Author’s note: I think that after most of you are done reading this chapter, you would notice that each character’s narration is getting shorter. I apologise sincerely for the inconsistency, and it will be fixed in the next chapter.

Chapter 3

Phoenicia Carlisle

As Randen and I struggled to hold Coldon above the toilet bowl, he hacked and threw up another dollop of green stench. And the best part of it was, the dollop possessed enough momentum to splatter off the surface of the toilet bowl and land on our faces.

“Heck, Coldon, what’s the matter with you?” Randen yelled at him. Coldon was in no position to reply, but he shrugged. I think.

“Shut up, Randy. Just let him puke in peace.” I shot back at him. After all, who could refrain from the urge to throw up?

The telephone rang, but which telephone, goodness, that would be up to either Scott or Rourke. For high-risk maximum security, we set up three phone lines. I heard a tumble of metal and plastic before hearing Scott shout at me: “Can’t find the red line, Feeny!”

I sighed in exasperation and ducked under Coldon’s arm, leaving Randen to handle him alone. In protest he yelled: “Feeny, you get your butt back here and clean him up! I think he’s stopped wanting to barf.”

I spotted a rag on the bathroom floor and kicked it up, catching it perfectly with my hand and I threw the rag at his direction. His trained reflexes instantly caught it without batting an eyelid, and he gave me a tired glare. I just shrugged. “Just take care of him, will you?”

As Rourke and Scott opened the cabinets and drawers and looked under the jumbles of wires and cables, I went to the old, lumpy couch and lifted its cushions up. It was cordless after all so it could have slipped into one of the colourless cushions.

A sight for sore eyes, the blessed, bright red receiver lay on the base of the sofa, and I quickly snatched it and answered it with a relieved grin.

“Hello?”

“There is fresh meat for the panther today,” came a dry, clipped voice that could only belong to someone who had steel-grey moustache.

Well, he had the top secret introduction code right. Most underground movements, in an effort to stay as covert as possible, had secret call codes that were known only among those notorious mob bosses who sometimes preferred us trained professionals to ‘take care of someone/some people’ than their own clumsy bullies. Not because they weren’t any good, but because we were fast, cool and professional. Our best record was getting three jobs done in two days in three different locations: Berlin, Addis Ababa, and Dubai. There was the one time when we took out a whole convention of wannabe Mafioso in Capri, but, I think the Three-Way Job (as we fondly called it) was the best string of hits we’ve ever made.

I smiled into the phone. “You’ve got us.”

I heard a sort of sigh and wondered if this guy (he definitely sounds like a tough guy) was not as tough as I was led to believe.

“I’ve got a job you can’t possibly refuse, Miss Panther.” Miss Panther was my codename. You wanna hear Randen’s? Mr. Magoo. Boo-hoo.

My grin grew wider. “Name the place and we can make this work.”

I could almost see this man grinning too. “Achilles Statue, Hyde Park, today at five.”

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “See you there.”

I didn’t know who hung up first, me or him.

Nah, I guess it was me.

Randen Russell

“We’ve got a job!” I heard Feeny shout from the living room. Although no one could hear me in the toilet except cold and shivering Coldon, I clapped dispiritedly. Coldon, meanwhile, was quaking in the bathtub while I was squatting on the floor next to the tub, as if he had seen a ghost.

But it wasn’t entirely my fault that nobody cared to fix a heater here anyway, right? Or was it Coldon’s fault that he couldn’t handle cold water?

“How’s everything going on?” I jumped to my feet immediately as I heard Feeny approaching. Feeny is extremely protective of Coldon. Don’t ask me why, but my best guess is that she doesn’t want him to feel left out.

Come on, heck, Coldon’s a big guy. He can take care of himself, heck. But if Feeny finds out that I dumped him into the bathtub and forced him to endure a torrent of cold water to his face, I was as good as, well is there any other expression for it?, dead.

I am so busted.

“Randy, what the hell have you done to him?” Right, exactly what I deserve. A murderous glare from Feeny, and a screech worse than my mom’s. I stepped back and watched with some humour as she rummaged in the sink cabinet and, upon finding a towel, quickly threw it around Coldon. And Coldon, oh the poor guy, he was still quaking like hell.

Feeny got him to stand up and helped him out of the bathtub. On her way out, she gave me another I’m-going-to-have-your-hide-after-I’m-done-with-him glare. I just shrugged. “Nobody bothered to fix a heater.”

“Then fix one,” she snapped back at me before she helped Coldon onto the sofa and began drying him.

Coldon Perchis

I have read about cruelty many times in the wonderful, colorful world of literature. I have envisioned cruelty as chained torture, the kinds where the tortured one is either stabbed, burnt or whipped. It didn’t matter as long as that tortured one was physically hurt. And very rarely, a beautiful woman with a heart of gold comes to rescue the tortured one.

Today, I experienced cruelty in a more subtle and sinister force: cold water.

What in the world was Randen Russell thinking? I’m pneumonic! Didn’t he know that already when he accidentally dumped me into the Mediterranean Sea at 3 in the morning when we were in Capri, mistaking me for an intruder? I’m not one to feel vengeful but I sure was glad when Phoenicia pushed him into the sea.

Phoenicia sat me on the sofa and dried me with a towel. Usually I hated people drying me up like a dog, messing up my hair and all, and I would trash around like a restless puppy. But when Phoenicia was drying me up, I sat as still as a statue, for I feared angering her, and I feared that I was going to make such a foolish child out of myself.

Scott appeared in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Coldon?”

I nodded shakily. “I think so. Thank you.”

“Get him a glass of warm of water, will you, Scott?” Phoenicia stopped drying my hair and looked up at Scott. He shrugged and replied, “Sure.” And he went off to fetch one for me.

Phoenicia dried me up a little bit more than asked me with a sympathetic smile, “How are you feeling now?”

I tried to smile, just to assure her that I was not a little child. “At least I won’t be pneumonic for the moment.”

Phoenicia broke into a relieved grin and stood. “I’m glad. You can’t stand alcohol after all.”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“But we drink, I mean, I, Randy, Rourke and Scott; everyday, and you’re okay with it.”

“I think it’s because of the smell of the whole place.”

She smiled again. “Anyway, I hope you’ll be all right soon. Because we’re about to get another job.”

Rourke Hassell

“Who’s going to Hyde Park at five?” Randen asked.

I had changed out of my stinky maroon sweater and pulled on a black one, the only one I could find in the apartment, since I rarely stayed the night here. Randen and Scott were the ones who frequently slept in the headquarters, since they had no commitment like Coldon and I. Feenes would rather fight sleep to get back to her apartment rather than sleep in a ‘Dumpster’ like this.

I put up my hand. “I’d love to go, if it’s all right with Feenes.” I glanced at her.

She shrugged. “Sure. Then Rourke and I will go.”

We nodded in agreement. Usually if there was going to be a meeting with a prospective client, only the two of us would be going, and the rest stayed behind to guard the turf. You never knew what was going to happen next: which enemy would come knocking on our door and take us all out together with our valuable databank.

It almost happened when we left the turf alone. Imagine leaving your home and coming back to find everything in pieces and scraps. Luckily we had only just started out; only one customer in the databank. Since then we never dared to leave the apartment alone in broad daylight. Even when it was time to go home, we always felt insecure about just leaving, even with all the bolts and hiding places. Luckily again, Scott and Randen always stayed the night.

“Who’s the guy?” Scott asked from the couch.

Feenes shrugged. “I’d like to know.”

“What did he sound like?” Randen plopped onto the seat beside Scott.

“Grainy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“And clippy.”

Everyone fell silent. Had we grown this boring and predictable? We’ve become too quiet lately, I noticed.

Then Feenes cleared her throat. “So, how was everyone’s weekend?”

Scott Levine

We coughed simultaneously. I couldn’t even begin.

Randen spoke up first. “Terrible.”

For the first time, Coldon nodded with him. “Absolutely.”

Rourke sighed and rested his chin on his hand. “It was painful.”

My eyebrows rose. “How so?”

Rourke cocked an eyebrow at me. “Don’t ask.”

“What about you, Scotty?” Feenes looked earnestly at me.

I shrugged. I don’t think they would understand if I told them. Did they even go to college or care about it?

“Horrible.” I said simply.

Feenes nodded and seemed to understand my curt tone. I didn’t want her to pry. Not to say that I didn’t trust her, or any of them, but what had happened to me over the weekend was supposed to private. Confidential. For-my-eyes-only.

After a while, Feenes said, “William proposed to me.”

“WHAT?” we all exclaimed together. Randen was staring at Feenes so intently that his eyes seemed on the verge of popping out.

“What did you say?” Rourke urged.

“I ran,” she said, as if it wasn’t a big deal. But I could tell it was: Feenes wasn’t the sort of person who enjoyed commitment. She confided this to me before.

Randen seemed to have recovered from his shock and laughed a bit cruelly. “Well that’s great Feeny, you did the right thing.”

“Did I?” she shot hotly back at Randen. I shut my eyes. When it came to Feenes’s boyfriend, they were at loggerheads at one another. Randen thought that there was a high possibility that William Bolding was gay, because he was so timid of everything small. Feenes, on the other hand, was of the firm opinion that Randen was jealous of William, because apparently, William was extremely rich.

“Can – you – two – stop – being – such – babies?” I asked tiredly. I was sick of their arguing over everything: William Bolding, his tools, her ideas, even Coldon. It was a wonder that we had managed to get our jobs done at all. They certainly didn’t seem to think alike most of the time.

Feenes muttered something while Randen sighed angrily, got up and headed for the bathroom. I looked at my watch. It was only noon. We wouldn’t last in peace until five.