Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (19 page)

Skidding to a halt alongside Lunley’s Harley, the Dakota’s elderly engine gave a final wheezing cough to expiration as the creaking driver’s-side door flung open, and a short, wiry figure dressed in grunge-covered jeans and a wrinkled flannel shirt hopped out.

“What up ladies?” Lincoln Baxter shouted, sucking down one more drag of his menthol cigarette before spiking it to the ground.

“You know, Counselor,” Danny began, pointing to the used butt on the pavement. “It’s bad enough that you’re trying to kill us all with your sidestream. You don’t have to leave the evidence at the scene of the crime while you’re at it.”

Link shot him a scowl. “Yeah, yeah. Get over it, Crockett,” he protested, referencing Danny’s status as a cop and a Miami native, while leaping up for an open-palmed smack of Lunley’s head.

“And what exactly was that, then?” Hamish simpered. “Trust me, your wee little feminine form is grounds enough to confuse ya with a woman. No need to hit like one too.”

Then, laughing together for the first time in what seemed like ages, the two old friends embraced.

“Been too long, Link,” Lee said, extending a hand.

“Amen to that, Top. How’s life down here on the coast?”

“Another day, another dime.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Link grunted.

“Good Lord, Link,” Danny scoffed, staring at the aging Dakota and Link’s flannel attire. “You make six figures a year repping scumbags for one of the loftiest firms in the southeast, and yet you still dress like a grunge band groupie and drive the same old beater you had in college. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t you at least get a Ferrari or something when you sign a pact with Satan?”

Link spun around on his heels. “Hey,” he snapped, thrusting an accusatory finger at Danny. “She might not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts, ass.”

Never a fan of
Star Wars
, Hamish answered with a groan. “I swear, Lincoln. I’ll never understand what ya saw in those ludicrously overrated films—talk about your prototypical Hollywood shite,” he huffed. “Forgive me for wanting just a hint of intellect in ma entertainment, but I feel stupider somehow for having seen them—I fib ya not!”

“Yeah, well, as far as I’m concerned the new ones never even happened,” Link conceded, “but you, Gene Roddenberry, and your man-crush Jimmy Doohan can all suck it. The first three are timeless.”

Hamish shook his head, unimpressed.

“Seriously though,” Danny intervened, wanting no part of an extremely tired debate. “You ever gonna trade up? After all, it’s not like you don’t have the money.”

Link shrugged. “I don’t know. Call me sentimental or whatever, but I just don’t want to get rid of her. Don’t get me wrong, I know she’s not the sexiest of rides to look at anymore—and she’s definitely got her fair share of miles—but every time I go to put her down, I just can’t. I’ve had a lot of good times in the Falcon…” Link paused—his expression turning devilish. “Some
really
good times, if you catch my drift…
dude!
Remember that one brunette with the huge—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lee jumped in. “I’ve heard way more of those stories than I ever cared to over the years and frankly, I’d like to be able to sleep tonight, if ya don’t mind.” Link’s grin widened, and Lee shifted the conversation. “So how’s life in the ATL?”

“Eh,” Link snorted. “I make a lot of money… hate my job… might not have a soul… blah blah blah.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Danny assured him. “You lost that the day you earned your J.D. That’s long since gone.”

“
Bite me, Crockett!
” Link snarled, his notoriously short temper beginning to flare.

Just then, Hamish stepped in between the two. “Okay children, let’s play nice now, shall we?”

“So what’s the story with this PGC clown anyway, Lee?” Link asked after taking a moment to cool off.

“How do you mean?”

“Well for starters, how did he find you? I mean, we beat the game, what… Monday night? Then he’s at your office Tuesday morning? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about patron appreciation—not to mention this sweet little roadtrip on his company’s dime—but this goes way beyond customer service, my man. Honestly, it kinda borders on creepy.”

This drew a shrug from Hamish. “That may be so. But the CEO of a Fortune 500 company just kept the lights on in ma shop for another six months.” Then Hamish formed a mouth with his hand and faced it at Link. “Gift horse… mouth. Nuff said.”

“Speaking of,” said Danny. “When’s this guy supposed to be here, anyway?”

Lee looked at his watch. “He said to meet him here at 10:30, so we’ve got a few minutes yet. Besides, we’re still waitin’ for Mac.”

No sooner had he said this when a brand-new, royal garnet Ford Mustang rounded the corner, its freshly painted exterior glimmering in the morning sun as it purred up the tarmac toward them.

“Now that’s what I call a sexy ride,” Danny remarked, admiring the car’s sleek lines and elegant design.

Had this been a random encounter on the street, Lee might’ve wondered who this was. However, one look at the car’s bumper—which showcased the famous graffitied “ST” logo of the band Suicidal Tendencies— as it turned to park, and he knew there was little point in asking. Once the Mustang had come to rest in the final spot, he took a deep breath and watched as the driver’s-side door opened, and Evelyn McKinsey climbed out.

“Hiya boys,” she said cheerfully, adjusting her Costa Del Mars and reaching back into the car.

Dressed in an olive-green tank top, leather flip flops, and a faded pair of frayed-knee jeans which fit snuggly around her slim, athletic figure, Mac re-emerged from the car, bunched her hair into a loose ponytail, and pulled it through the back of the Yankees cap she’d retrieved from the passenger seat.

“So what’s going—”

Mac shrieked in mid-sentence as Hamish scooped her off the ground and pulled her in for a bear hug, her short legs dangling in mid-air as he squeezed all 5 foot 2 of her in his massive embrace.

“It’s so good to see ya, love,” the Scot beamed.

“Great to see you too, sweetie,” Mac laughed, wrapping her arms around his brawny shoulders.

“Looking good, Mac!” Danny said, gesturing at her olive skin and sun-streaked brown hair. “I take it you have a pool at your place in Athens?”

“Thanks, Danny,” she replied. “Actually, a girl I work with has a boat out on one of the lakes near town, and I go out with her and her husband from time to time to go skiing.”

“Nice,” said Danny.

Passing through the group for a pair of hugs from Danny and then Link, who earned a quick scowl for a fake grab at her butt, Mac eventually made her way to Lee.

“What’s up, stranger?” she grinned, sliding her sunglasses onto the brim of her hat to reveal the brilliant, emerald eyes hidden behind them. “Been a while.”

With a warm smile of his own, Lee reached out to draw her to him. “Entirely too long, Mac,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, Surfer Boy,” she quipped after breaking the hug. “How’s—”

Spying the small patch of black beneath his right sleeve, Mac paused quizzically, and leaning in to inspect it further, she rolled the fabric past his shoulder to display the freshly etched lines of a large tattoo.

Featuring an old fashioned ship’s anchor with an elaborate tiger-shark wrapped around its center amid tattered frays of weatherworn rope, the design was capped by a line of stylized text at its crown—a two-word phrase written in Latin.

“Excellent work,” she observed, “particularly the shading. The concept alone is really sharp, but whoever did the actual work really knew what they were doing.”

Behind them, Hamish shot a quick “Told ya so” glance at Danny.

“Yeah, he’s actually runnin’ a shop up in Manhattan these days,” said Lee.

“I can see why,” Mac observed, tracing a finger around the tattoo’s edges before halting at the banner. Somewhat puzzled, she squinted to read it. “Semper Proficias,” she mumbled, not entirely certain of its pronunciation. “Latin, obviously. What’s it mean?”

“Always move forward,” he said proudly, and he could see in her expression that she understood all too well the significance of its meaning. She was, after all, one of the major reasons why he’d survived the turbulent events that had inspired it.

“Good lookin’ tat,” she concluded. “Never in a million years would I have ever thought you could pull it off, but it suits you. I approve.”

“That’s good,” Lee chuckled. “I reckon that means I’ll keep it then.”

Mac rolled her eyes. “So,” she chirped, standing upright and jerking the sleeve back over his arm. “It takes a sweet offer from a multimillionaire video game designer for us to see you these days? You know Tally is only two and a half hours away, right? I get it that you’ve got the beach here, not to mention more fake boobs than an issue of
Cosmo
, but your friends have still gotta fall somewhere on your priority list.”

“Hey FYI, I-10 runs both ways, sweetheart,” he defended, knitting his arms over his chest. “I know the boobs aren’t your thing, but the beach is worth an occasional visit, plus they’ve got the Jaguars.”

“Big fan of the boobs, myself,” Link piped up. “Does a body good.” He winced when the cap from Danny’s soda bottle pelted him in the head.

“Besides,” Lee added, “even if I did come over more often, it ain’t like you’re there to see me.”

“Okay, firstly, the Jags suck,” Mac pointed out. “Secondly, I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, but I make it down all the time, particularly during FSU football season. I mean,
helloooo,”
she declared with a wave, “season-ticket holder, remember?” Lee opened his mouth to respond, but Mac shushed him before he could utter a word. “Tell ya what,” she finished. “How about we worry about California right now, and we’ll debate the finer points of the Panhandle versus the Atlantic coast later? Does that work for you, Dr. Summerston?”

Fighting back a grin, Lee watched through the corner of his eye as she skipped triumphantly back over to the Mustang, happy to have gained the last word on him, as she usually did.

“Hey Mac, what’s up with the slick new wheels?” Danny asked, following her to the car and leaning in to inspect its leather upholstery and high-tech interior. “You just get sick of the Camry or what?”

“Eh,” she shrugged. “It was creeping up on 90,000 miles, and while that alone wasn’t exactly grounds to trade it, the dealership in Athens just made me an offer on this that I couldn’t refuse, so I figured ‘why not?’ It’d been forever since I’d gotten myself something pretty anyway, so I just went with it. Call it… the perks of management.”

“I see you kept the garnet, though,” Lee added, spying the car’s matching Florida State Athletics license plate.

“Of course,” she declared, popping the trunk with a quick tap of her key fob.

Now officially reunited, and sufficiently jazzed for the weekend, the group spent the next 15 minutes catching each other up on the remaining current events of their respective lives (friends, families, jobs, etc.), however, the conversation was inevitably cut short by the sound of a final vehicle on approach up the tarmac. Turning to see the blue sedan halt at the edge of the parking lot, the five went silent as the driver’s-side door swung open, and Jonathan Reiser climbed out.

“Good morning, Lee,” Reiser said, hobbling out of the car and steadying himself on his cane.

“Dr. Jonathan Reiser,” Lee said cordially, “allow me to introduce the rest of the Renegades. This is Danny Tucker, Link Baxter, Hamish Lunley, and Evelyn McKinsey.”

“Mac,” she corrected.

“Everyone, this is Dr. Jonathan Reiser, CEO and founder of the Phoenix Gaming Company, and the lead programmer for
Mako Assault
.”

“It’s an honor to meet all of you” Reiser said, modest as always, while extending a congratulatory hand to each of them. “I’ve obviously monitored your exploits for some time now, and Lee has told me a lot about each of you. I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to have you onboard for the 2.0 project.”

“Yeah well,” Link huffed. “Not sure exactly how much help we’re gonna be to you, Doc, but we appreciate the freebie vacay, anyway.”

Reiser smiled and adjusted his glasses. “Oh, I think you’ll be able to help me quite a bit more than you know, Mr. Baxter. As a matter of fact, I’m actually counting on it.”

Danny cocked an eyebrow at Lee. “Cryptic, much?” he murmured.

“Now if you’ll follow me into the hangar,” the doctor concluded, throwing his cane back into the car and climbing in, “we’ll get on our way.”

Picking up their belongings, the group trailed Reiser into the nearby hangar, though no sooner had they stepped through its sliding metal doors than their collective faces ignited with anticipation at what awaited them inside—a brand-new, top-of-the-line Gulfstream private jet, already serviced for departure and parked at the front of the bay.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, lads,” Hamish announced.

“Yeah, it’s official,” Link said, eying the pair of formally dressed female flight attendants waiting to assist them with boarding. “I like this guy.”

Making their way over to the jet’s retractable boarding steps, Lee inspected the familiar logo on the side of the fuselage. Encompassed by a circular blue banner housing the PGC moniker, its center featured the unmistakable symbol of the company’s brand—a vibrant, flaming Phoenix, its fiery wings outstretched, head turned upward toward the sky.

Upon being greeted at the base of the steps by the attendants, Lee spotted a man in a captain’s uniform at the far end of the hangar, deeply engrossed in conversation with one of the ground crew members. Tall, slender, and dark-skinned, he appeared to be in his late 40s, with sharp facial features, a tight, military-style crewcut, and a carefully groomed mustache. Seeing the group enter, his dark brown eyes locked with Lee’s, and while the man’s uniform alone was a dead giveaway as to his occupation, the reverence with which his subordinate addressed him told Lee that this man’s authority extended far beyond that of an ordinary pilot. For the moment, however, he just couldn’t put a finger on what that was.