Rex also agreed to take on King again until I get back, a task he was far more enthusiastic about. It makes me feel sad, and a bit guilty, that I miss my dog far more than I do my mum.
Even with my noble steed Wheezy, it still takes over an hour to get to Bullet's stronghold in the jungle. Travelling down the bumpy, uneven road I previously traversed with a big truck is no small feat either. It would probably have been easier to get off and walk at that point, but there was a stubbornness in me that wouldn't allow it. The last thing I want is to come off as vulnerable in front of Bullet. He seems the type to take full advantage of all perceived weaknesses in his opponents.
Although I might be deluding myself into thinking he would consider me a rival in any real capacity. Oh yes, me, the twenty-four-year-old junior agent with barely six years of experience under my belt. I'm sure he'squakingin his snakeskin boots. I don't know if Bullet has snakeskin boots, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he did. He's just that sort of arsehole. I haven't forgotten the tiger-skin rug.
Bullet's stronghold doesn't look any less intimidating the second time around. It’s the kind of place I’d expect to see in a documentary made by the BBC, called something likeTheWorld's Ten-Worst Correctional Facilities.
Parking my bike beside a large black SUV, I take a moment to gather myself, all too aware of the cameras watching me from every conceivable angle. I allow my frazzled mind and tired body a few steadying inhales and exhales before getting off the bike and heading up to the entrance.
When the door opens before I reach the threshold, I'm unsurprised to find the same man I saw yesterday standing there. He has the same massive gun strapped to him as well.
I raise a hand and give him a mock salute, figuring that going in with some level of confidence and bravado, however false, will be my best bet for success.
"So, one question, G.I. Jeeves, is this whole butler thing a permanent gig, or did you just piss off the boss by being taller than him or something?" I gesture up and down the mercenary. He is fucking big, like a goddamn wall. "Is this a wrongful demotion I'm witnessing? Have you put in a complaint to HR? Will you need my witness statement for the tribunal?"
I get a perfectly respectable death glare for my troubles, and the mercenary turns around without responding, the fumes practically blowing out his ears as he stalks away.
Seeing no alternative, I follow in the wake of his petulant strut.
As before, Bullet is there waiting in the same living-room-type space as yesterday although this time he's already sat down on one of his sofas. He has a tumbler of something light brown, and I'd guess outlandishly expensive, held in one hand. His other hand is occupied with swiping away at a tablet that rests on the leg he has bent and settled over the opposite knee.
He's dressed casually in green cargos and a white T-shirt, looking more military than he did yesterday. From scouring over Bullet's file, I'm aware he's former British special forces. He rose through the ranks of leadership quickly, and it seems he began gunrunning whilst still in uniform. It's likely how he made so many contacts all over the world in the first place.
Bullet looks up at me for a full minute after I enter the room, forcing me to wait. A nice little power play that I'm sure he uses frequently to discomfit the people he meets with. It might have worked on me if I weren't already wound as tight as it's possible to be without popping off like a cork from a champagne bottle.
"Good morning, Agent Snow," Bullet greets me with another of his disarmingly charismatic grins. He makes a pantomime out of searching the area surrounding me, presumably for Jack. "You're alone today?" he asks as if it isn't perfectly obvious I'm there on my own.
I go along with it in the name of keeping the peace. "Yes, it's just me." Maybe I shouldn't admit to having no backup whatsoever, but Bullet would know if I lied about Jack waiting nearby, so I don't see the point.
Bullet tilts his head as if he’s looking at me from a new angle now that my loner status has been confirmed. "Do I get to know the reason why Agent Jack is no longer joining us, or is it some kind of fun agency secret?" He seems delighted by the prospect, which is more than a little disturbing to witness.
"AgentRoth"—I put emphasis on Jack's official title because the disrespect in Bullet's tone grates me something fierce—"is not the topic I'd like to discuss with you. I want to restart our conversation from yesterday, about the agreed-upon exchange. You asked for more than money, and I have an answer on behalf of my agency."
Bullet watches me for a few agonisingly long moments. I try very hard not to squirm under his scrutiny, keeping my posture casual rather than ramrod straight like instinct demands. I've been attempting to improve my poker face although it's possible I'll always work better when I use my emotions to mask things rather than an actual mask of indifference.
"You better sit down, then," Bullet says, gesturing at the seat opposite him. He puts the tumbler on his glass coffee table and turns off his tablet, also putting it aside.
When I’m settled on the sofa, Bullet leans forward in his seat, bringing his hands together, arms resting on top of his knees. It's suddenly apparent I have all of his attention, even more so than I did yesterday. I can confirm it is not a pleasant experience. It reminds me of being in a club or bar and having some creep disregard mynot interestedsignals, no matter how loud I dial them up.
"Okay, Agent Snow." Bullet nods his head at me. "What is your agency's response to my offer?"
His offer? That's a strange way of putting it. More like holding us to ransom in an attempt to strong-arm British agents into murdering some random political group for stealing hisillegalguns. I can't tell if he's taking the piss or genuinely delusional.
"To put it bluntly, FISA will not—"
Before I can finish my sentence, an earsplitting crashing noise erupts somewhere in the building, like the sound of a door being kicked in by a powerful force.
All Bullet's men react immediately, raising their guns and aiming them at the corridor leading into the living room, apparently expecting some kind of raid or insurgency of enemy combatants.
A very familiar voice calls out into the ensuing tense silence, loud and thick with aggravation. "Bullet, you giant prick! Tell your toy soldiers not to fucking shoot me!"
Bullet only seems surprised for a handful of seconds before his composure returns, and he looks at me with raised eyebrows.
I can do nothing other than stare back at him cluelessly. I have no idea what's about to happen.
There's a tiny part of me that feels immense relief at hearing Jack's voice. I thought maybe I would never hear it again. I didn't realise until just this minute how much that possibility hurt.
Bullet raises one hand and calls for his men to hold fire.
