Society Rules (64 page)

Ah
 . . . . Nothing like nearly dying from a fatal heart attack to bring about the urge to light up.

“William Taylor, don’t you even
think
about it!” Indie was appalled.

“Never mind what I’m thinking . . . or doing, for that matter. I’m a bachelor now. I can eat Cheerios for supper, and have bacon and beer for breakfast, right? And smoke like a chimney if I want!”

Indie narrowed her eyes at him.

Well, maybe he would do all that stuff on the sneak. She could probably kick his ass.

“And
don’t
you forget it!”

Hell, she was serious!

Will laughed out loud, and wrapped his arm around Indie.

“Come on; let’s get out of this place. Can’t you hear your man out there, throwing a thrombo, ’cause I’ve got my hands on you?”

They walked to the front door together, and looked back at the same time.

Both wore slightly wistful expressions. Will looked down at Indie once more, his eyes sad and serious. He kissed the top of her head, and pulled her through the door.

Then he shut off the light, and closed the door behind them.

Epilogue

Knights
of
Redemption

Chapter 1

The state of Texas had three temperature settings, William Taylor decided as he baked like a spiral sliced ham in the driver’s seat of a decrepit nineteen seventies Dodge Dart.

Hot, hotter and “Holy shit, it’s hot.”

Will figured that they were on the high setting of def-con three right about now as sweat hosed down his clothing; his form-fitting Levi’s now welded to his thighs from the moisture. He was feeling like a definite shoe-in for any nearby wet tee-shirt contests.

It sucked.

Isn’t
it
lucky,
he thought to himself,
that
the
United
States
Army’s
infantry
division
takes
great
pride
in
making
sure
that
all
of
their
soldiers
get
lots
of
practice
in
the
fine
art
of
being
absolutely
miserable?

Having proudly served nine years in that club before taking his current government position, Will was a pro. This is not to say that he
liked
it. He just could stand it much longer than your average citizen could ever possibly contemplate tolerating.

But he was beginning to reach his limit.

He fired up yet another cigarette, inhaling and then releasing a blast of Marlboro flavored smoke, finishing with a perfectly formed ring. He used his forefinger to clip the smoke ring neatly in half, ridiculously thinking of the old teenage-smokers’ rule:
“Don’t
let
it
die
a
virgin!”

He chortled at his self-acknowledged act of immaturity.

What could he say? He was bored.

Will caught his partner, Jackson’s, mental cough, though his head never lifted from the Corpus Christi Caller-Times, the newspaper that he was making a point of devouring column by column. He seemed determined to read every single word contained in the local paper.

This inspired Will to pull another deep drag on the butt, and accidentally blow a mushroom cloud of the stuff out of the corner of his mouth toward the unfortunate Jackson, whose hands, he noted, clenched slightly on the edges of his paper.

This gave Will a satisfying case of the warm cozies.

“The Elder’s aren’t exactly thrilled about your relapse,” Jackson spoke lazily, defying his irritation. He kept his eyes determinedly focused on page B-nine.

“Sure they are,” Will replied distractedly. “They’re all about free will up there.” “Well then, I’m not so sure I’m into it anymore,” Jackson complained. “I really hate cigarette smoke!”

“Hmmm, how can I put this the right way?
Tough
shit!”
Will’s eyes were scanning the parking lot that had been their gracious host for past two hours.

Jackson snapped the newspaper, eyes still on the pages.

“For God’s sake Will, must you
always
behave like such a wanker?”

Will grinned at Jackson now; his brown eyes crinkling appealingly at the corners.

“For the most part.” He paused to pull another drag from the almost finished cigarette. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Your vocabulary is coming along quite nicely. Especially your discovery of some of the more colorful adjectives.”

“Well, I have only you to thank for that, brother.”

Still smiling, Will pinched the remnants of flaming coal from the end of his cigarette, extinguishing it fully before slipping the butt into his pocket. Some military training never died. “Now I’m going to take that as a compliment paid, Jackson!”

He slugged back his Aquafina bottle and drank greedily, before shaking another Marlboro from the pack. Will had just resumed smoking again after fifteen years of cigarette-celibacy.

Will had started at the tender age of fifteen, but by the time he hit twenty, decided it wasn’t conducive to the hard training lifestyle that the Army provided. At least not for him, so he’d quit.

But Will did nothing in a half-assed manner, and that included bad habits. If he was going to smoke again, then he was going to be a chain smoker,
damn
it!

It was a tragic show of weakness, in his opinion, and he hated himself for it. But in light of recent events, Will saw it as a better option than taking up self-mutilation as a hobby. He told himself that it was just a temporary crutch, to see him through the process of acceptance.

Jackson rearranged the newspaper, crinkling it noisily in that special way that only he could, knowing that it really got under Will’s skin.

It was now his turn to release a contented sigh after feeling the grinding of Will’s teeth from across the front seat.

Will made an impatient noise as he reached out to click the dial of the antiquated A/C in a desperate attempt to create a little air movement in the stifling car.

Thank God, they both were Metro enough to be into cologne and effective deodorant, or else the car would have been unbearably rank.

“I seriously doubt that the thing has repaired itself since the last twenty times you’ve tried it,” Jackson noted dryly.

Will draped his arms through the open spaces in the steering wheel of the classic seventies-era bad-guy mobile in which the two of them were imprisoned—undercover and overheated.

He rested his forehead on the center emblem of the wheel and stifled a groan.

“Where the Hell is this guy, Jackson?” Jackson shrugged. “Probably sleeping. I can only see darkness around him, and I can hear the sound of an air conditioner running.”

That really burned Will.

Here they were, waiting to meet this guy who claimed his friend was acting strangely after being supposedly abducted by one of the rumored “flying witches”, melting their asses off in the hot sun, while their boy napped in cool comfort.

Working undercover as researchers doing a documentary on these increasingly reported mysterious dark figures was a lame idea in Will’s opinion, but it was not his call.

In his new role of investigator, he had been looking forward to calling his own shots. Unfortunately, his new boss, M, had turned out to be something of a micro manager, and this was all of her brilliance in action.

The criteria for documentary filmmaking seemed to be simply ownership of an outdated video camera, a crap car, and another person dumb enough to work with you.

As far as crap cars went, this one, assigned by Supply, was a shining example of the idea that most documentary makers must be notoriously short of the green.

He estimated the value of this mobile-oven to be around fifty American dollars.

That meant that the supply team probably paid two thousand.

Yep.
Nothing
too
good
for
the
MIB.

“I’m sure he’s not coming.”

“Will turned his saturated blond head, still resting on the steering wheel and looked at Jackson.

“You don’t say? And yet, here we still sit!”

“M’s orders are to give the man a few more hours . . . he may just be nervous, considering what he does for a living.” Jackson closed his eyes for an instant. “Although now I have just seen clearly that he won’t be coming. I got a flash of us leaving at three o’clock and you’re practicing your gift of colorful language, because he didn’t show.”

“Too bad we can’t share that useful bit of info with M. It sure would save time.” He paused to grab a towel from the back seat and mop his face. “And misery.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not a situation we can change. I was afraid that getting a bunch of drug-runners to meet up with us was going to be . . .
challenging
at best. Even if they are terrified of getting attacked by flying witches!”

Over the last year, increasing reports and even plenty of video footage had been collected about these strange, dark figures moving through the sky. They seemed to have somewhat of a humanoid shape, and hooded cloaks that came to a point in the back, which spurred the name “witches.”

The whispers of these creatures had spilled over from the campfires of low-level drug traffickers, giving away to full blown panic as many of the men, poor and superstitious illegals, began reporting attacks and abductions by the beings.

It had grabbed the attention of Homeland Security finally, when a Mexican police officer was attacked near the border, the man in an undeniable state of shock, but a very reliable witness.

Now, it was the matter of getting people to come forward about the attacks and alleged abductions that was proving difficult, to say the least, as the people who had the most experiences happened to be people who were doing their work under cover of night; criminals, drug dealers and transporters.

These people were certainly not talking to any Feds . . . and they didn’t seem overly keen on confiding in researchers either.

Jackson abruptly slapped the newspaper down onto his lap, and unceremoniously ripped off his tee shirt. He snatched up another towel from the bag at his feet and rubbed his dripping hair.

It was the closest thing to a show of irritation Will had seen from him yet.

He liked seeing Jackson blow his cool. The guy was too controlled.

Funny.

People always said the exact same thing about him.

Jackson was even more so.

Unnaturally and irritatingly controlled.

“A little uncomfortable are we, ‘bro?”

“Not at all. I just felt a need to intimidate you with my rock hard abs.”

Will guffawed.

“Hey, I’ll match you six pack for six pack, punk!”

He spoke while gripping his smoke between his front teeth, momentarily forgetting that Jackson was almost six years his senior.

It was all too easy to forget this. Jackson looked as if he couldn’t legally buy a beer, when in truth, the man was knocking on the door of forty-one.

This, however, was one of many secrets about Jackson that Will kept. According to his paperwork, Jackson was a mere twenty-five, working hard on twenty-six. Even getting people to believe
that
was asking a lot, but it wasn’t unfathomable, as was his true age.

At thirty-five, Will was as rock solid as ever, his body looking exactly as it had fourteen years ago, during his hardest military years, but his face looked at least his age, maybe older.

Will had the tough and ruggedly handsome air of George Clooney, in the movie “Three Kings”, or perhaps Daniel Craig’s 007 appeal.

He contrasted sharply with his partner’s inhumanly youthful perfection. No matter what he wore, no matter what the situation, Jackson looked like an AWOL Calvin Klein model, with his longish mop of dark chocolate hair, and deep teal eyes, framed with jet-black lashes.

Even M, their crisp no-nonsense boss, who had initially ordered Jackson to chop his unruly locks, had fallen under Jackson’s spell. Now, not only did she allow his non-regulation hair, but she wore that sick, sappy look on her face that Will was beginning to associate with all females, whenever the guy was around.

Will was becoming quite used to playing second string in Jackson’s band, where woman were concerned.

First, with his now ex-wife, Indie, and now with every female they ran into. Every single working day of his damned life, he had to observe it.

Women might notice Will and smile . . . then they would notice Jackson and gawk. And
that
 . . . was all she wrote.

They never looked in Will’s direction again.

When you topped off the rock-star looks with the man’s mesmerizing voice, and Brit-lite accent, then threw in his old world gentleman-like manners and cat-like grace . . . well, there you had it. A potent cocktail of female-ensnaring assets, all wrapped tightly around Jackson’s firmly muscled frame.

Of course, Jackson never gave any of them even a cursory glance. And why should he? He had
THE
woman.