Flesh Into Fire by JA Huss & Johnathan McClain

Author:JA Huss & Johnathan McClain [Huss, JA & McClain, Johnathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Science Future Press
Published: 2018-04-16T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen - Tyler

Evan and Robert are having a fucking tree-trimming party. If there’s ever a time when I wish that I hadn’t burned down my apartment, it’s now. Not that I’m against tree-trimming, or parties, or wassailing, or any of that shit, but it’s making it very hard to focus on what I’m currently focusing on, which is hitting refresh on my computer over and over and over again to see if the GPS tracking on Maddie’s sat phone tells me if it’s moved at all. (I had to pay a preposterous premium for that feature, but who the fuck thought I wouldn’t?)

It hasn’t. Moved, that is. It’s still in the same place in what appears to be a massive goddamn compound somewhere in Mexicali. I don’t have a live satellite shot, which pisses me off, but I can sort of make out the contours of where she is, using my maps app.

Out in the other room, Deck the Halls is being butchered by all the guys who clearly could not make it into the Las Vegas Men’s Chorus. Phone says it’s eleven-forty-three PM. Computer says the same thing. So I guess it is. Fuck. I asked her to call at eleven.

It’s OK. It’s OK. She brought up a good point. It might be suspicious if she called right at eleven every night. I don’t want to put her in an impossible position. We agreed that she would just make sure to reach out sometime before the night is over. All good. No problem.

Refresh, refresh, refresh. Sat phone is still at its same location. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Still at its same location. Deck the halls! Refresh, refresh, refresh. Same location. With boughs of holly! Refresh, refresh, refresh. Same location. Fa la la la la la la la la! Fuck! What was that?

“Dude…?” Oh. It was Evan knocking on the bedroom door. Now he’s poking his head in. Shit, why even bother knocking?

I assault him with the question. “Shit! Why even bother knocking, bro?”

“You OK?” he asks.

“Why? Do I not seem OK?”

He stares at me. And those eyes of his don’t betray shit. If this was a staring contest, I’d lose. Then, finally, he says, “No.”

“Well, shit, man. What the fuck do you expect? Maddie’s somewhere in Mexico with a fucking drug lord doing God knows what.”

“The guy is with her though, right?”

“Who? Which guy? Friggin’ Ricky? Yeah, I don’t trust that dick-box to do shit.”

“Why?” he asks, stepping into the room with an extra glass of eggnog, which he hands me, and which I pound back. He knows I fuckin’ love eggnog.

Wiping my mouth, I tell him, “Because. He’s got his own agenda. And he’s clearly an opportunist. And because I never found out why an Army Ranger knocked him out. But if you’ve been hit hard enough to be knocked out twice in your life, there is clearly something wrong with you.”

“Really? How many times have you been hit that hard?”

“Hard enough to be knocked out? I dunno. Like a dozen.

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