually reserved for dealing with exceptionally stupid children. “That’s why he said it.”
“Boss, I brought you a gift,”said Colonel Westmoreland, drawing Jonah’s pearl-handled 1911 pistol out of his waistband and setting it on Bettencourt’s desk. “Figured it would look good in the ol’ trophy case.”
“This is one classy hand-cannon,” mused the CEO. “He doesn’t seem the type. Vintage?”
“Look at the serial number,”said Colonel Westmoreland. “Built in 1928. Beautifully restored with modern internal components. A fine weapon. I’m keeping the doctor’s military-issue nine-millimeter for myself.”
Bettencourt nodded and set the weapon on the desk with a click of metal against glass.
“So Wheels,” said Bettencourt, putting a hand on the back of his lawyer’s shoulders, “what’s our exposure here?”
The colonel laughed.
“Don’t you start,” said the lawyer. “I’m coming off some serious painkillers, and I’m not in the fucking mood.”
“Just answer the question,” barked Bettencourt.
“Fine,” said the lawyer. “So there’s no question that we have data in the wind. The good news is that we managed to shut down the satellite uplink before more than about fifteen percent of total server capacity reached any remote servers.”
“Who do they belong to?” demanded the CEO. “Competitors?”
“That’s the bad news,” said the lawyer. “They’re whistleblower drop-boxes. Activists, NGOs, and political organizations, many of which have it in for us. So whatever they did get, they’re going to be able weaponize with the help of the media. We’re going to have to assume they know everything about our disposal program. The Conglomerate… well, I can’t speak for how they will react.”
“They speak the language of money,” Bettencourt said. “And they need me. We could be on the ropes for a while, but it’s far from game over. I’ve prepared contingency plans for just such an event. Get our legal and public relations folks mobilized. Get them everything they need to start shoring up public perception. Our Investor Relations guys know what to do to keep share prices from plummeting. I’ll call our Russian friends; try to smooth things over there. Hell, Tony Hayward at BP convinced the public he gave a shit about estuaries. This should be a walk in the park by comparison. Nobody gives a flying fuck about Somalia, and nobody plays this game better than we do.”
“And the prisoners?” asked Colonel Westmoreland.
“What prisoners?” Bettencourt said. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re already dead. Don’t fuck it up this time.”
Colonel Westmoreland nodded and put his H&K pistol to Hassan’s head, cocking the hammer with his thumb.
“Jesus!” Bettencourt shouted. “Not in my fucking office.”
“I got to know just one thing,” said Jonah as Colonel Westmoreland reached for his zip tied hands to drag him away. “Was the job offer real?”
Bettencourt sighed and put a hand on his hip. The colonel stood, waiting for the answer.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” said the CEO. “I wanted to create a stable, secure, permanent installation off the Horn of Africa. A place that would provide economic opportunity free of national interests. But instead I was met with suspicion and violence.”
“What self-serving rubbish,” said Hassan, interrupting him.