Bullet Catchers

Chapter 13

Bullet Catchers

Thirteen

Vernon Fairclough, better known to Circuit members as Rascal, was rumored to be quite the snake. They – whoever "they" happened to be – had said that he would stab anyone in the back. Nothing was considered too dirty for him or those on his payroll. "His payroll" was the most well-organized and put together Circuit organization, known throughout the world as "Bandit." On paper they were called Fairclough Services. The "Bandit" moniker came from the patches they wore, which featured the silhouette of a western-style hat and bandana. It reminded people of the "bandits" of the old west.

In many ways, Fairclough Services wasn't too unlike outlaws of the old west. If the Bullet Catchers were famous for being screw-ups, then Bandit was famous for being ruthless. Whatever self-proclaimed justice they used to defend their actions seemed a little shady to most. They rode into lawless lands (or, rather, lands they deemed as lawless) and strong armed the governments to their will. They then sold the governments to the United States and took whatever resources they wanted before scurrying to the next spot.

"Law and order is defined by those who have power," was saying often attributed to Bandit's founder, Vernon's father.

Vernon's father? He's dead. Don't ask how or why, because no one has an answer. Except, perhaps, Vernon himself. He'd never admit to any of it, though. Ever since the death of his father, Vernon has held absolute power and control over every aspect of Fairclough Services. The company originally held many different roles, from house cleaning, to HVAC repair, to body disposal. Yet under Vernon's direction the company channeled all of its resources into securing contracts by the United States government.

This was a very successful move. It also had some consequences. For one, Bandit was now known world-wide as a group of war criminals. They did the dirty work the government refused to do. In order to succeed, Vernon had okayed whatever force necessary. "People are a commodity I refuse to lose. Morals, however, hold no value in this world," he had reportedly stated when confronted about the actions of his employees.

Vernon believed in that very much. No matter the cost, he would fight for his employees. Compared to other military for hire groups, Fairclough Services held a very high retention rate and boosted great employee satisfaction. All were paid well, received great benefits, and knew that they had a very powerful man on their side.

Thus the moment the young and hothead Vernon believed the government might turn on his own people, he shot a Colonel of the United States Army in the head. Afterward, his highest ranking officer berated him endlessly. In fact, she'd complained so much he received a headache. Just to get her to shut up, he'd offered to catch Jan himself and turn him in. "If it'll please you so much," he's said.

She wouldn't have it. With a shake of her head she said, "Don't be an i***t. You don't want to do that. But you didn't exactly stop the contract for Basko when you killed the Colonel. They just added that to his crime list."

"So what then?" he asked.

"Let's go pick him up. Save him. Wouldn't you like to have Moses as an ally?"

The idea was tempting. He wanted to comment on how rare it was for her say something actually useful and intelligent, but that would just result in a kick to the crotch. Before he dared to make any decisions, he nursed his headache with a glass of his favorite scotch. Then two glasses, three glasses, four…

That is exactly how Pluto, Tank, Arai, and Monkey all ended up being the lucky recipients of a free helicopter ride away from danger. Yet if they thought they were getting freedom, they were definitely wrong. When Rascal pointed his pistol at his new passengers, no one bothered to put up a fight. Even Tank, who typically would throw down no matter what, was too tired, too pissed off, and smart enough to know starting a fight on a helicopter wasn't the best idea.

Rascal had no intention of attempting a flight all the way to one of his properties, the nearest being on the Virgin Islands. Instead he landed his helicopter on the yacht that brought them there. For Tank and Jan, they had never seen a super yacht and it was evident the moment they approached. Like children that had just spotted a puppy, their noses were pressed against the windows of the helicopter in excitement.

Arai had seen this exact yacht before. In fact, he'd been on it several times. Without a doubt, he had done business with Rascal's father. He knew what kind of a ruthless businessman the elder Fairclough had been. Being this close to the man that may have indeed killed said ruthless businessman made his blood run cold.

As for Monkey, while he had been on many super yachts before, he wouldn't have given a s**t if this was his first time. Few things impressed him. Even fewer things impressed him when he was in this much pain and this pissed off.

Once they landed on the super yacht they were ushered out by several Bandit members. Their uniforms were neatly pressed and tidy, very unlike the unorganized Bullet Catchers and their complete lack of professionality. Monkey was whisked away, probably to have his wounds treated. Arai was given assistance off the deck of the yacht, as his leg was still in rather bad shape. Tank demanded to know where she could get something to drink, which resulted in her being escorted somewhere unseen.

Several Bandit members attempted to give Pluto first aid but he cursed at them in Czech. Once he was freed of those pests, he found himself alone. After such an insane journey, all of the aches and pains from the wounds that had been inflicted came rushing into his brain at once. He needed alcohol or drugs, and he needed them fast.

Blurred vision attempted to take in the layout of the yacht but failed miserably. Pluto opted just to meander. Stumbling after the first few steps he took, he was forced to admit to himself that he probably should've accepted that first aid. Regardless, that opportunity was long past. He just wanted a place to sit down.

"Let me help you," a feminine voice interrupted his thoughts. Before he could turn to face her she grabbed him under his good arm, practically lifting him off the ground. The woman moved with such speed he was nearly dragged across the deck.

Pluto hated being touched without permission. Survival mode typically kicked in and whoever had the balls to place a finger on him had all their limbs broken. In that moment, however, he was too exhausted and confused to care. Her touch was gentle, not abrasive; her demeanor was kind of cute and not bossy. It was almost a relief to him.

Before he had time to process all of the thoughts racing in his head he found himself inside the yacht and in front of Rascal. The room was a bit too modern and yuppie for his tastes, with a small bar in one corner and elegant looking furniture. Bare walls surrounded him. He was about to question why he was brought there, but the woman that had escorted him pushed him onto a rather plush sofa. When he turned to look at her, his attention was brought back to Rascal when he handed Pluto a glass.

"Scotch? It's a personal favorite of mine," he offered.

Pluto didn't hesitate. He snatched the glass and downed it in one gulp. Rascal didn't seem at all disturbed. He merely handed Pluto his own glass and then handed the empty one to his female companion. By the time Pluto had chugged that second glass, two more were ready for him.

Realizing how hastily he was drinking, Pluto wiped a drop that threatened to fall and said, "Sorry. The last time I was on a boat, it sank."

Rascal put up a hand and said, "No worries. I actually don't mind at all how much you drink. Anything you need. While you're a guest of mine, you just need to ask. Liquor, heroin, girls, boys… all yours."

"My four vices," Pluto said with a smirk.

"So it seems," Rascal said. His tone meant that he understood more than Pluto realized, and it didn't take more than a few seconds before the Czech's grin turned right around into a frown. Rascal watched as Pluto downed another glass before he said, "I'm sure you're aware of the bounty that's out for you right now."

Pluto almost hadn't heard what Rascal said. He was too busy massage his aching broken arm to pay attention. He picked up on enough words to question, "So, am I here so you can collect that bounty?"

Rascal laughed. It was an ear grating sound. "They'd have to add a couple more zeros for it to even be worth my time. Only small time bounty hunters, poor nations, and poor mercenaries would even bother," he said.

Pluto decided that instead of trusting him or questioning any more, he would turn the tables. It was his turn to control the conversation. The empty glass of scotch was set down on the small table near him. He leaned back into the soft cushioning of the couch. Being relaxed always helped others open up to him.

He asked, "What's the story with that ugly ear of yours?"

"Bar fight. I was seventeen," was the immediate and short response.

"What were you doing in a bar at seventeen? Drinking age in America is twenty-one."

"Who said I was in America? And who said I follow the rules?"

Silence followed. A strange sense of understanding set in. Pluto's grin returned, coupled with a quiet chuckle. He'd dealt with these types before. Rascal was entitled. Whatever he wanted he always had. War was a money-making game to him. He wasn't interested in the bounty of Pluto because he thought he could get more money another way.

"What do you want, svině? You Americans are all the same. You're the same as that Four-Eyed Fleet faggot, aren't you? Tch," Pluto cursed. His smirk was still present yet his tone was wrath-filled.

Rascal stared at him blankly for a beat before he even blinked. He sighed, gave a small shrug, and said, "We have the same goal, you and I. Survival. You may be more maggot like than me, wriggling around in the carcass of the underground, the s**t infested rat holes of society. But you and I? We're the same. We both like our vices, we both like the power we get through them. We like money and drugs and women all the same. Why wouldn't I look out for one of my own?"

Pluto eyed him, not believing him in the slightest. It seemed too much like an interrogation tactic for his comfort. He questioned, "You're not just trying to get information about Malta from me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"That's all anyone seems to think I'm good for."

Rascal laughed. He leaned forward and patted Pluto on the top of his head before leaving. The sensation of having that man touch him sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't like it one bit. He thought to have another glass of scotch but was filled with disappointment when he found them already empty. Eying them, he contemplated getting up and filling them himself. Before he could even ponder the idea fully, the woman from before gave him a cup of water.

"You need this more than you need alcohol," she told him.

Hesitantly he accepted. After a sniff of the cup revealed no odors, he raised the cup toward her and nodded with a forced smile. Fresh water moistened his parched throat. It was refreshing. He certainly did need it more than he realized.

Something about the way she kept a watchful gaze on him seemed off. After the second drink of water he offered a slightly bigger smile and said, "Sorry. Normally I'm full of lines to impress you for the sake of a quick f**k. After today, I can't even think straight."

"You're not my type, so don't worry about it," she said.

The glass that was being raised to his lips halted and he shot a look at her. It was a brief act that she barely even caught. His eyes left her and he focused on his drink. After two big gulps he set the glass down. "Then I won't waste my time."

Pluto was aware his entire demeanor changed. The mask he was attempting to build dropped in an instant. He'd spent the entire conversation with Rascal watching her in an attempt to figure out what kind of man she preferred. Each little tick, step, eye flutter… he'd analyzed it all and was convinced she wanted that straight-forward type with a little helplessness. It didn't matter. He really didn't have the mental energy to put that much effort into it.

"What is your type, then?" he asked. All she did was smile. It irritated him but he kept his composure. What exactly was she doing, anyway? Was she supposed to be keeping an eye on him? He didn't like it. He wanted private time. He decided to pry a little more. "Lesbian?" Nope, that wasn't it. "Black guys?" No, that was wrong. "… that Rascal i***t?"

A light laugh was the only answer she gave.

"Whatever. Where can I rest? I'm f*****g tired. And I need a smoke. A new splint for my arm. And apparently a new life."