Jagger
Two days back….
The shot to my chest felt like my mother’s God punched me straight in my heart. I’ve made Him angry before, and of course He’s only being obliging by doing the same in return. That’s the type of relationship we have.
I point my Magnum to the asshole who forgot the golden rule. To get Jagger down, go for the fucking head. A .357 bullet rips through the skull of the guy. I step off the curb at the Aria valet and onto the very empty taxi lane where the man lays dead. Standing before him, I let off an entire round. With each shot, the man is even less identifiable.
“Where the fuck is my truck?” I grunt.
Sirens are wailing.
Venom slams through my veins. No, not the kind Trick has. But I’m gonna have to thank the bastard for my button-up shirt. Had the shot been any higher, I’d be dead.
My stomach grumbles while I reload my Magnum. No time for weaknesses, I growl at myself, moving toward the parking garage. Then I pull out my cell phone and press on my truck application.
“Where are you?” I ask into the reviewer.
“Do not move!” An authoritative voice shouts from behind me.
I stop walking. That tricky friend of mine can keep me from dying in certain instances but feeling the effect of being shot in the back, most importantly my spine is a no go.
“Place the gun on the ground and raise your hands!” He shouts. I close my eyes, and my ears perk. There’s more footsteps. His tone became more confident.
There are three of them. With your standard .40 caliber or perhaps a .45? Nope, still no desire to be shot in the back.
I glance to my left. The people inside of the casino eye me with fear, I offer a slight nod. If you don’t have a gun, we don’t have a problem.
“Place the gun on the ground, raise your hands in the air or you will be shot down!”
“You can’t shoot me in the back,” I caution in a cocky voice while tossing my gun to the ground. I grimace somewhat. My beloved gun, discarded so hastily.
“Now raise your hands in the air!”
Fuck, I shake my head. My hands go into the air. They are taking forever. I need them to issue another command so that I can get away.
“Down to the ground.”
That’s what I need, to get low. I get down slowly, placing my palms onto the warm cement, which actually soothes my mending cuts. As I start to lay down, I grab my second Magnum from my waistband, turn onto my stomach. Before my eyes connect with the officer who spoke, I’ve shot where his mouth is.
The bullet rips through his nose instead. Okay, so my target was off. Then to the left, the black cop beside him is shot in the head, and so is the redhead to his right. There’s no sweat off my back. I didn’t need to subdue them and if luck ran out, having one shoot me as a last heroic effort wasn’t something I was ready to gamble.
They’re expired. Permanently.
And I’m up, grabbing my Magnum just as I hear the sound of copters.
The birds in the sky are always my worst enemy. Too hard to dodge.
You may think that I’m backing myself into a corner by continuing to head toward the parking garage. On the contrary, I need a shield to leave this place. The lot is about fifty yards out. I see a pair of flip flops hiding behind the curve in the casino building.
I point my gun and take a breath. It’s not someone ready to rectify this kill-head, but a young blond.
“Have a good day,” I mumble, returning to my socially challenged nature.
“Th-thanks,” she shakes out the word.
I dodge over the railing of the parking garage at the last moment. Inside, I pull out my phone, again, and toggle to my truck app.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“Good day, Mr. Johansson,” the computerized voice speaks. “Please allow me to provide you with my coordinates.” The map turns on, and a red dot comes up. “Third level… North entrance…” the automated voice begins to tell me where to go.
“Turn on engine,” I command.
As I run up the stairs, I determine just how I’m going to get out of the parking garage with my truck.
And nothing comes to mind.
I love my truck. It means the world to me. But it’s the end of the line for us. The engine guns to life. What a beautiful roar. I can hear choppers surrounding and the sound of a loud engine…. The SWAT team is here. Impeccable timing.
I run across the lot, in the opposite direction of my truck.
“Drive,” I make the command into my cell phone. The truck begins to pull out of the parking space. “Faster.”
“Understood, Mr. Johansson. Down or up?”
“Up,” I crouch low, near the cement railing, on the west side of the third level. The truck moves at 25 km now, following the path higher into the parking structure.
The sound of choppers has lessened. I calculate the time it takes the helicopter to complete a 360, coming right around back to me, as I hear it hovering at the South entrance.
The engine of the SWAT vehicle is closing in on me. I need them to either come now, and continue ascending before the helicopter makes it back to me…
Or I have problems. Big problems. I have to save Mikayla.
The helicopter is at the east entrance now… I’m at the North.
Heavy footsteps resound against the cement walls. The SWAT team is not only traveling with its tactical bus but on foot, as well. They’re conducting a slow sweep upward.
The helicopter hovers over my side. My heartbeat booms in my ears as the footsteps increase.
They’re closing in…
The helicopter continues to circle around. I ease up from my crouched position, seeing the helmet of three SWAT members as they move, with caution, up the incline. I grip the cement banister and lift up, turning my hips until my front is against the railing. I let go. Down to level two. My hands hurt like hell as they grip the cement railing.
I let go again.
I’m hearing the sound of choppers, again, just as my feet hit the pavement.
***
I’m at McCarran International Airport by 2:00 p.m. Mikayla has been gone for hours, and my heart feels like it’s ready to leap from my throat. Can’t be love, although that might have been a minor accelerant to my current situation, when I mentioned as much to Ava. Could’ve been my small act of rebellion in response to her temper tantrum or…no. It just can’t be love. I’m unlovable.
But what I am is convicted. I’m a caged animal, and I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to Mikayla. I reach up to tug at my hair, but it’s pulled into a bun, and a cap is slung low over my head. Aviators mask my eyes. And I’ve stolen a cargo jacket, which was mildly suspicious due to the warm weather. But now I’m seated in the blasting air conditioning, at a table for two, on the outskirts of a busy Starbucks.
Across the way, patrons are leaving. In addition, TSA is conducting the first clearance of patrons, with rollaways and carts of luggage, for the Concourse Airlines, which includes American West Air, Champion Air, and most importantly, British Airways.
My gaze narrows toward the entrance of the place, and my jaw tenses at once. I force myself to continue chewing the ham and Swiss cheese sandwich because Trick looks like a fucking idiot.
He always looks like an idiot. All I can do is rub the pulsating throb at my temple as he moves the penguin tail of his suit to sit down at the table across from me. He resembles a British aristocrat from a cheap historical romance.
“You want attention, don’t you?”
“On the contrary, mate, it is I who belongs and you who looks like someone who just robbed a bloody bank.” He grabs the extra coffee and drinks. “How about you remove the hat and let down those golden locks of yours.”
I lean forward. “Our crew has their own satellites, they can tap into any recording in the world, and you think I’m the dumb one. Why did I agree to meet with you here?”
“First of all, don’t piss me off, Juggernaut. I’ve got a little something in my pocket,” he pats his left pec, no doubt he has a knife with some sort of venomous blade inside.
“If it were any other day than today, I’d fight you to the death here, Trick.”
“But the rules have all changed. Jag, you’re the guy who doesn’t mind dying. Excuse me, you didn’t mind dying. I was dead long ago. Do you know what I’d do to change seats with you, to go fighting for Mikayla, fighting for …” he rubs a hand across his face and beard.
Trick is a weird one. He’s a seasoned assassin. I’ve already mentioned that vets in the X Member organization receive the hand selected good shit. The marks with treasures over their heads.
Trick takes anything. The cheap, dangerous crap.
Some say he’s begging to die.
Shit, he just confirmed as much.
But most believe that he takes anything because Trick has his trinkets. Like me, with my engines, Trick makes money by modifying tactical gear. My life was saved this morning due to the shirt he upgraded for me. Unlike myself, I prefer not to be bothered. I’ve had requests to chop down motorcycles and whatnot. I just say, I’m out for myself, it’s a little thing I learned after my mother gave me the metaphoric ‘fuck you, son.’ I’m a selfish loner. On the other hand, Trick makes money from what he does. So most people believe he prefers altering suits to terminating a profile for X Member.
I on the other hand have crossed paths with Trick on an assignment a few times. In some of those instances, I’ve saved his life, in others, he’s saved mine. Currently, I’m winning in regard to playing savior, so I know a thing or two about Trick’s lifestyle.
“Alright, so I’m going to London?” I arch an eyebrow.
“And you will receive a ride from my sister and niece.” He nods.
I shake my head slowly letting it all sink in. “I really appreciate it.”
He grunts. “My niece is already aware. She cried a little, but she agreed that you have to save the princess.”
“I’ll make it up to her…”
“I think the only way to make it up to her is if I move home to stay, mate. No more wishing that someone bests me for good,” he clicks his tongue. “But she expects you and Mikayla at one of her soccer matches in the future, and her mum said she’d Facetime me during the game tomorrow night, any who, so you and I are what? One life to go?”
“We’re even.” I reply taking the monthly plane ticket he uses to go see his niece. My voice lowers again, “Now, what’s the trick, Trick? How do I get through that? The Aria has my photo and it’s already on the news.”
“Yes, but the cops are the least of your concern. That and the photos they have were altered. I met Mikayla, I’m invested in her livelihood. So the photos of you have darker hair, and I’ve fattened you up some.”
I nod. “Alright, But TSA has increased security twofold during my cup of coffee. And I don’t look shit like you.”
“They have. But there’s a gorgeous agent by the name of Tina Glass who will scan you in.”
“I can’t be scanned in,” I grit out, “our organization is tapped into all government cameras and recordings, didn’t we just review this?”
He chuckles and sips his coffee leisurely. “Tell me, Jag, where are you going once you make it to London. My sis will drive you to a private plane which will get you to South Africa, but are you going to the Zihulan Nation or Nivea?”
My face tenses in confusion. “How do you know exactly…”
“Why do I take a job no matter the price?” he arches an eyebrow, knowing good and well that I’m unable to answer that. “I take a mark for a king's ransom or I take one for peanuts because it places me in the most danger, Jagger. I go to see my niece every month to remind me of what it’s like to be alive, around friends. And then before I get on that plane to return to my life of isolation, I torture myself further by visiting the site where my wife died, Jagger. I’m waiting for the day someone bests me. And so, when you came into my establishment with a woman, I would have surely murdered the two of you had she been a true mark because the golden rule is you don’t screw your marks, Jagger.”
“That’s true…”
“Mikayla is not your mark, Jagger. You will go to the Nivean land because her uncle, Qaaim Mthembu, has finally sent for her. The Zihula’s had no hand in this, there is no quest for the king, or any prince to marry Mikayla. In fact, the price of the profile is exactly the amount Mthembu has in his bank account. He was extending his funds in order to appear richer.”
“Shit, the only time a man offers his entire bank account for a mark is when he has nothing to live for,” I mumble, wishing I had paid more attention to the variables outlining the profile, instead of drooling at Mikayla’s photo. There are a select few times when we get cases like this. Most time they’re weeded out, if a person is attempting to offer their entire life savings for vengeance. People like that aren’t to be trusted.
“See, the X Members can play God if they want to. Looking through the FBI, CIA, fucking TSA’s security systems and photos for anyone. But X Member is not looking for you, Jagger. The kill-head on your head is tosh.”
I’m floored as I listen to him.
“Mthembu’s request was weeded out, as some are. The initial request was to just bring her to him. X Member Organization has some political stances about certain things, such as their awareness that Mthembu most likely wanted to murder an innocent, his young royal niece. And a year ago, when she turned 21, they passed on his request. For over a year, however, your Ava Sinclair has been searching the denied profiles for babysitting females. She’s spent hours peering through various requests.”
“And you know this how?”
“Bugger me, can’t you tell I’m like those barmy blokes who search for aliens. Instead I search for the deadliest missions, Jagger. And when I’m bored, and nothing compels me, I see what everyone else is taking. Hence, when you brought Mikayla in, I knew she wasn’t a mark, and so I didn’t murder you on the spot,” he whispers harshly. “But if our organization is still in the vetting process, I might have a hand in being given an assignment instead of the person with the most qualifications. I’m on a mission to die. Thus, I have been watching Ava, she’s searched the cases, like I just said. It was either Mikayla or this German girl with a beastly jaw.”
My jaw clenches. Though our voices have been lowered this entire time, I snap, “Why!”
The place is loud with orders being shouted out, and nobody cares.
“Bollocks, Jagger, have you never broken a woman’s heart? My wife,” he manages to get the word out, “used to ask if I thought a certain woman was beautiful or gorgeous when I talked to them too long. She was playful, but easily jealous. If I could go back and tell her I became blind the moment she came into my life, I would. Ava’s played a childish game with you. Like dangling a hot piece of ass before your face to see if you’re faithful.”
And still I’m fucking baffled. “I’ve never given that bitch a sign that anything with us was more than sex.”
“It takes marriage to learn what and how women think. And, dash it, I still don’t know it all.”
I sit back in my chair. How did the conversation turn to women? We’ve always kept it strictly business and mayhem. But Trick is giving up his plane ticket to see his niece and to go place flowers at the grave of his dead wife.
Shit, were more than even. I owe him.