I stand to pace the floor, dreading the music that I’m about to face, then her phone on the nightstand rings and she sits up, dazed. It rings again and she looks around. I watch silently as she pats the bed and asks herself in Italian where her phone is.

  Hair messy, makeup runny, she looks radiant, but I know better than to grab the camera now and take a picture. She would freak for sure. I answer in English. "It’s on the nightstand on your left."

  She looks at me like I have grown two heads, so I walk over and pick it up then hand it to her. Finally, she focuses, then smiles a lazy, satisfied smile up at me. "Grazie, Mister Big Man. What time is it?"

  When I tell her, I stand back and get out of the storm’s path. She blinks rapidly as she absorbs this news and logs it mentally into her calendar, then her eyes widen and a look of sheer panic spreads across her face. She flings the covers off, begins rattling off in Italian how she is late for a gig, then sprints to the foyer where her clothes are. As she dresses, she calls her agent back and leaves a message. "I’m on my way. Do NOT replace me. Ciao."

  I stroll in as she is putting on her coat and pulling her hair out. She stops, eyeing my nakedness, and smiles, then bounces up to me and puckers her lips.

  "I have to hurry, Americano, but thank you for that fucking of a lifetime." She giggles as I place my lips on her waiting ones. "Let me give you my digits. We can hookup again, no?"

  I’m silent. The moment of straight line truth is here. It won’t do any good or ease the pain if I tell her she was an exceptional fuck and truly fun, so I just shoot her down. "No."

  "No?" She stops, blinks rapidly, then backs up with a confused look on her hurried face.

  "That’s correct. There are no repeats."

  "Ugh!" She yells. The shock of being dumped added to her panic of being late sends her out the studio door. She takes the time to slam it with force before she rushes down the stairs, cussing the entire way. I stroll out to the balcony to watch her run to her car. She stops on the sidewalk, looks up, shakes her fist at me, and screams one more perfect English parting shot. "You’re an asshole!"

  "Yeah. I am. Ciao." I tell the sports car as it peels off. "Well, that went better than usual," I tell the empty studio as I walk back in. Picking up my camera, I take the digital card from it and mark it #633, then walk through the bedroom to my editing island and put it in the hard drive to upload.

  Eight

  Walking back to the bed, I flop down on it, pull the pillows under my head and grab my phone. I call Darren.

  "Aurei! Hey, Bro. What’s happening?"

  "Ah. Not a whole helluva lot. What’s up with you?"

  "An investment opportunity has come calling.”

  “Give me the pitch."

  "A few years back I was talking to a Frat brother who owns Been Jammin' in Vegas. He told me he had discovered a dancer who had an unusual idea that turned out to be a gold mine. He called her his million-dollar baby and that she was a bonafide superstar. I told him if he came across another opportunity like that one to give me a call." He pauses. "He called yesterday."

  "I’m listening," I tell him.

  "This same dancer has been offering a niche service for a select few, very exclusive clientele for years and she has some serious repeat offenders. She came to him with the idea of expansion a few months ago because it’s growing faster than she can keep up with and maintain her other obligations." He pauses again.

  “I’m listening. What is it?"

  "She calls it 'Fucking Fantasies.'" He pauses for effect.

  I nod my head at the boldness of the title. "Wow. That’s straight line. I’m all ears now."

  Darren chuckles. "Bart said anything this girl does makes money. She’s like a money magnet and a business guru all rolled into one. He says she is really intelligent and has an intuitiveness that’s impressive, but he didn’t go into the nitty-gritty of what she actually offers in this niche service. He’s keeping that under lock and key for now. Since you’re familiar with Vegas, I thought you might be interested, and have some insight or at the least ask you to find out more for me. Do a little digging. I’m definitely interested.”

  “Sure. I’ll check her out for you. What’s her name?"

  "Seary. Have you heard of her?"

  "Hmm. Can’t say that I have, but I don’t run in those circles. I know people who do though. I can check her out for you. What’s the deal your buddy, Bart, is putting together?" I put my feet on the floor and my elbows on my knees and listen to the offer as he discusses the details of the deal. "Sounds like the investment is solid. When do you need an answer on the dancer?"

  "Right away. He’s gathering the initial capital investors now."

  "Ok. I’m actually on Thanksgiving leave at the moment. I’ll fly out and evaluate her. I need to touch base on my properties anyway. Do you want me to check in with Bart while I’m there?”

  “No. Just spy on her and give me your honest opinion, if you think she’s a winner or not, and if you’re in or not. I know the deal is a good one."

  "Affirmative. I’ll let you know by the end of the week."

  "Appreciate it."

  "No problem. Ciao."

  I hang up the phone and immediately begin texting my team.

  Antonio: *Change of plans. Charter a plane to Vegas as soon as possible.*

  Mia: *I won’t be coming by the office after all. Forward the contracts. I’ll review and return them from here. Have you heard anything on the issue in North Dakota? Make sure we don’t lose that bid. Also, I want to review the list of charities this year and the dollars allocated for each.*

  Adona: *Cancel the remainder of the girls. I’m good for now.*

  Kip: *I’ll be flying in to Vegas in the morning. What are the chances you can get us a couple of tickets into Been Jammin'?*

  Maria: *I’ll be flying in tomorrow. Would sure appreciate it if I discovered some leftovers waiting for me in the refrigerator.*

  Adona responds first. *Is everything good?*

  *Yes. Leaving Rome. No complaints. She was fun.*

  *Good. I thought you would like her. She is still new to the business. A fresh face. Let me know when you need my services again. You know you are one of my special clients.*

  Then Kip. *Text me when you’re an hour out. I’ll pick you up from the airport. Made reservations at the club. Looking forward to the show! Watching strippers dance never gets old.*

  Then Antonio: *You’ll be flying JetAir. Leaving in two hours.*

  I update Angelo: *I’m flying out in two hours. Please pick me up at my apartment in 30.*

  Angelo answers: *Roger that, Boss. On my way now.*

  Maria sends: *Can’t wait to see you! It’s been too long. I’ll have your favorite waiting. Safe travels."

  And last Mia answers. Her text is a chapter in a book, so I flip through it. Scanning it for anything that must be handled now. Nothing that can’t wait until I’m in the air.

  I head to the bathroom to shave then shower. Lathering up, I stroke my face with the razor, and think about the concept of a Fucking Fantasy business in Vegas where prostitution is legal. All the ideas that come to mind make me realize how uniquely qualified I am to evaluate this particular business venture. Hasn’t that been what I’ve been doing? Having different kinds of sex with different women, experimenting and enjoying all they have to offer? I smile at myself in the mirror. I’m looking forward to learning more about this Fucking Fantasy business. I turn the shower on and step in. Sticking my head under the hot water, I close my eyes and think about nothing. Letting the wet warmth clear my mind and regenerate my body. When I step out, I get dressed in a pair of comfy gym pants and long sleeve t-shirt, then pack, throw on a hoody and leave the apartment. Angelo is already waiting on the street for me. On the way to the airport, we discuss the soccer match.

  At the airport, the traffic is heavy, so I tell Angelo. "Pop the trunk. I’ll walk in." He gives me a look that says he would rather I not, but does what I say. I grab my bag, and trot to the private terminal, check in and board the plane without incident. Once on board, I pull out my laptop and begin reviewing the documents Mia sent over. Halfway across the Atlantic, I finally finish, sign them and hit send. Then I look over the bid for the North Dakota fracking contract, verify the numbers are where they need to be and give her the go-ahead to negotiate the terms. Next, I review the list of charities and notice that Wounded Warriors isn’t on the list. I send her a note to add them and also remind her to make sure she sets up the scholarship for Bradford’s children and pays off their home mortgage for his widow. I close the laptop, take the pillow the flight attendant offers and settle in to catch up on my sleep. "Please wake me when we are Stateside. I’d like to eat while the jet refuels."

  "Yes, sir. Sleep well." He tells me as he pulls the shutters over the windows, blocking out the sun.

  I’m asleep before he finishes.

  Nine

  ....

  ....

  ....

  I’m driving to the flight line. Bradford sits next to me. Everett’s in the back. Bradford is talking about his wife and kids. His youngest just started the first grade. Proud papa. He kisses his school picture and tucks it back inside his flight suit.

  Everett unbuckles leans up and shows off a picture too.

  Crack! Boom! The vehicle rocks and nearly flips, then lands hard upright, shaking us as it bounces to a stop.

  My ears are ringing from the blast. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in them, drowning everything else out. The world seems to be in slow motion. I survey the cab.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  Bradford hangs dead in the passenger seat.

  Anger floods my mind.

  Rage drenches my body mixing with the sweat.

  Then ... a scream that deafened sanity.

  The world speeds back up and the noise is deafening. Everett is screaming.

  I yell over it, and command calm, then try to move to help. My harness is locked. The mechanism is jammed. I’m strapped to the seat. I try to rip it, but it’s too strong.

  My knife is in the leg side pocket of my flight suit. Wedging my leg in the space between the seat and the console, I stretch my arm down to the zipper. My fingers touch the edge of the metal and nimbly I gather the fabric, pushing the zipper open. I continue gathering more fabric with my fingers until I feel the cold metal of my revolver. I flip the snap and pull it from its holster. Quickly cock it, then return it and hunt my buck knife. By the time I pull it from its sheath, there is complete silence. Only the deep, even breathing of Everett fills my ears. I glance back and receive an affirmative nod. I cut the strap and free myself. Lay my fingers on Bradford’s neck. His jugular is quiet, confirming his death.

  Exiting the vehicle, I quickly survey the danger. Looking around the empty area, I spot a burka running with what looks like an AK47. I move around the vehicle, assessing the damage while I hurry to Everett’s aid.

  The roadside bomb was a singular hit.

  We are immobile.

  Trapped.

  Stranded.

  Alone.

  I snatch hard on the damaged door and open it. Only the sound of heavy panting greets me as Everett, who is a seasoned soldier, controls the pain with deep measured intakes and exhales of breath, forcing control, knowing we must contain the situation if we are to get out of this alive.

  "Bradford?"

  "Dead."

  "Fuck!"

  I look down to find a badly mangled leg. Blood has saturated the flight suit. I can’t tell if it’s an artery or a vein. I talk softly while I take my knife and cut the fabric off. "It’s pretty bad, Easy, but it’s only a flesh wound. You’ll live, but you can’t move it." Our eyes briefly connect as I unzip my flight suit, and pull my arms out, letting it hang off my ass as I pull my t-shirt off. Both of us know that means target. I make a command decision. "Call it in and lay low. I’m going after the motherfucker. Shoot anyone who isn’t wearing an American uniform. That’s an order."

  Everett nods.

  I tie my t-shirt above the wound and cinch it tight, knowing the pressure is lifesaving. "Tourniquet. Just in case." I try to offer reassurance.

  “Dead."

  "Fuck!"

  I look down to find a badly mangled leg. Blood has saturated the flight suit. I can’t tell if it’s an artery or a vein. I talk softly while I take my knife and cut the fabric off. "It’s pretty bad, Easy, but it’s only a flesh wound. You’ll live, but you can’t move it." Our eyes briefly connect as I unzip my flight suit, and pull my arms out, letting it hang off my ass as I pull my t-shirt off. Both of us know that means target. I make a command decision. "Call it in and lay low. I’m going after the motherfucker. Shoot anyone who isn’t wearing an American uniform. That’s an order."

  Everett nods.

  I tie my t-shirt above the wound and cinch it tight, knowing the pressure is lifesaving. "Tourniquet. Just in case." I try to offer reassurance.

  "I know. Go."

  I turn toward the closest building as I pull my flight suit back on, estimate the time that has ticked off, the distance to it, the time it will take me to run there, and whether the motherfucker is hiding inside. As I reach into my pocket to retrieve my weapon, I hear Everett say in a voice just above a whisper. "Hard, my gun is jammed."

  Without hesitation, I hand mine over. "Here. Take mine. That’s also an order."

  I reach back in for my buck knife. As my fingers wrap around the handle, a feeling of calmness fills me. 'Hand to hand it will be then.' I pull it from its sheath, knowing all the years of training will give me the advantage. I see Augustus as I sprint to the building and hear the pride in his voice when he named me, The Bastard Son of Thor.

  Entering the doorway, I slide quietly in. Checking the space for movement. Listening with the intensity of a hunter. Knowing my prey is close, but not knowing if the enemy is a lone wolf or a member of a pack. Every sense on high alert, I move from room to room. No one.

  Climbing the steps to the first floor, I hear muffled voices coming from the room at the top. When I push open the bedroom door, a shocking sight awaits. Two women huddle together in the middle of the floor with one, two ... six small children lying face down. Their tiny faces hidden. Tiny hands over their ears. Only their sniffles can be heard. Along the wall to my right are three preteen boys standing at attention, but shaking with eyes bulging. Their faces full of fear.

  'Only a coward would hide here.'

  "Shush." I raise my finger to my lips and begin to back away, pulling the door closed, watching the eyes of the young boys. As they lose focus on me and see what’s behind the door, sheer terror fills their faces, then an automatic weapon begins spraying bullets. The women scream and fall over the children whose cries are more like wails. The young boys’ bodies fall to the floor and blood stains the wall behind them.

  I kick the door open, driving it into the wall and thunder into the room with the ferocity of the roman heritage that pumps through my veins. Hell bent on securing not only Easy’s safety and the safety of the innocents but having my revenge for Bradford’s death. I charge the enemy as the gun sprays the room. He tries to control it and turn it on me, but I reach him first. My left-hand smashes into his throat while my right stabs the knife to the hilt directly in the ball of his shoulder. The gun drops to his side and sprays rounds into the floor. I drive my body into his with crushing power and yank the knife out. My choke hold pinches off the scream of pain and I lift the enemy combatant off the floor, feeling like a raging bear, needing to look him in the eye. Blood soaks the burka deep red and the sight is satisfying.

  I stare ruthlessly at the red face of the murdering coward and see not a man, but a demon staring back. I can feel his jugular pounding to be free and remember the feeling of Bradford’s lifeless one. Laying the edge of my sharp blade against it, I slowly drag it across, using the edge of my thumb as a guide as my eyes pierce his evil eyes. As the blade slips through his skin, I watch them turn into the fearful eyes of a mortal man who knows death has arrived to claim him. I whisper his death name to him. "Motherfucker!" Then I slice his lifeline. Blood bursts forth with a velocity that shoots the ceiling, spraying it, painting it dark red.

  Silence falls heavy, filling the room with a deafening sound. I hold my attack until there is no life left, then I nimbly flip the knife through my fingers and return it to its sheath in my pocket. Its job is done. As I release the murdering enemy combatant, I take the automatic weapon from his lifeless grip as the dead weight hits the floor with an echoing thud. I turn the gun on the innocent occupants, no one is moving. Silent eyes stare at me.

  My cold eyes stares back.

  Hard-Core.

  The only sound I hear is of my own blood thumping and my own calm breath inhaling and exhaling in rhythm with it. When the soldiers burst into the room, I watch the scene unfold as if in slow motion again. They stand guard over the women and children, search the dead teen boys, give the all clear signal and escort the survivors from the room. As they pass, the little ones’ eyes pierce me to my core. The pain, the fear, the unknown. When the women pass, their eyes are turned down as they approach, but one cuts hers at me and I see hopelessness.

  Everett!

  Rushing back down the stairs, real-time returns and my hand finds its way to my own jugular. The pounding comforts me. I stop in the doorway just long enough to assess the current conditions outside and wipe the blood from my hands before I enter the light. Soldiers are everywhere, combing the area for more IEDs; and more enemy combatants. The situation is under control.

  I step into the light and the intensity of the warmth feels good. I’m alive. Making my way back to the vehicle, I arrive just as a medic exits. Looking in, I breathe a sigh of relief. My crew chief sits there smiling.

  "You good, Easy?”

  “Always," Everett says with a smirk and heavily glazed eyes. "Morphine is my new best friend." I chuckle at that truth. "Did you take care of business?"

 

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