Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Michael I, part 4

The tires screeched as he spun the truck onto the highway. His foot pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Acceleration caught him. He didn't breathe until they hit ninety miles per hour.

"You like going fast, don't you?" Phyllis said, almost playfully.

"Sorry." He slowed to seventy-five. Phyllis slipped her Taser back into an ankle holster. "You tripped on purpose. So you could grab that thing."

"Well, I couldn't ask for a time-out to arm myself."

Two months ago, someone had swiped one of his patio chairs and he'd whined about how unsafe the community had become. Phyllis had just faced down a thug trying to abduct her. "You'll have to use your phone to call the police," Michael said, blood rushing into his cheeks. "My battery died."

She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We can't call the police." Where had that we come from? "Unless the police in this town can hunt down a highly-trained domestic terrorist, contacting them will only link your name to mine. These men have connections in law enforcement."

"Who're these men?" Sweat was dripping into his eyes. His pulse hadn't slowed, even though he'd put a mile between himself and the bar. Instinctively, he'd chosen to drive towards the police station. "Drug dealers? Mafia?" The questions came out before he could stop them. "Is this because of the military stuff you work on?" Shit, was he asking her about something classified?

"My research?" She paused, clearly trying to decide what she wanted to say. She had no reason to trust someone she'd just met . . . and yet, crazily, he hoped she would. He wanted the conversation to keep going. "This is dangerous knowledge, Michael."

"Fuck danger." Worst case scenario, he'd just wind up dead. "I understand if you can't tell me. It's not worth risking national security—"

"I developed a biological weapon." She spoke in the same tone he might use to say he was making pasta for dinner. "Indigo, a terrorist organization, decided my unholy work would end the world. Burke had their symbol tattooed on his wrist. "

She's a weapons designer? That made sense. "These Indigo folks, are they like the KKK?" Burke would have fit right in. He'd gone from normal to batshit insane in half a second.

"More organized and secretive. They've convinced themselves they're protecting America by persecuting minorities, among other things. They have cells all around the world, lots of money and power, and they'll destroy anyone that doesn't fit with their view of how the world should be." She lowered her head. Her voice trembled. "Can you take me somewhere safe? If that's too much trouble, you can drop me off on the roadside. But I can't go to the police. Please."

Did the Corson brothers work the night shift at the station? Michael had seen them at the shooting range last month, pinning up man-sized targets with 'Fed' written on their chest. "You called that cab from your hotel?" Burke would have needed someone influential to help him eavesdrop on her calls and set up the fake taxi.

She nodded.

An eerie calm settled over him. He made up his mind. "We'll go back to my hourse." He pulled into the right lane and did a U-turn across the highway. Tires screeched. "Is that okay?"

"Yes." A hint of her smile returned. "Thank you."

Ten minutes later, they pulled into his battered carport. His family had moved into the little one-story house after Stephen had left for college, and it hadn't aged well. The white clapboard had been closer to grey for years now. The bushes needed trimming, and the screen door had a hole in the center.

Dad would kill me if he saw this mess, he thought as he led Phyllis in through the living room. The smell of dust washed over him as he kicked off his boots. This was the only room in the house he liked. It held his leather couch, his TV, and the framed autographed Stafford jersey his employees had given him last Christmas. 'To the world's worst boss', it read.

"Who's this?" Phyllis examined the box on his mantle, pointing at a photograph mounted beside a folded flag and a set of medals.

"My dad." The photo showed Nolan shaking hands with a young officer he'd mentored. It was the only picture Michael had of his father showing genuine emotion. "Here, I'll show you the guest room."

He led her back to the bedroom he'd used as a kid, which saw visitors maybe once every two years. To his relief, it didn't smell like mold. "The shower's across the hall. I'd offer you clothes, but I don't think they'd fit." Nice hosting, asshole.

"I can wear these clothes tomorrow. I'm just going to the airport."

"Okay. I'll drive you there. How early should I get up?"

She stared at him. Relief and confusion mingled in her expression. "Why are you being so nice?"

It's just basic human decency, he thought. But something in her tone said she wasn't used to decency, and he realized she needed to know. "I was really . . . alone . . . tonight. You could have talked with anyone in the bar, but you came to me. A ride and a place to stay? After what I've been through today, I'd give you the rest of my right hand."

She streached onto the tips of her toes and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck. Before he knew what was happening, they were kissing. Her soft lips tasted like blue cheese and vodka. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. Damn. It was like he'd breathed for the first time in days. He fumbled with his zipper. What the hell are you doing? Hair too thin, body too fat, unaccomplished, unworthy—

"I shouldn't," he gasped, pulling back.

"Oh." Tears welled up in her eyes. Her cheeks blazed.

"It's not you. You're beautiful." Aren't you looking at me? "I don't want to do something stupid. I just broke up with my girlfriend."

Her smile returned. "I understand. Me too." She backed into his bathroom. "I know what you really want. I'm going to shower and show you. Okay? Good." The door shut on his face.