I fidget more, hoping to find a weak spot in the knots. I don’t find any give. Then I remember both X.C. and Blaed are ex-navy. Sailors are good at knots. I grunt in frustration. My head hurts and my stomach is queasy.Does chloroform make you feel sick too?
My motion must have caught someone’s attention. Footsteps echo off whatever space we are in. Intuitively, I know that whoever is coming will not help me. There is no point calling out and asking who is there. It’s X.C. or Ian or Blaed or someone else I want nothing to do with.
With a resoundingthunk, harsh light pours over me. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, beg for relief behind my eyelids. I hear the distinct shutter click of a smartphone. Cool. Whatever else this creep is into, they now have a photo of me bound.
I hazard to open my eyes. More lights have been engaged. They look like those construction-site lights: bare bulbs in a metal cage.
“Charlie Ross,” says the man I ran into in Ybor, taunting me. The man who I thought, stupidly, might be able to help. Xander Caruso. The jerk who betrayed Declan, Oliver, FIRE, and his own morals.
I grunt, not willing to give him any satisfaction. He is outlined in light, his figure a shadow.
A second set of footsteps approaches. I’m outnumbered.
A familiar figure steps into the light. Blaed. He mutters something to Xander, their voices so low I can’t make anything out. They conclude their brief exchange and Blaed turns and gives me a wink before walking off. If looks could kill, he would be vapor right now. X.C. would be next.
“Is this where you tell me your evil plan before you kill me?” I say, putting on my bravest voice as I test the ropes again. The rope keeping me to the chair isn’t as tight as the others. If I stand, I could probably get up. But my ankles being tied would ensure a faceplant. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind an explanation. X.C. is alive, so clearly his “death” in Osaka was faked. But why? And was it necessary to almost kill Declan as well? Or was that his goal all along? I highly doubt he’s about to tell me that he’s so deep undercover that he has to “play” the bad guy. I’m bound and restrained after being kidnapped. He’s the bad guy, alright.
X.C. laughs. “You’re clever. I can see why Oliver hired you. But you’re much more valuable alive. For now, at least.”
I’m not relieved by these words. “What do you want?” Why would he tell me? And would I actually trust anything he said? Still, I want to know.
“To complete the job I’ve been tasked with by some verypowerfulfriends,” X.C. says as if this should be obvious.The Order, he’s been working for them all along.
I correct him. “To let a massive cache of black-market arms loose and watch as innocent people die?”
X.C. laughs again. “Oliver wants to play James Bond. Let him. But developing the underdeveloped world takes money and resources. It’s done by businesses, not charities.”
“So why the weapons?” I ask, since I’m pretty sure weapons destroy; they don’t build anything.
X.C. stalks closer to me, a smirk on his face. “Underdeveloped countries are easily overthrown by the warlord with the biggest hoard. He who provides the arms to the one in power gets the contract. Are you keeping up with me, Ms. Ross?”
His patronizing tone makes me want to spit in his face. But he has a gun in his hip holster, so I decide to not antagonize him.
“All of the weapons are being used to buy off politicians?” I clarify.
“Warlords, not politicians,” X.C. says. “But, really, a suit and tie are the only difference between the two. And no, not everything is for exchanges. We have one special set ready to make a big impact.” He sounds almost giddy about this. I want to ask him about the oaths he swore, about his duty to America, to the world. Did he forget all of that when he retired from the navy? But I don’t think I’m in any place to psychoanalyze him.
“At the World Games?” I try to confirm. At least I’ll have intel if I ever get out of here.
My stomach clenches. I have no idea how late it is, or if this is a side effect of the chloroform.
X.C. examines the dirt under his fingernails, as if speaking to me is lower than this on his priority list. “Oh, we’ve got something planned for the Games, but not what you think. Our little surprise is . . .” He leans closer to me, his fetid breath finding my nostrils. “Well, let’s call it a fireworks show. Emphasis onFIRE.”
I narrow my eyes at him, parsing out the meaning. FIRE is the target. Will it be our headquarters? An upcoming event? Exponential Endurance Championships? My mind races with the possibilities.
“FIRE may mean well, but the operations Declan is running for Oliver are starting to spoil the Order’s plans.” X.C. purses his lips. “I respect Declan. I started to test the waters with him, to see if he might be persuaded to join me. But he loves playing superhero too much. I knew he’d only be a hindrance. Poor timing on my part that the bomb didn’t finish him off.” He tilts his head to the side before shaking it with disapproval. There are so many layers of messed-up in the dynamic between Declan and X.C. Commanding officer and soldier. Mentor and follower. A pseudo-father figure and a young man eager to prove his worth. Hearing X.C. speak of killing Declan as if it was another task on his list makes my heart hurt.
“Still, FIRE must be stopped,” X.C. continues as he begins to pace, proud to spell out his plans. “And could you imagine if a charitable donation of leftover shirts going to innocent children was rigged with explosives?” He feigns shock and his features reveal a wicked smile. “The outrage! The cry for accountability and answers. The company who caters to the wealthy, who has a perpetual problem of mostly serving rich white males, implicated in the deaths of innocent children, all clamoring for their free King Cool goodies.”
X.C. takes one of the hanging bulbs and shines it to my right. The locks on the shipping container next to us belong to FIRE.
The shirts! That’s what someone – likely Ian – was messing with in the storage unit. Locking me and Declan in there wasn’t about trapping us or even bugging our computers; it was aboutimplicatingus.
I realize where we are. I’m tied to a chair in a hallway created by stacks of shipping containers. That dank smell is the damp of the ship. The uneasy feeling in my stomach is from the imperceptible rocking of the vessel we’re on.
“What does Raj have to do with this?”
“Ah, I hear I have you to thank for that, Charlie,” X.C. says, sneering like the Grinch with a wicked plan. “Ian told me you were so happy to coordinate the leftover FIRE shirts to go to Raj’s charity. Here I was wracking my brain for a way to eliminate him and you give me this gift. Two problems, one explosion. Not only is his do-gooder nature making my clients, like Frank Castillo and the rest of the Order, look bad, but he’s building infrastructure with other local charities, helping ‘the people’ help themselves. Which means the companies run by members of the Order aren’t getting the business. They don’t get any exclusive contracts for power, internet, the works.
