“I’ll arrange for a pickup, get him to a doctor,” Guy #2 said, nodding toward Mike. “Can you handle the drop-off by yourself?”
“No problem. He’s restrained, and if he gives me any shit, I’ll just hit him again with my little friend.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “I’m sure it’s perfectly average-sized.” It was a lame joke, I know, but cut me some slack; I’d just started getting feeling back in my tongue. Guy #3 didn’t find it funny. He opened the rear driver’s side door and tossed me in like a bag of takeout food. My head clipped the roof of the car and then thudded against the passenger door for good measure. All my nerve endings were still tingling but I managed to work myself into a sitting position as he got in and drove away.
“Do you think Mike’s gonna be okay?” I asked. I was feeling better and wanted to make up for the lazy dick joke. “You guys didn’t have a date planned tonight, I hope.”
I saw his eyes steal a look at me in the rearview mirror. Then he took the stun gun out of his pocket, held it up, and pushed a button on the side of its smooth black handle. A tiny blue arc crackled between the twin silver pins at the top.
“Keep talking, asshole, and I’ll give you a shot in the mouth.”
“Come on, man, that’s just setting me up for a blowjob joke. Do you not hear how that sounds when you say it?”
I make jokes when I’m nervous, okay? Sometimes it works and breaks the tension, other times it gets me beaten and tasered. I would have kept it up, but those two little pins jammed into my leg and everything went all tingly again. Seems this was one of the latter situations. I rode the rest of the way in silence, my head leaning against the cool glass of the window.
CHAPTER THREE
We drove straight onto a tiny runway at the far end of Brussels Airport, reserved for private charter jets. At the guard booth, my chauffeur flashed a badge and was waved through. From the backseat I couldn’t make out the full ID, but it definitely wasn’t local police.
Interpol maybe?
That would be interesting. Despite what the movies and TV shows tell us, Interpol doesn’t have “agents,” at least not in the gun-toting, busting-bad-guys-on-the-street sense. It’s not even an actual law enforcement agency, but rather a means for agencies across the globe to work together when the situation calls for it. Their “agents” are really just analysts, plucking away at keyboards in a cubicle in their headquarters in France. Which means if the badge my driver flashed was real, he was either packing heat against company policy, or he was on loan from some other agency and carrying Interpol credentials temporarily.
I also didn’t get a good enough look to tell if the badge was a fake. If he and his two buddies were indeed actual agents on the take, coupled with the G550 idling on the runway, it all pointed to some serious bankroll behind Leon’s referral. Not to mention the potential they had via Interpol to access corrupt agents anywhere in the world.
My driver parked the car a few feet away from the $42 million luxury suite with wings and pulled me out of the backseat. Over his shoulder, I saw another dark-suited agent-type approaching from the lowered steps of the aircraft.
“He’s all yours,” my driver said, shoving me toward my next handler. “He’s got a mouth on him.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t love it,” I said.
“It’s okay,” the new guy said, “I have a ball gag on board that looks to be just his size.” My eyes grew wide and I made an excited gasping noise, while my driver cringed at his colleague’s choice of words.
“Seriously,” I said to both of them, “did you guys rehearse this? Because you’re making these jokes WAY too easy.”
New Guy grabbed me by the arm, then stopped. “Is he supposed to be cuffed?” he asked, holding up my bound wrists.
“He got a little rebellious back at his place,” my driver explained. “Figured better safe than sorry.”
“Is he armed?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then what’s there to worry about?”
“I’ll have you know,” I said, “I have a black belt in Jeet Kune Do. Okay, that’s a lie. I do watch a lot of Bruce Lee movies, though. And sometimes, late at night, I practice along with the fight scenes. In my underwear. It’s not pretty. I have a lot of moles on my back.”
New Guy had the same sense of humor as my driver. “Cut him loose,” he said. Reluctantly, my driver took a folding knife from his pocket and sliced the zip tie in half. The plastic strip fell to the ground.
“Let’s go,” the new guy said, shoving me toward the jet.
“Aren’t you going to pick that up?” I asked my driver. “Nobody likes a litterbug.” He spit on the severed zip tie and turned back to the car.
My new handler ushered me up the cabin steps and not-so-gently into an otherwise very comfortable leather seat. Way nicer than the cracked, bargain store leather of my couch. Then he went back and sealed the outer door before disappearing into the cockpit. Fifteen minutes later we were airborne, on the way to who-the-fuck-knew.
At least we’d get there in style. The table in front of me was small and round, freshly polished. Cherry, or something equally expensive. A TV hung from the ceiling, but no remote that I could find. The phone next to my chair was dead when I picked it up. They’d let me keep my cell, but there was no one to call at thirty thousand feet anyway. To my left was a long panel door, about knee high. I lifted the handle and it slid up to reveal a drink compartment. Inside was a bottle of Macallan 18. I removed the bottle, found a glass in the cabinet over the sink behind me, and filled it a little more than halfway.
“Here’s to a long flight,” I said, then cheered my glass to no one.
An hour later, we landed in London, cruising past Big Ben on our way in. I had finished my drink—and then another—but felt us begin to descend so opted to forgo a third glass. I wanted my head clear for whatever came next. (That my head remained clear after two generous pours of premium scotch is a discussion topic for another time.)
We taxied into an empty hangar where another car waited. Two more agent-types stood next to it. The guy who escorted me onto the plane—we’ll call him Guy #4—emerged from the cockpit and opened the door. There was a Guy #5 in the copilot’s seat, but he never turned around to acknowledge me.
“Let’s go,” #4 said, motioning toward the door.
“I enjoy our little talks,” I said as I walked past him. As soon as both my feet were on the tarmac, he folded the steps up and slammed the door shut behind me.
The two agents—because who was I kidding, that’s what they were—approached. One was a Black male, late twenties. The other was a female, Caucasian, around the same age. At least we finally had some diversity in the group. Corruption opportunities in law enforcement should be open to anyone who qualifies, I always say, not just boring white dudes.
“Are you guys Interpol too?” I asked. Neither one answered or reacted to the question in any way. The woman opened the back door—same make and model as the car that picked me up in Brussels—and beckoned me over.
I got in, looked up at her, and said, “Don’t suppose you can tell me where we’re going?”
She shut the door in my face.
