GINGER AND BUBBLES

9| TRUSTING COBRA

It feels wrong to leave her all by herself. I can't walk away. She's dependent on me. I held the key to a piece of her past, and her present. I want to be with her and that's why I must wriggle my way out of my assigned duties tonight. But how?

I drive past the palm trees that guard the grey, paved road leading to the gate, press the access button, and look into the camera. A long silence ensues before the familiar click follows. The gate dislodges from its hinge and glides to the right.

Slit is the first one to confront me when I walk through the heavy, wooden door. "You are late." He paces as he speaks, turning each ring on the fingers of his left hand, his eyes following the familiar movements of his right hand. "Again."

He is suspicious. Do I tell him about Suzan or not? What happens if I do? No, the truth is not convenient.

"My mom's not well."

"Your mom? Since when do you give a shit about her? Do you take me for a one?"

"Why are you pissing on my head? I'm here am I not?"

He snorts and turns to the rest of the crew, cracking the joints of his fingers. "Are you sure? Last night you nearly messed up the whole operation. Lately you rock up late." His slitted, lazy eye locks onto me. "You're up to something. Spit it out!"

He lifts his arm and clicks his fingers, all of them step forward. One step. Then another. Then another until I'm surrounded, pinned in the center of their five-man circle. Slit plants himself in front of me. "What's your story?"

I don't have an opportunity to reply to his question, because Doepie grabs my left ear. "Ja, what's your story, C?"

His whisper contains a hint of sarcasm as he presses his forehead against the left side of my head. Instinctively I turn to Doepie, ready to box him and push him away, but it is Slit's voice that demands my attention.

"Assume your position!"

I straighten up, spread my legs, and clasp my fingers at the back, looking directly at Slit. I feel Bob's breath tickling my right ear. "Yes, C, tell us what's your story. Tell us! Tell us," he mockingly repeats Slit's sentence, forehead pressed against the right side of my head. My head is sandwiched between them, held into a head grip.

Score is at the back tugging at my hair and shouting the same question." "What's your story?" His high-pitched scream reverberates through me, sending a shiver down my spine.

Rope's arm around my neck. "What's your story, C?" whispers He, too, while cutting off my air supply.

Slit steps up to my face and. I am trapped. I am the mark. "Tick-Tock," Comes his voice which cuts through me; yellow eyes flaying me, studying every twitch in my face.

"Okay! Okay!" My hoarse pleas is ignored. Nobody releases their grip.

"What's your story, C?" They all shout in unison.

"It's the con! The one we pulled on the Parade two weeks ago."

"What about it?"

Something in Slit's voice triggers a part of my psyche that wants to confide in him, but there's another part of my brain that cautions against it.

"The accident. I feel responsible. Bad."

"That's on you. You chose a bad mark. Deal with it. She's dead. She's alive. Who the hell cares?"

"I do!" I shout. I push forward, but Rope's hands around my neck restrict my movement. I struggle for air but Rope's grip is choking me.

"Fokker! What did you think this was?" Slit moves back. He takes one step, his full attention on me. Then two. Then three. When he comes to a halt he clicks his fingers. They let go.

"Nobody was supposed to get hurt!"

He steps forward again and laughs into my face, his mouth full of gold teeth is wide open. "Kak met jou! Shit happens! You pointed out the mark and what happened?" His spit sprays all over my face. "I'm waiting, fokker! Answer me! What happened!"

"An accident..." The ebb and flow of shame, anger, and hopelessness wash over me as I try to drown out the events of that fateful day.

"That's it. An accident. That's all. There's no condemnation here, right boys?"

He looks around the room and rests his gaze on each of the four faces. They nod. He has their full attention and he knows their attention is focused on his every move, following every instruction and executing any order.

"Collateral damage is part of the job. You know that." He smirks and stares at me and then he turns to them again. "And we know that very well, don't we manne vannie Flats?" He positions himself in front of each of them, waiting on them to reply individually.

"I do," they all reply one after the other, and in quick succession, followed with a salute, military-style.

"And you, Cobra?" He's standing in front of me reading me.

"I do, but-"

"Shut up! No buts. Do you see this eye?" He runs his finger over his right eye.

"Yes."

He closes his eyes and strokes the long scar on the left side of his face while he moves his fingers in circular movements over the ragged surface. Then he opens his eyes.

"Do you see this scar?"

"Yes."

"Occupational hazard. Collateral damage. Deal with that hustle. I need you. Understood?"

"Understood."

He steps back and his body slips into relaxed mode almost instantly. "All of you, take your positions and line up in a semi-circle against that wall over there." He points to the spot in front of the huge steel-framed window with the reinforced one-way glass. "Take a good look at the person standing next to you. Now close your eyes and assume the target is standing in front of you. If anything goes wrong during an operation you must rely on these bodies around you with your eyes closed. Now open your eyes and look at them." He walks to-and-fro. Then he cups his right hand behind his right ear. Do you still remember what our password is?" He waits for our response.

"Trust," we shout in unison."

"That's right. It is, indeed, trust-without it, we cannot operate."

He stands in front of me, military-style, his legs spread, arms behind his back, and the khaki beret dipped low to the side of his head.

"Trust, Cobra, extends to everything we do. Everywhere we go. Everybody we interact with. Not so?"

"Yes!"

"Without trust, we won't achieve our goals. Goals we set ourselves. Goals we signed in our blood. That's it." He steps back. "Now. Is there anything you withheld or is withholding from us?"

"No."

"Consider this your last warning, Cobra."

He walks to the door shouting instructions as we grab our gear and head out, following him.