Hush (Discontinued)

21.2

I returned to the island checkpoint, where large yachts circled the island a mile apart from each other at a radius to the island of fourteen miles, just far enough for it to be invisible beyond the watery horizon.

As I arrived, two guards shot off the nearest yacht checkpoint on glowing purple hoverboards to come and escort me to the yacht where Mr. Golem waited for me.

The lower deck receded a ramp to land on. They confiscated my hoverboard for now, and I was handed by a yacht waiter a tray of refreshments and appetizers to replenish me for my journey. I took a bowl açai and ate it on my way upstairs to the deck where the sun kissed the mahogony floor. Mr. Golem was sitting alone at a cushioned white bench circling the perimeter, filling out paperwork with reading glasses perched over his nose.

He lifted his face when he saw me strut toward him. I was exhausted, but he looked at me like I was both his daughter and a runway model; his eyes lighted and his smile rised with him.

"Glad to have you back, Miss Mayer," he said. "May I offer you a drink?" He snapped his fingers at the garçon and the barman started flipping bottles.

I nodded only because alcohol was all part of the procedure. I was to report honestly on my finished assignment, as honestly as a tequila drink could assure. The problem with this old-fashioned method was that all us agents could had gained a higher tolerance.

I crossed my legs while Mr. Golem asked me about my meeting with Jack. Reports bored me and I couldn't help noticing the bartender staring at me.

I told Mr. Golem I had met Jack at the pier, had breakfast with him on the Promenade, and gave him the envelope with Mr. Bella's photo and the gun without saying much about them because I knew nothing about them besides I was supposed to give them to Jack.

"Did you meet anyone else while you were in Santa Monica?" said Mr. Golem. Age and long nights of coffee and paperwork carved black bags under his eyes.

The truth of course was yes, I had met with Jordan under the peir where Jordan decided to delay his return to POISE (the Pacific Ocean Island School of Espionage) to oversee Jack's safety. But I couldn't tell Mr. Golem that.

"No," I lied, "I came straight back." I faked disinterest to dismiss the question as a no brainer.

But as I sipped my margarita and took a bite of the sugary pineapple off the side of the glass, meanwhile I took a look at the bartender who rolled up his shirtsleeves to wipe the bar and lift his derriere in my direction to excite me, Mr. Golem examined me without moving onto the next question like I'd anticipated.

My heart palpitated. He didn't believe me. He might have pushed a regional informant to spy on me while I was in Santa Monica. To avoid trouble, I spouted a different, more controversial topic than a white lie.

"I want to go back," I said.

Mr. Golem and even the bartender lifted their heads back in surprise.

"Excuse me?" said Golem, scratching his head with his pen.

"I want to go back to stop Bubba," I said. "Bubba is a worse agent than Jack is. Bubba took a bribe from Russia to do double-cross mercenary work and you and Chuck seem to equate that to Jack's mere decline in aptitude after five years of absence. That's not fair. Jack deserves a chance to come home and build up his skills to leadership status again."

Mr. Golem shook his head and sighed as though I was a naïve girl. "Jack has no patience or responsibility to be a role model again for the kids of POISE. His return would do more harm than good."

I wanted to argue with him more but he lifted his hand to me. No meant no. Press harder and we will have problems.

I felt a knot swell in my throat. "I don't want. . ." A mist formed over my eyes like the fog over a morning sea town. Frail in the voice, I mustered, "I don't want Jack to die."

Mr. Golem's eyes pondered over the waters before they returned to me. He absorbed my fears. He said, "Me neither."