Busted Flush

The bartender yanks up a rifle from behind the bar. The silenced Glock coughs once and the bullet takes him between the eyes.

“You crazy bloody bitch!” Bruckner gasps.

“Try bastard,” I say and let my body slide and twist back to myself.

“Jesus!”

“Not to sound like the hero in one of those dreadful American action movies, but you will be seeing him if you don’t answer my question.” I grind the muzzle of the gun into his temple, and tighten my grip on his nads.

“You know I can’t do that, lad.” Pain has him panting between the words, but now that he knows it’s me he seems more relaxed. “Captain’d skin me alive.”

“Actually he wouldn’t. But I would. Where’s the boy? Where did you take him?”

He shakes his head. I release his balls, and pull handcuffs out of my coat pocket. Once he’s secure I get down to business.

For all his bravado and bluster it actually doesn’t take that long. The wood floor is sticky beneath the soles of my high-heeled boots. Bruckner’s blubbering. The wet sounds become words forced between split and swollen lips, “Nigeria. Took him to Nigeria. Dumped him out in front of the PP army. Captain’s orders. Not my fault. Just doing my duty.” He sees something in my face and screams out, “Don’t hurt me anymore! Christ Jesus, no more!”

I put away my knife and draw my pistol. Then I look, really look, at the scene around me. The dead man. The nearly naked old man on the floor in front of me with pieces of skin missing. Blood staining the wood floor. I think about Niobe. How she would see this scene. How she would see me. How she would look at me.

I return the gun to its holster. “Congratulations. You get to retire. Tell Flint to expect my resignation later.”

“He’ll never let you live. Not after this.”

“Yes, I think he will. I’ll be much more talkative after death. It would look so very bad for the Silver Helix and the government. Ta.” And I lock the door behind me as I leave.

I look like an S&M drag queen sashaying down the street. I need to change and make preparations. If Drake can’t control his power I’m going to need protection. As for finding him . . . well, if he’s blown, that won’t be a problem.

A Hard Rain Is A’Going to Fall

Victor Mián

“DOLORES, CHÉRIE! THERE YOU are.”

Already elevated, Dolores’s heartbeat seemed to stumble in her chest at the voice behind her. Having one’s name called by Alicia Nshombo was always cause for concern. Even when she had just hung a medal around one’s neck in front of the global media and the adoring populace of Kongoville.

She turned. The corridors of Mobutu’s erstwhile palace were bright and airy, belying the compound’s fortresslike construction. High windows let late-morning sunlight pour in to raise a glow from whitewashed walls. Native flowers burst from vases in niches like static explosions of color. Floral-patterned carpets ran along a floor of royal blue glazed tiles.

Dolores was lost. She had been on her way to an assignation with Tom Weathers after escaping the great public fete.

Alicia moved toward her at a purposeful waddle. Continuing the motif she wore the same dress printed with Congolese blooms that she had at the ceremony at which she had made Dolores and Tom Heroes of the People’s Paradise, in the proudest moment of Dolores’s young life.

The large woman was alone. Clearly she felt no need of bodyguards. Rumor said she was herself an ace, with the power to transform into a leopard. Whatever the truth, no one who feared death, or pain, would dare attempt to harm the president’s sister here in the palace.

Alicia hugged Dolores around the waist with a big arm. Dolores felt sweat soak through the white jumpsuit she wore to her skin. The smell of violets almost overwhelmed her.

“Your state has need of you, my Angel of Mercy,” Alicia said. Though not whispering she spoke at a low volume for her: she had a bellow like a bull hippo at need. “There is a man you must heal for us. You must tell no one. Do you understand?”

Dolores nodded. The president and his sister—and Tom, dear Tom!—had brought order to the anarchy of Central Africa. With order came the need for discipline. The heart of discipline was obedience.

Alicia led her up broad stairs, to a room on the second story. Dolores smelled harsh cigar smoke before they even entered the room.

It looked like a study. Shelves of books, their dark covers age-cracked, lined the walls. The floor was hardwood with a Persian rug laid on it. A fan circled lazily beneath the high ceiling.

A man sat smoking in a leather chair. Dolores gasped. Half the hair on his round head and his beard had been burned away; it amazed her he wasn’t literally smoldering. What of his plump pallid face wasn’t black or glaring red was gouged bloody. He wore loose blue hospital-style trousers. Bandages wrapped his lumpy upper body. His blood had soaked them through and was actually beginning to run.

Blood-crust concealed one eye. The other glared madly at her.