Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 years or older

Corralled by her admirers- including black-bearded security staff and a steward or two- Sook looked around as the door behind her opened. Watson walked in, fresh from his meet and greet in the Parley Room, still in one piece, though wearing an odd expression- part panic, part confusion, part disbelief. His escort peeled off, happy to be done with the crazy old troublemaker, after his valiant attempt to get them all hanged by trying to lay his hands on the king's personal property. A Wedding Cake girl, for the Herald's sake. A Perpetual. In front that bitch, Inayat.

Watson narrowed his eyes and Sook's fans slouched reluctantly away. "Well there's a sight for sore eyes." Sook said, raising her glass. The old man just looked at her and Sook did a double-take. "What's up, Master? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Finger to his lips, Watson motioned Sook to the serving counter, where several glasses of tea stood, letting off steam. She moved in beside him till they were standing arm-to-arm. "I just saw Rebekah." he said in a low voice and Sook put a hand to her mouth.

"No way!"

"Shhhhhh shh shh shh." Picking up a glass, Watson checked over his shoulder. His minders were all busy, describing the corridor debacle to a gathering of colleagues, loudly, angrily, with lashings of body language... head shaking, forehead palming, the odd, angry glare in the old man's direction.

"Where?" Sook demanded in a hoarse whisper.

"In the hallway," Watson said with a jerk of the head, "back there in the maze. With some local woman and four or five goons. Did you see them come through here?"

Sook shook her head. "I haven't seen anyone but Beavis and Butt-Plug over there. How is she? Is she okay?"

"Hard to tell. All I could see was her eyes."

Sook's shoulders sagged. "Her eyes? Are you sure it was her? You do know the king collects chicks like kids collect Pokemons? Roundeyes especially."

Watson put his face in Sook's. "She called my name."

Sook arched her eyebrows. "Oh. Well, I guess you can't argue with that."

"She was on her way to see the king."

"You sure? This place is like a rabbit warren. She might have been transiting. You know. On her way to her room or going to dinner."

"In the guts of the bloody castle?" Watson demanded.

"Palace."

"Same bloody diff. She's here. And she was off to see the king. In the words of Bollo, 'I got a bad feelin' bout dis'."

"At least we know she's safe."

"Not if the king gets his hooks into her. You should see him, he's the size of a frikken' hippo. If he takes a shine to her, we're fucked."

"Rebekah especially."

Head down, pretending to sugar his tea, Watson nodded. "Especially Beck." He glanced at Sook. "We're gonna have to bust her out of here."

Sook pulled back far enough to give him the eye. "I could have sworn I gave you a beta-blocker rather than acid. Bust her out of here? You gotta be tripping."

"Well what can we do? I'm shipping out tomorrow."

"We, Damon."

"What?"

"We are shipping out tomorrow. You and me."

Watson looked at Sook like she'd just smacked him. "W... w... what do you mean?"

"Your best mate Ghazal just told me. Said to let you know, he'd arranged accommodation for me at the barracks."

"Sook... There is no... fucking... way."

Sook hefted a shoulder. "Too late, Master, it's a fait accompli. Trust me," she lied, "I tried to get out of it."

"He's sending you to the island?" Watson palmed his forehead, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the gonads. "This is suicide."

Sook rolled her eyes. "Here we go again."

"I mean it!" Watson whispered angrily. "To quote Eric Cartman, 'You're a chick, dude'."

"And you're a busted ass yachtie. Did I get that right?"

"But I'm two hundred freaking years old."

"And your point is?"

"The world's not gonna miss a creeping geriatric." Watson said. He quickly checked for eaves droppers then lowered his head, "But a beautiful young woman, with her whole life in front of her."

Sook surreptitiously squeezed his hand. "Naww... you old smoothie."

"I'm serious, Sook, you can't come."

"Well I am coming, Master. Just ask Ghaz."

Watson looked around. "Where is he? I want a word with him."

"So what are you gonna say?" Sook rolled her eyes. "You don't want your favourite little ladyboy loose on the island? Your little Ninja? What's up? Don't you trust her?"

"Him! See! You blew it already!"

"Him, her... what's the diff? I'm a ladyboy, remember."

"But you're not. You're a girl."

"For god's sake stop fretting. I'll just go full-metal Mulan."

"Sirs?" a voice said. It was one of the contractors, a man in black, a Westerner, with too-short sleeves and wraparound shades.

Slipping back into character, Watson looked him up and down. "I'm busy." he said, "Come back later."

The goon fingered his curly-chord earpiece. Orders inbound. "I'm sorry sir," he said, standard-issue American, "but the transports are waiting."

"Well let them wait." Watson glared, trying to buy time, desperate to stay, if only for a few more minutes, so close to his girl he could almost taste her.

A second contractor bowled up. "Lord Munt!" he said and Watson picked up the twang of a New Zealander. "We need to get going. We're on a very tight timeline."

"I need a pee." Sook said, then recalibrated her voice downwards. "Can I take a piss first?"

The Kiwi reached for her and Watson raised a hand. "You just keep your hands to yourself."

"Lord Munt," the door-kicker said wearily, "please, sir, we're on a very tight schedule." He looked at Sook. "Bro. If you can just hold on a little while."

Sook sucked a breath. "Bro? Did he just call me 'Bro'?"

"Sir." he said, with a silent 'Jumped-up little fag.' "I mean sir."

The palace security guards stepped aside to let them past, with much bowing and touching of hearts, hopeful to the bitter end of winning the young man's favours. Across the lobby they went, taking long strides to keep up with the up-market thugs in their ill-fitting suits. Piling into the back of the armoured black limo, Watson watched an armoured personnel carrier tear through the middle of a carefully tended garden, ramp going down, the ass-end giving birth to a clutch of troops. Through the screen of palm trees in the distance, he could see the helicopters running, their whirling rotors solid silver discs under the glare of the pad lights. The palace grounds seemed to be swarming. "Must be having a party." Sook said.

"Do you reckon this is normal?" Watson asked, stricken with dread for the girl they were leaving behind.

"For this part of the world?" Sook asked dryly, as their little motorcade roared off, heading for the gates with lights and sirens. "Definitely."

************************************************************************************************************

Each pounding step punched a grunt from her lungs. Draped over a shoulder, Beck found herself borne at a flat-out run down a winding gravel path, combat boots skidding and crunching. Every two hundred steps or so- she tried to count- the runner would slow, then offload the burden onto someone else's shoulder, some of them thin and bony, others broad as an ox. But they never quite stopped, and when the footsteps fell almost silent, she knew they'd hit sand.

Finally, mercifully, her abductors pulled up and she could clearly hear them, coughing and spitting, heaving for breath after what must have been a one- or two-kilometre dash. Even in her bound and captive state, Beck couldn't help but feel a tinge of admiration. These were no average tactical-rabbits. Special Ops, probably, but belonging to whom?

Filtered through layers of heavy black cloth, the sound of wavelets slopping onto a beach reached her ears, followed by the smell of outboard fuel, a scent so familiar, so evocative, it brought tears to her eyes. She felt herself lowered like a sack of purloined royal potatoes, into a nest of firm, angular padding. No prizes for guessing she was in some sort of boat- she felt around with her foot, sensed the firm resilience of an inflatable hull. A RIB she was willing to bet, another cruel stroke of reminiscence. More grunts of exertion, a metal keel scraping over the sand, the vessel rocking as several heavy bodies piled onboard. Followed by the whinny of an outboard starting, then another, settling down at a throaty idle- no little putt-putt yacht-tender engines, but ones that meant business.

Gearboxes clunked into reverse and the RIB chugged backwards, away from the shore, servos whining as the legs came down. Another hefty thump and the RIB idled forward, then surged ahead, rearing up on the plane. Engines howling, they were on their way. Wyvern Cay? She'd wake in the morning and there they'd be, parked off the pristine white sand, iridescent corals under the hull, in a thousand different shapes and hues. They'd nose onto the beach, just her and her old man on their own little island, and she'd throw off her life vest, stark-naked underneath and brown as a berry. Then they'd help themselves to coconuts, filling the RIB, before throwing out a towel and fucking each other to a sweating, panting standstill. Then drift off to the sound of the seabirds, under the shifting shade of the palm fronds, while Aurora rode at anchor in the distance, shimmering in the heat haze. Snuggling down, homesick, starkly afraid but irresistibly excited, Beck drifted off, to the lunge and shudder of a powerful boat speeding over the sea.

She woke up in the old man's arms as he lifted her from her bed. The Universe transformed and Beck found herself being carried up a beach, leaving the sound of the waves and the smell of outboards behind. "Are we there yet?" she groaned, struggling to stretch her limbs, then worked her wrists and flexed her fingers. "You guys are in deep shit you know." she said in reply to the silence. "I'm engaged to the king. I'm, like, his fiancé. But if you let me go, I promise, I won't tell."

Beck heard voices, muttering between themselves, and the sound of a car door opening. One arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees, and she was lowered slowly, with great care, into the firm embrace of a car seat. The engine cranked, and gravel crackled under the tyres, as the vehicle crawled forward onto the blacktop, then accelerated hard to the growl of a hefty V8. Beck yawned. Ho hum... another day in the high-flying life of a corporate jet pilot. None of this had been in the brochure.

Fifteen minutes? A couple of hours? Endless straight roads taken at high speed, 160-plus, Beck figured, from the roar of the engine, the sound of the slipstream, the sort of swaying and buffeting she'd experienced once before, driving with Ally down an autobahn at warp-factor 9, seeing how fast the rental Mercedes could go. She yawned again for the fourth or fifth time in as many minutes, busting to pee. At the rate they were travelling they'd be out of the country soon... she rifled her memory for the lie of the local geography. Gulf to the north, belligerents to the east, trading partner west, wasteland south, all the way to the country's border with one of the most dangerous states on the face of the planet. They were heading west, she convinced herself, towards a border crossing and a-

The wheels locked up with a screech and Beck impacted the seat in front of her. She heard the doors fly open, angry shouts, and a sustained burst of gunfire so close it made her ears ring. Someone grabbed her by the bag and dragged her bodily clear, then threw her over a shoulder for her second abduction tonight. Beck tensed her abdominals against another interminable shoulder-ride, but they'd only gone 20 or 30 running steps when she felt herself unloaded again and carefully placed in an idling vehicle.

Had she been able, she would have seen a good-looking young male, dressed in a tailored military uniform, open the front door and step out. More gunfire tore at the silence, as 2 troopers blasted away at the SUV in which Beck had been riding, tracers arcing heavenwards from ricochets. The vehicle's previous occupants, Beck's initial kidnappers, stood in a huddle nearby, chatting and laughing, 5 special ops types- black fatigues, black vests, black utility webbing, black boots, black gloves, and Night Vision Goggles on black Kevlar helmets. They watched, idly smoking, while their SUV was torn to pieces, ragging each other, reliving the evening's fun. At the approach of the handsome young officer, they threw down their smokes and snapped to attention.

The squad leader threw off a smart salute. "Sir."

"Relax boys," the young man said, his smile shining white in the moonlight, "relax. Great work. On time almost to the minute."

"Thank you, sir."

"Any problems?"

"Major Fahad took some casualties." the squad leader replied, "Three wounded, one KIA."

"So I heard. What about the other side?"

"The household guard put up some resistance. One or two had to be neutralised, and they took a few wounded."

"Didn't want to sign on?"

"Apparently not sir, no."

The young officer fished a cigarette packet from his top pocket and shook out some coffin nails. "Some people just can't take a hint." he said, offering the cigarettes around. Each trooper, even a non-smoker, helped himself with a small bow of thanks. "Can't fault their loyalty, I suppose. Just their brains."

"Which they left all over the floor." the squad leader said and his men all snickered.

A wiry little squaddie, half a head shorter than the rest, raised his hand. "Sir?"

The young officer lit up and took a deep drag. "Send."

"They'll still go to heaven, won't they? The ones who died tonight? They'll still be martyrs I mean? And get their virgins?"

His squad leader shot him a glare while the officer gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Of course they will, son."

"On both sides, Sir?"

"Absolutely. All those who die in the course of doing their duty. 'He who serves his master faithfully, serves also god in heaven above'. So the Herald says."

"Thank you for your reassurance, Sir." the young trooper said, sensing his squad leader's ire. "I hope it wasn't a stupid question."

"Far from it." the officer replied, then took a deep drag on his smoke. "Make no mistake. Over the next few weeks you'll all be sorely tested and some of you will fail. And many may fall. But be brave. Follow your orders, stay faithful, hold your nerve. And for those who triumph great will be your reward."

The two troops finished their work of turning the SUV into a novelty sieve, then joined the huddle still shaking with excitement. "Should we torch it, Sir?" a trooper grinned, hefting a white phosphorous grenade.

The officer jerked his head. "First throw that bucket of blood all over the seats. Give forensics something to do."

The night sky began to throb with the sound of incoming rotors. "Here's your ride, men." the officer said, throwing down his cigarette and grinding it to death beneath his toe. "Quick as you can. Light that thing up. Then get back to barracks, the lot of you. And mind you... do not breathe a word to anyone."

The officer turned and the squad leader snapped off a smart salute while the 2 happy shooters hurried away. One picked up a small plastic pail and tore off the lid, threw 4 litres of blood over the seats, then tossed the container in for good measure. His comrade, meanwhile, unpinned 2 incendiary grenades, lobbed them inside, then scampered clear, stopping 30 meters away to watch the blast.

Reaching his own vehicle at about the same time, the young officer, in perfect English, bellowed, "Take that you murderous scum!", raising his Glock and loosing several rounds of nine-mil into the air. The night recoiled from a dazzling explosion and a shockwave walloped the car, as the officer climbed in the back, then shuffled sideways towards the hyperventilating black sack. "Drive!" he barked, pounding the front seat, "Drive!"

His driver put the pedal to the metal. Wheels spinning, the black SUV tore away from the blazing wreckage into the night.

Sitting back in the cool of the aircon, the young officer tousled his hair into a state of rakish disarray, as if he'd just been down and physical with a worthy foe. He clicked his fingers and a pair of trauma shears appeared, which he used to carefully, meticulously cut the sack open. Working his way upwards from Beck's knees, as his pounding heart pumped up an instant erection, he paused at the level of her bellybutton to look up. "And you idiots keep your eyes to yourselves." he growled and several heads turned away, leaving him to continue the delicate operation in private.

Beck could feel what was coming and started to struggle.

"Relax!" the officer said, patting her exposed thigh, "Relax. You're safe now, those criminals are dead."

"Who are you?" Beck cried, voice muffled by the heavy black hood.

"I am your friend, never fear. I am also a prince, and I just saved you."

The SUV was at terminal velocity, 200 kilometres an hour, rocking and rolling in buffeting slipstream. "Could you please slow down?" Beck pleaded. "I'm not wearing my seatbelt."

"Rabah!" Rashiid tapped the headrest in front of him and when the driver looked in the rearview, gestured downwards with his hand. Foot off the gas, the SUV pilot slowed to one hundred miles an hour, puzzled by the young female's request but following orders nonetheless. The trauma shears cleaved the sack all the way to the top of Beck's head and seeing her figure laid bare, Rashiid licked his lips. He could see her little breasts rising and falling under the golden cape, he could smell her perfume. Hands shaking, Rashiid unclipped the neck strap, then pulled the hood slowly off for the big reveal.

Beck sat blinking at her surroundings- 2 black-clad troops in front, a quick look over her shoulder revealing 2 more. Armed and unaccountable... by all appearances her situation had not much improved. She looked at the handsome young officer sitting beside her, mouth open, staring at her with big, wide eyes. She raised her hands, wrists still cruelly bound, to find her golden FitBit had gone missing. "Would you mind?"

"What?" Rashiid said then shook himself out of his thrall. "Of course, My Lady, of course."

"My Lady?" Beck echoed, tilting her head. "Really? So you know who I am?"

"Indeed I do, My Lady." Rashiid replied, snipping the zip ties. "As I told you, I am a prince. And my father, King Abdulaziz bin Salman Al Shabazz, sent me to save you. 'Rahsiid, my son,' he said, 'I now entrust my beloved to you. In perpetuity'."

Beck pulled back, glaring. "Did you say Rashiid? Seriously? You're not the guy who got us into this mess?"

"Mess?"

"Who tried to abduct us?"

The prince shook his head in confusion. "My Lady?"

"About a month ago, at the airport. Out on the ramp. We saw a motorcade go by. Then these thugs bowled up and said some prince had just seen us, they said his name was Rashiid. And they said he'd asked us back to go back to his place, and when we refused-"

Rashiid waved her down. "No, no, no," he lied, "that was my evil half-brother, Majiid. A notorious womaniser who preys on young girls. Foreigners especially. No, no, I am entirely honourable, I can assure you. Have no fear, you are safe."

Beck settled her feathers and sat massaging her wrists. "So, who were those guys? Who kidnapped me from the palace?"

"Oh... them. " Rashiid said, with the air of a cover story well-rehearsed. "Terrorists from over the border. A constant threat and source of unending turmoil. And the reason I serve. In the military. You see, I am a fighter pilot."

"Really?" Beck arched her eyebrows. "What do you fly?"

"The F-sixteen. Perhaps you have heard of this?"