“It’s for you,” said Ellie, handing her burner phone to Rusty as they high-kneed it across the tarmac of Winnipeg’s Richardson International. In cooperation with the Royal Canadian Air Force, 17 Wing had HQ’s supersonic jet fueled up and ready for takeoff.
With this aircraft pushed to its maximum speed of Mach 2.0, Ellie would be able to get them to Lake Kariba in less than seven hours. She thought six, if the jet stream cooperated and Rusty kept his barf bag from overflowing.
“Hello?” answered Rusty. It was Celine calling from camp. They had been gone for less than an hour.
“Hey, Rustapher Columbus—how was your flight?”
“Celine, we’re boarding a—something that looks like a missile with monster turbojets hanging on each side—make it quick, please,” responded Rusty.
“Cats out—I wanted shake n bake—now Cos bailed for Jackfish and Neville won’t butter my biscuits!” she replied with an exasperated voice.
Rusty took a two-count as he continued toward the extremely classified bird that shook the ground while idling. “Please, English—come again?” he asked.
“Look, you left me in charge…”
“No, not in charge, Celine…”
“Ok, whatever,” she continued. “But since I’m in charge now, I’d like to offer up some advice on how to take better care of our clients. You know, spice up their tournament while they’re here. Maybe mix some auto with diesel—that sort of gig, you dig? By the way—did you mile-high it on the way to Richardson? You ‘ol Rustapleaser, you!”
“Celine, I gotta go. Please—please—please follow directions from Cosmoid. He is your boss. Can you promise me…”
“I’ve caught six northern pike off the docks since you left,” Celine interrupted. “Don’t tell me you’re busy—I’m trying to bottle enough fish slime to—sweet Saint Mary—I gotta go, boss.”
Speaking of bosses, now that Sally Squatsnfishes had officially met Salvatore THE ANCHOR Pescatore, new tournament rules were being established while she was held at gunpoint. Said rules were ultra-clear. So much so that it was no longer necessary for her to fear the myth of Nyami Nyami (Zambezi River God), as she now knew in fact that the snake-headed dragon truly existed.
“Well, Winifred Dixie—there you are,” said Salvatore, waving his handgun back and forth between both women. “Why don’t you go ahead and disarm yourself—no need to make things messy.”
Win immediately obliged, tossing her knife and handgun on the shoreline, and responded, “Please, I can explain…”
“Save it! Ms. Squatsnfishes and I have been waiting patiently for your arrival,” he continued, in the same gravelly voice Sally remembered from the phone call at her parents’ New York estate. Then he fired a gunshot into the starless night, making everyone on No Name Island aware of their location.
Exhaling, he continued, “You know, Win, your mission was simple. And I can’t blame you for doubling up on us. Well, come to think of it, I can. But now—now there’s a new set of rules—my rules. And we’re all going to play this game fairly—my way.”
Within seconds the three pursuing guards had also arrived on the scene, plus another dozen members of the Fathomable Fathom Order. Even in the dark you could see their surprise. Their Sicilian leader had arrived unannounced, and he had single-handedly kept Sally and Win from escaping the island.
Then, with a boisterous grin, he held a hand up to address the crowd. “My fellow constituents, as per our united belief in protecting Nyami Nyami, I am here to correlate the process in which we interrogate our unwelcome visitor and her double-agent accomplice.”
“Kill them both—feed them to Nyami Nyami—protect our Tonga people,” were rowdy chants that came from bloodthirsty voices.
Salvatore fired a second shot into the night to quiet the crowd. “There will be no killing, yet. My ancestors engineered the construction of the dam on Lake Kariba. For over a decade you have trusted me as your leader, and these are my orders: take Winifred Dixie back to your camp and hold her there until you are told differently. Any rebuttal or action to do otherwise, by any person or persons, shall result in immediate extermination by our god of the lake, Nyami Nyami. As for Squatsnfishes—she will come with me. Now go—all of you—I will return in five days.”
The sun was beginning to rise on the eastern skyline as Salvatore Pescatore crossed Lake Kariba with Sally Squatsnfishes in tow. A temporary truce had been ordered and the Sicilian mob boss, ruler of Nyami Nyami, explained: “You should have remained in the States, as instructed, my unlucky friend.”
“Not sure luck has anything to do with this,” responded Sally, seated next to her newfound enemy with the winds of a sultry morning flowing through her hair as they raced across the lake.
“Oh, I disagree,” said Pescatore. “Unlucky that you killed my brother Biggy—unlucky that you did not adhere to my wishes—unlucky that I am the protector of Nyami Nyami.”
“Wishes for what?”
“Staying out of this fishing tournament. Steering clear of my niece Carmela—who’s fiercer than her father.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” replied Sally, raising her eyebrows and moving in closer for an explanation. “Who’s Carmela?”
“Oh, my apologies—you know her as Sage Golden—my family addresses her by birth name—Carmela Pescatore—her enemies know her only as Riptide.”
Sally momentarily looked away to piece the puzzle together. Then she turned back with defiance and said, “So why not just kill me now? Let’s get it over with.”
“HA! Clearly, you do not know my niece. First, she wants to embarrass you on a global level, by winning this world-renowned fishing tournament. Then, and only then, will she choose to see you killed.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” chirped Sally. “One that I will gladly accept. But what about the loss of my fishing guide, Win—not exactly a fair playing field.”
“Again, unlucky,” replied Salvatore as he pushed the throttle to maximum speed. “I will have Win swim with Nyami Nyami when this is over. And as for you—find a new fishing guide—not my problem.”
At zero ninety degrees off the bow the sun continued its ascent. At zero eighty-five there was a boat on the horizon. At zero ninety-five there was a Zambezi River God breaking the surface. Sally peered into the blinding ball of orange as Hazel, Jackie and Ron split the sun with Nyami Nyami, both racing toward her on a collision course.
Then Salvatore calmly released his left hand from the wheel and pulled his right hand back on the throttle. He arched his back against the leaning post of the center console, and he folded his arms confidently at his chest. “Ah, I see your friends are about to meet our legend.”
Sally deflected the sun while Nyami Nyami banked hard to its right. Hazel followed suit by cranking hard on the wheel of her vessel to flee. It was difficult watching through squinted eyes, but Eagle One could clearly see a set of fangs and poisonous tongue extended toward her Team.
“Salvatore,” she screamed, “call off your monster!” But her request fell on deaf ears as the snake’s head and neck extended—opening its jaws 180 degrees—inhaling the boat and her mates!
Speaking of racing around—area residents of the Winnipeg airport thought a catastrophic explosion had occurred when Ellie ignited the throttle and left the runway at YWG.
Briefly, she had tried explaining G-forces to Rusty before their departure, but clearly, he was—distracted.
What am I doing—what am I doing, were Rusty’s thoughts, skipping at maximum speed in repeated order, before he felt the weight of a grand piano drop on his chest.
Next came his gag reflux—the bag of crispy Hawkins Cheezies he pounded down pre-flight was reintroducing itself to the back of his throat. Thankfully he was seated behind Ellie, so she could not witness the ensuing chaos.
There was an oxygen mask that was pulled a nanosecond before the puke erupted. And then there was tardiness in flipping up the face shield. It was now painted a bright reddish orange on the interior.
One of these days—Rusty did not get a chance to finish his thoughts. Ellie hauled the jet into a turn, for the fun of it, he assumed. But this time his reaction with the barf bag was expedient. That and the fact that his stomach was empty and his high-pitched vocals only produced dry heaves.
“Thank goodness for chest pockets,” he murmured into his mic, while folding the barf bag neatly into squares and placing it conveniently within reach.
“What was that, sweetie?” responded Ellie, throwing the jet into a barrel roll and placing it on a corkscrew path.
Unable to fully see through the film of painted orange on his visor, Rusty flailed aimlessly with both arms, swatting at the floating barf bag as it escaped his pocket and hung mid-air. “Did Columbus ever get seasick?!” he replied.
–To Be Continued—
