My ideas turned out to be either perfect or too good, depending on which side of my libido you asked.
After lunch, we walked back into the room and he spun me around into a kiss that would melt polar caps. The feeling of him growing hard against my belly, had my heart doing the Samba. Breathless from the kiss, he spun me around to the music, and took my ass in his hands when I came back around. I thought for sure we weren’t going to make it to the bedroom of my hotel suite. After another kiss though, he turned all business, and I found myself in a nice robe, which covered all the right places with imagination exposing them again. Then I was on the laptop, writing while he paced the room firing off ideas, and plans.
While that sounds like a huge let down, it wasn’t. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the room with a creative genius before when he’s hitting high notes, but it’s a rush. Especially when he’s firing back your ideas with scorching additions and keying further ideas from you… seriously, it’s sex. As near to sex as anything in this world, other than …well… sex.
The session lasted nearly two hours, and I had to have three shots of Tequila to bring my voice into the calm executive assistant persona needed to call the Presidente of Mexico, and invite him out for a stroll among the ruins of the Aztecs.
With the enticements we composed, he was a hooked fish on the line, and agreed to meet us. Turned out he was a huge Aztec history buff. The mention of Quetzalcoatl’s calling altered his voice enough for me to believe he got a hard-on.
After the call, I wanted a cigarette. Slate looked like he might want one as well.
Over the years, enough political news assignments have been handed my way, that I understood the game, but I wasn’t an expert in the arena. Knowing an expert when one is in the room, however, was well within my knowledge. Slate didn’t only understand the ideas, but also understood how to achieve the desired results.
Anyone who is familiar with successful goal setting understands the difference between having an idea, and making one happen. Slate — whether because he understood the arena or had just been around so damn long— poured the details of each achievement out in dictation. I marveled at the practical application of each step. It was the difference between understanding a city at the political level, and understanding it from the top, all the way down to the plumbing level.
He knew the Tiffany Clock, and every gear inside.
I had never written such compelling, and persuasive material in my life. I’ve been writing seriously since high school. All my energy went into learning this craft, but my focus was always the news story. Always.
I’ve never been confused about where I wanted to be when I grew up. My vocabulary was vast, spanning four languages, but always toward one focus. His ideas and details somehow shattered that narrow path into vistas of visual descriptions and directions. Metaphors sprang from my fingers into webs, each building on the next until reading the material for the campaign exploded into the imagination like a storm crashing through the jungle.
It thrilled me. He thrilled me.
Throughout the several hours we worked on this, he had looked at his phone when it rang, noted the number and then sent the caller to voicemail with a casual flick of his thumb. Each time he gave the impression he really didn’t care the message his actions left, either. So when it rang, and he answered, I knew he was about to leave. It surprised me how much I didn’t want him to go. My mind was on fire, and my body racing. In fact, my first thought was to get some clothing on, and go with him.
I had denim jeans and a white and red blouse on before his call ended, with him saying, “I’ll be there shortly.”
“Where we off to?” I asked, looking for my running shoes, trying to remember if I had one of my shoppers get some. When I couldn’t find them, I decided to go with the heels I wore earlier.
“I wish it were, we,” he said. “I have something I have to attend to. Won’t take long, but I won’t be back until morning. I apologize.”
“I can’t come?” I asked, feeling my back stiffen.
“It’s not a can or can’t. I don’t believe it would be wise, and it might be a ploy,” he said. “One attempting to flush you out, and identify us, me and Kane at least.”
“You’re talking about C-Source,” I said, coming to a stop, and turning to him.
“Is that what Kane is calling it? Good a name as any, I suppose. How did it go with the Cartel, by the way? Any problems?” he asked.
I felt a background thought that Kane wouldn’t mind me answering, so I gave him the quick version with the Loco 49s, and Kane’s solution.
He listened intently, then smiled with a nod. “That’ll work. Raw will be ready, I’m sure.”
“What will work?” I asked, feeling from him a layer of excitement yet to be explored.
“Kane’s idea to take apart the Cortez Cartel. He’s brought in the Loco’s to wedge a layer of suspicion through the ranks. Then he’ll shake them up, and point factions at each other. By the time he’s done with them, they’ll be tearing themselves apart. He enjoys the civil war scenario. Can’t say I blame him much. Wish I had more opportunities to do the same myself.”
A vision washed over me, which outlined Slate in blue light and flickers of flame.
“But you don’t, do you? Because what he does with businesses, and groups, you do with politics and countries.” I had no understanding how I knew this. Also, considering the global size of some business networks, one was easily on the same level as the other in many cases.
He studied me for a moment. “Yes. Kane believes that change in the world is best done through negotiation, contracts and business. Through commerce and trade. I believe it is best served through the political arena, and through law and the populous.”
I remembered I did indeed have running shoes, Kane bought them for me. The ones with the orange stripe. I tossed my heels away and went back into the bedroom, returning with them. “And Raw? What does he do?”
Slate hesitated a moment. “War,” he said.
I thought about the monstrous Raw, and that seemed to have an obvious sense.
“And Quinn?” I asked.
He was clearly uneasy about answering these questions. “Am I breaking some kind of protocol?”
His shoulders sloped slightly. “Only in the sense of possible prejudgment. If you were told that I specialized in politics, would you have envisioned what we did today?”
I put my shoes on, using this as an excuse not to answer right way. I needed to think about this objectively. “I don’t think any simple answer could have given me today as a possible outcome.”
He waited, and now it was my turn to droop my shoulders. “Fine, you’re right. It’s better to meet them and discover them without a precept in mind. I’ll try hard to forget what you told me about Raw.”
“I would consider that a kindness,” he said. “You still look like you want to come with me.”
“Oh, I’m coming. If you give me a minute, I’ll come up with a compelling reason, but I’m coming.”
He laughed. “No, a compelling reason isn’t necessary, but I am curious. Considering the risk, what is your motivation?”
I tucked my wallet into the pocket of a light jacket, and grabbed my computer pad. “Well, the first is I’m not ready to end my day with you. Second, because if the reason is a ploy to flush me out, perhaps you and whoever just called, might find a use for me in uncovering who or what this C-Source is — and because I don’t like being hunted. I’ll stay out of sight unless you decide using me as bait might snatch an answer. But if I’m not there, then you won’t have the opportunity at all.”
He weighed this in his mind. “Alright. But will you trust me to call the shots please?”
“If you kiss me like you did before,” I told him.
ooh na-na (uh)…
***
Never underestimate the power of a kiss performed by an immortal who has had serious practice. Oh my.
I was going to be a very good girl if he continued to kiss me like that, and probably do anything he said, as long as he wasn’t asking me to leave his side.
The only thing keeping me from full immersion with him was the memory of that last hour with Kane. The fear of that kind of backlash happening again, was enough to keep me sober. We rarely have any control over our emotions, but we can control our actions, and in many cases, our thoughts.
In the back of the limo, the desire to slide up into his lap was compelling, but he nixed that desire by pulling out a laptop from a case and flipping it open. Frustrated, I leaned closer to see what was more appealing than me. He opened a document and began writing what looked like computer code — something I only have a passing knowledge of — meaning I recognized it, but nothing more.
He rolled down the driver window, and in rapid Spanish asked the driver to stop at an electronics store. There, we went inside and came out in less than fifteen minutes with several stereo components and two huge sub-woofer speakers.
“What ‘cha doin’, McIvire?” I asked when he pulled out a Leatherman tool and started installing the ad-hoc system we just bought.
“Insurance,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said, and decided to try to figure out the puzzle, before I pressed further.
Our next stop was the jewelry store, where he purchased three sets of diamond earrings. Three carats each for the stones, all of them exactly alike. Basic stud earrings. I thought dangly ones would be better, but not after he used his Leatherman tool to pull the stones from the settings, and had me test them as earplugs.
“Now you’re just showing off,” I chuckled and tested the size in my ears. I knew I could figure this out.
Slate went ahead and gave a pair of the stones to our driver, and told him to wear them inside of his ears now, explaining he may not have time to put them in later.
Again, I tried to figure out what was going on. But the more I guessed, the more confused I was. And so, I gave up.
“Alright, fine. You win. What the hell is this?”
“Like I said, insurance.”
“For what?”
“Ambush.”
“Should I put them in now?” I asked.
“No, but be prepared to for the rest of the evening. Keep them handy. In that pocket of your blouse would be good.”
“Alright,” I said, deciding he could keep his little secret. “Where we off to now?”
“There’s a hotel, East of here, where we set up a lure, hoping that C-Source would take the bait.”
“What bait?” I asked.
“We rented a large suite, and then put your essence in the room, and hid your essence at the place you’re staying, hoping he would find ‘you,’ and send someone or come himself.”
“Or, herself?” I asked.
“We’re fairly sure that C-Source is male,” he said, and then added, “But yes, we could be wrong. Every life form begins as female. This makes divining sex difficult even under the best of circumstances. As Ore is fond of saying, male is really a mutation, and the difference between woman and man, is only a matter of degrees.”
Did I know that? Somewhere in the back of my mind, a high school class talking about chromosomes came to mind. I guessed I did know that, but certainly never thought about it to that extent before.
“And, um, my essence?” I asked, unsure what to ask on a topic, which sounded clearly metaphysical if not outright magic in nature.
He thought for a moment, made a correction in the code on his laptop, and then said, “Ever reflect light with a mirror? It’s something like that. You in your hotel was reflected and shown in this hotel. Walking, talking, eating, sitting. And when we went out this morning to the President’s house, your essence visited a newsroom downtown, and performed the physical tasks you did at the office.”
“A smoke and mirror show,” I suggested.
“Similar, very similar in fact,” he agreed.
“And, what am I doing up there now?” I asked.
“Sitting on the couch,” he said.
“Alone?”
“Yes,” he nodded, looking at his laptop screen.
“Well, then,” I said, taking his laptop, setting it aside, and sliding up onto his lap, “This is going to look awkward, huh?”
I didn’t let him say anything. Kissing him deeply I stretched out my legs, and leaned into him. His hands found my ass, and legs, and he began exploring the places I’d been fantasizing him becoming well versed in all day.
For such perfect, flawless hands they were strong. Not as strong as Kane’s, but strength isn’t everything. Experience and willingness go a long way — and always further than raw power in my experience.
The limo cruised through affluent nightlife districts, and up to an expensive hotel; the type, which doesn’t have regular rooms, but rather each is a luxury suite. Slate picked me up, and set me to the side with care.
“You’re coming down in the elevator now,” he said. “Need to be ready.”
“You can feel me? In there? Like you feel me here?” I asked.
“Actually, no. It’s nothing to do with me. This is Ore’s work,” Slate said, and then cut off whatever it was he wanted to add to that statement, turning to focus on the hotel doors.
Ore? I liked Ore. He tended to make me think about high school for some reason. Of the five, he appeared to be the youngest, but what’s a few years younger to these guys? Even a hundred years younger at this point would be meaningless.
Also, what were appearances? Did they have any value at all with these guys?
Turning to Slate with the intention of asking how much control they had over their appearances, I saw two streams of smoke fly over our limo toward the hotel lobby where Slate’s attention was focused, and then the world turned into thunder and fire.
RPG’s. Rocket propelled grenades. I knew all about these from my time in the Middle East and a few other hot-spots around the globe.
The concussion hit the limo hard enough to lift it up off the passenger side tires a couple of inches, and rock us hard as the wave passed. This was followed by a hail of concrete and debris — some of it, people, I was sure. C-Source definitely didn’t care about me being alive, and I recalled the brothers were aware of this little fact. This attack in public, and the violence brought down on people who had nothing to do with this, railed inside of me, and my anger assented to the surface at all five of them.
“You didn’t have a plan for that?!” I screamed at Slate. “That possibility didn’t cross your immortal minds?! Those people are all dead, Slate!”
My anger was met by his rage, “What people? Did you see any people? See a head bouncing out into the gutter, did you? Do I appear to be an idiot?”
Abashed, and verbally slapped back into my seat, I said, “No,” with a meek voice.
“Put in your ear plugs. I don’t have time for this right now,” he said, his frustration with me high at the moment.
I put in my $30k earplugs, and hugged my knees feeling foolish. Of course they would’ve seen that coming, and prepared for it. Why was I so quick to believe they wouldn’t — or was it that I didn’t believe they would care? I didn’t like what the second option said about me.
“Gary,” Slate ordered our driver, “plan E!”
Gary, slammed the limo in reverse, hit the gas and sent us rocketing backward, into a hard spinning turn. The car now faced out, across the street. Once blocking the road, Gary hit the high-beams, lighting up the parking lot across the street.
Three men were standing there, one with a loaded RPG launcher. All of them lifted their hands to block the blinding light that just hit them.
In the blink of an eye, three shots thundered from the side of the limo, and all three of the men were tossed backward, landing hard on the ground and not moving after. Then Raw walked past the front of the limo into the headlights, a large rifle lifted and held on his shoulder. He lowered the rifle, held it out to the side and fired the weapon again. A moment later a body hit the sidewalk in front of the dance club. People screamed, and ran.
“These are just puppets,” Raw’s voice said, through the speakers of the limo. “Not even a real threat. He’s playing with us.”
Slate nodded. “Gary, pattern C. Let’s get out of here.”
Gary put the transmission in drive and hit the gas, turning back onto the road. He then made the first right, and then the first left then left again. Here, he floored the engine, pushing me back into my seat from the acceleration.
Once the pressure eased I reached to pull out my diamond earplugs, but Slate said, “Leave them in. We’re not out of this yet.”
“Ok,” I said, my voice still submissive.
“No need for that,” he said, his voice softer. “I didn’t warn you, you were caught off guard.”
I didn’t want to discuss my questionable motivation, and didn’t want to lie, so I said nothing and looked out the window.
Gary drove five blocks, then made a left, and then another left on the next street. On my mental map, this put us heading directly back to the hotel. Gary slowed down, to just under the speed limit for the area.
Ahead, I saw the flashing of emergency lights. It was a true measure of the affluence level of this area of the city, that the fire department had arrived and cops were already on the scene — or was this the work of the brothers as well?
A block away, Gary pulled to the side, and parked. “I don’t see any activity, jefe,” he said.
Since the firemen and people were definitely active up ahead, I guessed this meant, ‘interesting activity’.
“Raw? You got anything?” Slate asked, but I couldn’t tell where the mic or phone he used could be.
Raw’s voice came through the limo speakers again. “Nothing but puppets.” He sounded disappointed.
“Shit,” Slate hissed. “Ore? Anything?”
Silence drew out along the passing seconds, to almost a minute before Slate repeated, “Ore?”
“I have him,” Ore’s voice said. “Give me a moment, he knows he’s being followed, and he hasn’t crossed over.”
People began streaming out of the hotel in an evacuation effort. Just as they emerged, buses pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel, to get them out of the area, and transport them to some other place. That’s when I knew the brothers were at work with the emergency response. Evacuation buses arriving before the news media didn’t happen in the real world after a terrorist attack — which this would obviously be reported as.
This thought had me grabbing up my own laptop, and pulling it from the case.
“Terrorist strike?” I asked Slate, booting my laptop up.
“Yes.”
“Who’s going to take credit?”
“Your pick.”
“Gotcha. I know just the assholes to pin this one on,” I told him, and began my first creative news report writing. “So, what do we have, four dead, and maybe twenty-three wounded?”
Slate thought about this for a moment “Raw?”
“Eight dead, twenty-three wounded,” Raw replied, his voice a study in ‘disinterest.’
“You killed four others?” I asked.
“No, it just sounds better,” he said.
“Oh, well, I guess it does, thanks,” I answered, mumbling into my chest.
“He has a point,” Gary interjected from the front, without turning, “I mean, with two RPGs into the lobby, and rifle fire, only four dead doesn’t sound all that sensational.”
Since this was my first fictional news story, I decided to nod my head. “Everyone’s a critic now. I see how it is,” I mumbled.