The backside of the seven-inch razor-sharp blade, held in Winifred Dixie’s hand, was pressed coolly against Sally Squatsnfishes’ pulsating neck. She was at the mercy of her foe—or friend.
“I didn’t know,” whispered Win as she worked the cutting edge of the knife against the braided rope wrapped around Sally’s throat, securing her to a tree. “My orders were to bring you here, to talk.”
Of the thirty or so members who made up the espionage group calling themselves the Fathomable Fathoms United (FFU for short)—only three remained posted at the perimeter—keeping guard near their campfire ring.
“They only wanted to know your intentions with Nyami Nyami,” maintained Win. “This is what they led me to believe.”
“I’m a double agent,” she confessed. “My youthful adventures here in Tonga country created highly sought-after skills—ones that this band of protectors recruited. I guess I should’ve known better.”
Then Win continued, “My plan was to bring you in peacefully. The gun was for persuasion, but you went overboard and it was too late. Now I find you here—captured—with men arguing over who gets to kill you.”
Speaking of people who had been discovered—Rusty Flathers, who had been hiding in the rear of a float plane, had now bounced his way to the forward cockpit and assumed the co-pilot seat, brushing shoulders with Ms. Ellie Waylayer.
“Get your harness strapped on,” Ellie ordered, maintaining a sharp focus on the horizon. “I want to make Winnipeg in under an hour, and these cumulus clouds are kicking my ass.”
“You’re telling me,” piped Rusty. “Can you not see this lure stuck in my face?”
Taking her right hand from the wheel, Ellie turned toward the hitchhiker and pushed the gold-frame Ray-Ban Aviators to her forehead. “You’re lucky that’s all you have. I told you this mission does not involve you, Rusty. I felt the weight of your ass in the rear of my plane before I took off, and I thought, OK he’s serious about going after Sally. And now here you are, sitting next to me, with two treble hooks buried in your face. What are you gonna do if we get to Zim and bullets start flying?!”
Ellie had every reason to be pissed. Rusty understood this. His eagerness to leave the camp in the hands of his business partner Cosmoid and the hapless theater provided by Celine (faking her seizure) had forced him to make a knee-jerk reaction. But he had history with Sally Squatsnfishes. And that trump card was enough to get him on this plane.
The two mysteries in life that you will never truly understand, son, are what his father, Doobie Flathers, had often restated. Continuing with women and fishing—and then he would exhale for further father-to-son reinforcement: women and fishing.
With this thought, Rusty carefully chose his next words: “Ellie, you and I have a past—a present—and possibly a future. But first, I’m gonna need help getting this lure unstuck from my face.”
“Fine,” replied Ellie, “I’ll dig the hooks out, but if there’s so much as a peep from you during the extraction—then no Zimbabwe—you copy?”
“I copy,” answered Rusty, fully knowing his limited pain threshold. Just last week an unannounced butterfly landed on his arm while he was scrubbing boats, and this provoked a scream.
“Stay seated, and don’t touch anything,” Ellie ordered as she flipped the autopilot switch on the control panel, popped herself loose from her buckles, and scrunched out of the captain’s chair in one smooth motion. “You may regret this.”
So far Rusty was not. Ellie had him straddled like a Montana rider mounted bareback, her Jetstream blue eyes inches from his, and her athletic breasts pressed against his chest.
Does she ever not smell amazing? he thought, before her Leatherman Wave multi-tool snapped loose from the nylon belt sheath and broke his trance. Butterflies—think about butterflies.
The wire cutters came first. Two snips and the body of the lure was gone—leaving only a single treble in his left nostril and another in the opposite cheekbone.
“I never pegged you as the type to have their snout pierced, Flathers. Maybe I’ll make this hole big enough to insert a hoop,” Ellie said as she returned the wire cutters to the body of the multi-tool and then exposed its needle-nose.
Rusty shook his head side to side—taking short breaths through gritted teeth—while his feet punched holes through the floor of the plane.
“Well, we both know you’re pretty good at one thing,” Ellie added with a wink. Then she purposely tweaked the barb of the bare hook further into Rusty’s nostril—testing his pain tolerance—putting herself in full control.
Rusty grimaced as the point of the barb went deeper—his facial color surpassing the standard thirty to forty shades of red—by about two hundred. He was unclear if they had hit a strong updraft with the plane, or Ellie was purposely making this procedure hellish.
“Easy there, stallion,” Ellie whispered through a slight grin. “I wouldn’t try to throw this cowgirl off.” Then she popped her wrist and pushed the balance of the barb through the entirety of his nostril. “There—one down—one to go.”
Taking what Rusty felt was her sweet time—Ellie then arched herself forward—inhaling with a smile—placing her bosoms just under his chin and wiggling on his lap to reposition for the next hook.
A normal man would buckle, he thought, fingers clawing into the base of the co-pilot’s chair. Then, without notice, she latched onto the remaining hook stuck in his cheekbone.
The surgeon shredded skin and immediately the plane spiked skyward like a head-shot rooster pheasant. The stallion had tried to throw the rider. His knees launched upward and the toe of his boot kicked the wheel of the plane toward the ceiling. This removed all instruments from auto-anything.
A fraction of a second later, Ellie pushed Rusty’s head against the backrest of the seat, countered with a shoulder swing, and caught the yoke with her right hand. This corrected the plane’s violent upward pitch, and she returned the flight to auto.
“Ow Chicka Ow Ow,” purred the patient, while pain rolled his brown eyes into the back of his head.
Ellie raised her eyebrows—wiped a trace of blood from his cheek—sealed the puncture with a pair of moist lips and said, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just mutter something, Flathers.”
“Zimbabwe?” replied Rusty.
Sally Squatsnfishes’ eyes were also raised, as she weighed the words Win Dixie spoke when she cut her loose from the base of a tree. Her throat ached from the tightness of the noose, her lungs from excessive inhalation of water, and her head from the swirling thoughts of the ifs, ands, or butts of their next move.
“How do we get off the island?” whispered Sally as Win sliced the remaining rope tangled about her feet. “I’m done swimming.”
“That’s a solid plan, Sal. I suggest we take our boat. Follow me.”
The two escapees reverse-duck-walked into the thick of the bush, keeping their eyes glued to the fire where the guards now sat and shared a puff. One of the men coughed out a mouthful of smoke, spat to clear his lungs, and shouted, “She’s gone!”
“Run—run,” Win demanded, grabbing Sally’s elbow and catapulting her to the front of the duo. “I’ll slow them down—go to the shoreline—find the boat.”
Sally’s nausea from the near-drowning quickly disappeared as she raised her knees and sprinted blindly through an entanglement of hell. The oxygen refreshed her lungs while pointed branches and puckered vines tore at her clothing, eliminating brain fog. It was good to feel again.
With short, fast strides, she continued to make distance between herself and the enemy. There it is—the boat—I made it!
Like a triple jumper she took three long leaps, hit the bow rail going full-bore with arms extended, and catapulted herself into the front of the center console. A gymnast landing off a pommel horse. Then she spun forward, peered into the darkness, and waited for Win.
“Where is she?” Sally said aloud, wishing for her return.
“Where’s who, Eagle One?” replied a gravelly voice, sending shock waves through Sally’s body. Then she heard a hammer cock and felt the barrel at the base of her skull.
–To Be Continued–
