The Vanguard Vixen

To-Do List (One)

None of the guards gave a second look at the helicopter that landed on the helipad atop the roof of Jose Alba's mansion. Not when the boss himself had been waiting at the top, and had strictly given orders, and cheques to all the staff around—No one had seen it arrive.

Vivian, due west, had decided to make a stopover at one excessively wide piece of private property. Jose Alba's oceanside mansion was nothing compared to his father's, but it was quite luxurious itself. It was a three-storey glass house, built right at the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking the water. It was semi-circular in shape, the edges curving out over the cliff. Jose had told her once when she had to escort him there that the edges were great for diving. The helipad was right at the centre of that semicircle, and he was waiting when Vivian landed.

Dressed in only a pair of beach shorts, a wide-open floral patterned shirt and fuzzy slippers, together with his dishevelled hair, he looked very much like he had been sleeping. It was noon.

Vivian left the engines on, so the noise from the rotor blades could provide cover just in case there were any listening devices nearby. That meant she had to get really close so they could hear each other. He had smiled the whole time as she closed the distance between them, and she let him hug her, only that he squeezed too tight, and her left shoulder complained. Jose heard her groan and shrunk back, now noticing the way she had her left arm awkwardly pinned to her side, like it was stiff. Like it was hurting.

"What happened to your shoulder?" He shouted over the noise, brows creased with worry.

Vivian shook her head, but Jose was not having it. He went over to the helicopter, turned the engine off, and then taking Vivian's right hand, led her down the roof stairs and into the house. He propped her on a stool right by the counter of a mini-bar and disappeared behind a wall. There was one other person there, three stools away, a woman. 

She was middle-aged, maybe fifty-five or sixty, not tall, not lean, with a full head of hair dyed a lively russet colour. She was wearing an expensive-looking denim jacket with leather patches at the elbows. She had those elbows on the bar, and her hands were wrapped protectively around a glass full of ice and amber liquid. She was staring down at it with an unfocused gaze. Probably not her first glass of the afternoon. Maybe even her third or fourth. Her skin was damp. She looked pretty far gone.

Jose returned with a flask, poured coffee into a china mug decorated with the Mainstream logo and slid it across the bar with great pride and ceremony.

"Cream?" He asked, "Sugar?"

"Neither," Vivian said.

"Passing through?"

"Aiming to turn west as soon as I can."

"How far west?"

"All the way west," Vivian said. "The border."

Jose nodded wisely. "Then you'll need to go south first. Dad's got a full-armed blockade set up west of here."

Vivian didn't reply.

Jose sighed, knowing very well she intended to go through that blockade somehow. He said nothing more, because there was nothing more to say that wasn't intrusive. Jose liked to stay cheerful, and there was no cheerful direction for the conversation to go.

Vivian picked up the mug with her left hand and tried to hold it steady. A test. The result was no good. Every tendon and ligament and muscle from her fingertips to her ribcage burned and quivered, and the microscopic motion in her hand set up small concentric ripples in the coffee. She concentrated hard and brought the mug to her lips, aiming for smoothness, achieving lurching, erratic movement. The drunk woman watched her for a moment and then looked away.