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Authors: David Leadbeater
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stomach as he rolled to the right. Slices of pizza fell to the floor and a bowl of salad tumbled across the sofa. Quickly he clutched his sides, quite unable to stop laughing.
The low-slung table that sat before Zoe and him juddered as a wild foot gave it an errant kick. Zoe reached out a hand to steady him, patting his shoulder rapidly as another exciting event began to unfold. So far, they had watched Drake and his team spill out of the Edison—viewing quite easily as they had a man dressed as a tourist filming the event from across the street—then seen the mad dash up Broadway—this hysterical tableau more sporadic as there were only so many traffic and security cams a local terrorist could hack into—and then viewed with bated breath the attack that had somehow evolved around the concrete mixer.
All a nice distraction. Marsh had held a burner cell in one hand and Zoe’s thigh in the other, whilst she scarfed down several slices of ham and mushroom and messed around on Facebook.
Three screens, eighteen-inch each, faced them. The pair now exhibited rapt attention as Drake and Co. stormed into the little Italian restaurant. Marsh checked the time and glanced at the colorful façade.
“Shit, this is a close one.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yeah, aren’t you?”
“It’s an okay movie.” Zoe pouted. “But I was hoping for more blood.”
“Just give it a minute, my love. It gets better.”
The pair sat and played in a rented apartment that belonged to one of the terrorist cells; the primary one, Marsh thought. There were four terrorists, one of whom had set up the cinema-like viewing area for Marsh by previous request. Whilst the Pythian couple enjoyed their viewing pleasure the men sat aside, crowded around a small TV, and monitored dozens of other channels, searching for tidbits of news or awaiting a call of some sort. Marsh didn’t know and didn’t give a hoot. He also ignored the odd looks and stolen glances, knowing full well that he was a good-looking man, with a quirky personality, and some people—even other men—liked to appreciate such individuality.
Zoe showed him a little more appreciation, slipping her hands down the front of his boxers. Damn, but her nails were sharp.
Sharp and yet somehow . . . pleasurable.
He spent a moment gazing at the suitcase nuke, a term he couldn’t quite remove from his mind even though the minimized bomb sat in a large backpack, and then shoveled a little caviar into his mouth. The spread before them was magnificent, of course, comprised of foods priceless and tawdry, but all delicious.
Was that the nuke calling his name?
Marsh saw that it was time to act and made the call, speaking to a charming waitress and then the thick-accented Englishman. The guy had one of those bizarre tones of voices—something smacking of peasantry—and Marsh made twisted faces as he tried to decipher vowel from vowel. Not an easy task, and made somewhat harder with a woman’s hands squeezing your nutcracker suite.
“Tell me what you found or I will give the order to kill two New Yorkers within the next minute.” Marsh grinned as he said it, ignoring the annoyed looks cast by his disciples across the room.
The Englishman hesitated some more. Marsh found a slice of cucumber fallen out of the salad bowl and stuck it deep into Zoe’s hair. Not that she’d ever notice. Minutes passed and Marsh conversed over the burner cell, becoming more and more excited. A cold bottle of Bollinger sat nearby and he spent half a minute pouring a large glass. Zoe snuggled up to him as she worked, and they sipped from the same glass, opposite rims of course.
“Five,” Marsh said into the phone. “Four, three . . .”
Zoe’s hands took on a particular urgency.
“Two.”
The Englishman tried to barter with him, clearly wondering what the hell was going on. Marsh imagined the vehicle he’d arranged to be plowed through the front window at a pre-determined time, aiming now, accelerating,
The low-slung table that sat before Zoe and him juddered as a wild foot gave it an errant kick. Zoe reached out a hand to steady him, patting his shoulder rapidly as another exciting event began to unfold. So far, they had watched Drake and his team spill out of the Edison—viewing quite easily as they had a man dressed as a tourist filming the event from across the street—then seen the mad dash up Broadway—this hysterical tableau more sporadic as there were only so many traffic and security cams a local terrorist could hack into—and then viewed with bated breath the attack that had somehow evolved around the concrete mixer.
All a nice distraction. Marsh had held a burner cell in one hand and Zoe’s thigh in the other, whilst she scarfed down several slices of ham and mushroom and messed around on Facebook.
Three screens, eighteen-inch each, faced them. The pair now exhibited rapt attention as Drake and Co. stormed into the little Italian restaurant. Marsh checked the time and glanced at the colorful façade.
“Shit, this is a close one.”
“Are you excited?”
“Yeah, aren’t you?”
“It’s an okay movie.” Zoe pouted. “But I was hoping for more blood.”
“Just give it a minute, my love. It gets better.”
The pair sat and played in a rented apartment that belonged to one of the terrorist cells; the primary one, Marsh thought. There were four terrorists, one of whom had set up the cinema-like viewing area for Marsh by previous request. Whilst the Pythian couple enjoyed their viewing pleasure the men sat aside, crowded around a small TV, and monitored dozens of other channels, searching for tidbits of news or awaiting a call of some sort. Marsh didn’t know and didn’t give a hoot. He also ignored the odd looks and stolen glances, knowing full well that he was a good-looking man, with a quirky personality, and some people—even other men—liked to appreciate such individuality.
Zoe showed him a little more appreciation, slipping her hands down the front of his boxers. Damn, but her nails were sharp.
Sharp and yet somehow . . . pleasurable.
He spent a moment gazing at the suitcase nuke, a term he couldn’t quite remove from his mind even though the minimized bomb sat in a large backpack, and then shoveled a little caviar into his mouth. The spread before them was magnificent, of course, comprised of foods priceless and tawdry, but all delicious.
Was that the nuke calling his name?
Marsh saw that it was time to act and made the call, speaking to a charming waitress and then the thick-accented Englishman. The guy had one of those bizarre tones of voices—something smacking of peasantry—and Marsh made twisted faces as he tried to decipher vowel from vowel. Not an easy task, and made somewhat harder with a woman’s hands squeezing your nutcracker suite.
“Tell me what you found or I will give the order to kill two New Yorkers within the next minute.” Marsh grinned as he said it, ignoring the annoyed looks cast by his disciples across the room.
The Englishman hesitated some more. Marsh found a slice of cucumber fallen out of the salad bowl and stuck it deep into Zoe’s hair. Not that she’d ever notice. Minutes passed and Marsh conversed over the burner cell, becoming more and more excited. A cold bottle of Bollinger sat nearby and he spent half a minute pouring a large glass. Zoe snuggled up to him as she worked, and they sipped from the same glass, opposite rims of course.
“Five,” Marsh said into the phone. “Four, three . . .”
Zoe’s hands took on a particular urgency.
“Two.”
The Englishman tried to barter with him, clearly wondering what the hell was going on. Marsh imagined the vehicle he’d arranged to be plowed through the front window at a pre-determined time, aiming now, accelerating,
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