Chapter 1

The biggest drawback to living in Tampa is the freaking heat. It was 10:00 in the morning, and it was already 35 degrees C with the humidity pushing its way up past 90 percent. Still, it beats the shit out of Indianapolis, or anywhere else up north for that matter. Beats the jungles of South and Central America where I spent the better part of ten years, that’s for damn sure! There I had the heat, the humidity, and someone trying to kill me on a daily basis. I’ll take just the heat and humidity, thank you very much!

I suppose I could have lived on one of the Great Lakes up north, but I prefer the ocean, even if it is just the Gulf. I’ve found running a charter out of the Bay suits me just fine. Keeps the beans on the table and the beer in the fridge. What more could anyone ask for?

Anyway, you get used to the heat, but it still makes you feel old when you haven’t slept for 48 hours or so. Sure, I know they say the AI’s (Artificial Intelligence) can con the boats better and safer than us mere humans, but it’s my ass and my passengers’ asses on the line, so I stay up anyway. Call me a throwback if you want, I don’t mind. I’ve sure been called a lot worse. You don’t stay alive in the jungle by being careless, and I see no reason for being stupid now.

So there I was, bone tired, stubble on my chin from where the depilatory was wearing off, sitting on the covered deck of my 15-meter cruiser, firing up a Mexican Marlboro and minding my own business. Okay, I was minding the business of the cleaning crew working their magic on my 50-meter charter yacht sitting across the pier from me.

Not that I have to. After five years, I’ve found the best way for them to get the job done is for me to stay out of their way. Not that I would ever tell my cleaning contractor who he should put on my crews, but it seems like most of them ended up coming from Honduras, Guatemala, or Venezuela. They seem to like working on my boat, and that’s fine with me. I wasn’t even born yet when the lazy bastards up here in the States started to complain about the brownies moving up here and taking all their jobs. Like those lazy shits would do them anyway. My little brown-skinned brothers and sisters may have learned a lot up here, but thank God they didn’t learn the NorAm work ethic! I may be prejudiced, but I’d probably never hire anyone but a brownie if I had my choice. Damn, do they work hard! Of course, now I hear them complaining about the Chinese coming in to take their jobs. Go figure.

Anyway, there I was relaxing or employing “distance supervision,” if you prefer, when I look up and see this vision staring at me over the railing. If she stood over 160 centimeters and weighed more than fifty kilos, then I’m a poofy boy, which I’m not. Bright blonde hair pulled back behind her head in a ponytail, long, slim legs, and hands on her hips sporting a mildly disgusted frown on her face. I knew that look, and if it had been on my wife or my mother for that matter, I would have known there would be hell to pay soon, and you can bet who would be writing the check. I guess I am a throwback because I love old 2D vids, especially the animated ones, and seeing her there brought only one thing to mind immediately.

“What can I do for you, Tinker Bell?”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Her sun shades were perched on the top of her head, so I could see her eyes narrow and her nose wrinkle up, very cutely, I might add. Now I was pretty sure what she was talking about, but one can never tell. There were a number of things around me that might not be construed as precisely legal. The Scotch was legal; you can still get a drink in the States, wonder of all wonders, although I might have forgotten to pay the import tax on this particular bottle when I brought it in with me, along with the other fifty or so cases that came with it. The 2-millimeter needle gun resting in the small of my back was very legal. As an ex-U.N. SpecFor, I was authorized to carry pretty much anything I could hold anywhere the hell I wanted to. Now the cigarette was illegal as hell, but she didn’t look like a TEA-cop (Tobacco Enforcement Agency), so I wasn’t going to get broken up about it. If she was packing anything except for a nice pair of tits under that tail-tied top and skimpy shorts, I sure couldn’t see it. I never did figure it was any of their fucking business what I smoked anyway; marijuana was okay, tobacco wasn’t. Screw ‘em.

“You have to be more specific, Tink,” I answered.

“That thing,” she said, nodding her head at my cigarette. “And who are you calling, Tink? What’s a Tink?”

“Tinker Bell, Peter’s fairy friend.”

“Peter? Fairy?” her nose scrunched up again, just as cute as the first time. She muttered to herself, listened with her head slightly cocked, and suddenly comprehension showed on her face. “Oh, Peter Pan! I remember seeing that one when I was young. I liked it. You think I look like Tinkerbelle?”

“Dead on,” I nodded. “Yes, this is illegal, no, I’m not worried that you see it, and other than brightening up my day, what is it you want?”

“I’m looking for a Captain Mayhem,” she said, grinning.

“Well, this is both our lucky days, it seems. I’m who you’re looking for.”

“Are you sure?” she sounded a little reluctant to believe me. “Captain Mayhem, the charterboat owner?”

“‘Fraid so, Tink,” I smiled. “Impressive, eh?”

“Impressive, no,” she actually giggled. “May I come aboard? I said that correctly? Come aboard?”

“Well enough,” I admitted. “Spread your wings and flit on over here.” The walk-through was just a meter or so from where she stood, but she leaned over, placed her hands on the rail, and vaulted over it and onto the deck. She walked over to me and stuck her hand out. Either the scotch or the butt had to go, so I flicked the cig over the side. I didn’t have to worry much about water pollution; the paper and the filter were hydro-degradable and would dissolve in less than a minute into perfectly harmless constituents. Very eco-friendly, and if you happen to be a smuggler, you can just dump it over the side, and the evidence is gone, poof!

“I want to hire your boat for a trip the weekend after next, Friday to Sunday,” she said as I took her hand. It was cool and smooth, and my hand felt like a paw around it. It felt like I was handling fine china, although given that vault and a general feeling, I was sure this was no delicate little flower.

Now I could have been a smart-ass and asked if she wanted it for her sweet-sixteen party and how the hell was Daddy going to pay the 20K New Dollars per day I charge, but I didn’t. There was something more to this little honey than met the eye, and besides, I may seem a bit rough around the edges, but I’ve always made it my policy to treat people as I would like to be treated until they show me otherwise. If she thought she could afford the charter, then maybe she could.

“Let me check the schedule,” I answered, releasing her hand. “Sara,” I said to nobody in particular, “are we available then?”

“Yes, Daniel,” a low, throaty contralto answered seemingly out of thin air. It was my wife’s voice; she had given it to our AI only months before she was killed. She jokingly told me she wanted me to know who was boss even when I was out at sea and she couldn’t be there. After she was gone, I couldn’t bear to change it. Sure, it hurt like hell hearing it, especially for the first few months, but it soothed me, made me feel like she was still there somehow, looking after me like she did for our seventeen years of marriage.

“You are scheduled until that Thursday, but available for the time period requested,” she continued. I know some people get huffy when I anthropomorphize an AI and call her a she, but screw ‘em. Sara is smarter than a lot of humans I know and more real to me than most others.

“Thank you, Sara.” I looked back at Tinker Bell. “Looks like we’re available, Tink. What did you have in mind?”

“I have a new comp (that’s compilation; we used to call them albums) that’s going to be released next quarter, and Mom and I thought it would be good if we could get some of the big muckity-muck distributors together for a little jaunt. Actually, I don’t think it’s really necessary, but it couldn’t hurt, and besides, it sounds like fun.”

“So, you’re a singer, vid artist?” I asked. I didn’t recognize her, but then what do I know about today’s music? Music like anything else goes in cycles, and today’s music was mostly soft, soothing, and delicate. Nice if you’re riding in an elevator, but otherwise, it gets old after maybe two seconds.

“Antigua Delmar,” she said and cocked her head as if wondering when the light was going to blink on over my head. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be able to give her the satisfaction; I’d never heard of her that I could remember. Still, if she thought it was a name I should know, then it probably was. I could ask my daughter; she’d probably know if she were talking to me, that is.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Delmar,”

“You have no idea who I am,” she stated. Now, from somebody else, that would have sounded pretty pompous, or maybe patronizing, like I was a half-civilized troglodyte living under a rock, but from her, it didn’t. It was just a statement of fact. She did seem somewhat amused by it, though.

“Sorry, I haven’t a clue,” I admitted. No sense in lying about something stupid like that. “I take it you’re somewhat popular, and I’m displaying my incredible ignorance by not knowing it.”

“Yep, but then I’m guessing you’re one of those old-time rock and rollers,” she grinned. “Most cavemen are.” Great! A freaking mind-reader.

“Got me in one, Tink. So anyway, you’re serious about a charter?” She nodded. “You have a business agent you want me to send the contract to?”

“We can do it now, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, if you can...” I stopped myself. This little elf may look sixteen, but that didn’t mean she was. She made it sound like she could sign her own contracts, and if that was the case, then me and my big mouth could easily piss her off. Under most circumstances, I consider it bad form to piss off a client. “... if you can wait until I open up the office.”

“Good catch,” she grinned again. “Yes, I’m old enough to settle it right now. I may look fifteen, but I’m actually twenty-one, almost twenty-two if truth be known. I’d like you to keep that a bit quiet, if you would. My demographics are the twelve to seventeen-year-olds, and they wouldn’t be happy listening to an old lady.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

“That’s all right,” she interrupted. “It happens all the time. I know I look young, but that’s all part of the shtick. Most people, especially the old farts, try to pat me on the head and tell me to find my mommy.” She flashed me a big toothy grin and chomped her teeth together a couple of times. “I wouldn’t try it, though. I bite.” I had to chuckle at that. I think I could really like this little munchkin.

“I’ll remember that,” I answered dryly. “My office is just down the road about a klick. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to wash some of the grime off. Smelling like an old barnacle may sound nautical and romantic, but it’s not very professional. Won’t take me more than five minutes or so.”

“Go ahead, take your time,” she answered with a wave. “Is this your boat? I understood you could sleep thirty; this doesn’t seem big enough.”

“It’s my boat, but not my charter. The Gulf Dream is the charter. It’s across the pier there, and yes, she can handle thirty if that’s what you want. If you’d like, we can have a look at her before we head down to the office.”

“Ow, pretty.” I have to admit the Dream is a pretty sight. “Maybe later if it’s all right with you. But go ahead, I’ll wait right here.” I slapped some dip on the whiskers, sprayed the body wash, a minute under the water, a clean shirt and pants, and I’m ready to go. She was waiting for me when I got back up on deck, just sitting in my chair watching the cleaning crew carry the trash off the Dream. I will say, I’m not normally attracted to the young fluff; something about a girly being the same age as my daughter just doesn’t sit right, but I will say she had some killer legs!

“Right, I’m ready,” I said. “I assume you have a car. If you want, you can follow me; it’s not far.” I could have followed her lead and vaulted the rail, but I took the easy way and walked over the gangplank as she followed. My bike was parked just a couple of meters away, so I just strolled over and mounted.

“This is yours?” I swear she almost squealed. I get that a lot; hell, it’s one of the reasons I keep the old brute. “This is so cold! What is it?”

“A 2010 Harley-Davidson Road King Classic,” I answered proudly. I really was proud of that old bike, forty-four years old, just like me, and still ready to kick ass, same as me. I’d picked it up for a song when I was in school and spent a couple of years restoring it. Of course, it wasn’t stock. Shit, back then they still used gasoline! Now it ran on CA (Condensed Alcohol), and the electronics are all new, but it looks stock, sounds like it too. Kathy used to joke that it was my pussy lure when I was trolling for strange, and I suppose it would have been good for that except I’d never even looked at another pussy the whole time we were married. Still, I did like the reaction it got. Nothing like a hog or a puppy to make a woman coo and giggle, and while I like dogs, I like my bike better; it doesn’t shit on the deck.

“Icy! Can I get a ride?” Now I like having a nice set of seat covers hanging on the back of my bike as well as anyone, but Tinker Bell is probably worth some serious jack, and I’m betting whoever her handler was would have some severe problems with me taking her for a spin in the open as it were. But then again, she’s an adult, and if she wanted a short ride, it certainly wouldn’t bother me any.

“Sure, if you want,” I shrugged and opened one of the bags to pull out two cranium covers. I may like to act the macho-man, but I’m not a complete idiot; when I ride, it’s with a brain-guard. Of course, it’s not like I used those old fiberglass or steel behemoths of yesteryear. My bike may be a classic, but that doesn’t mean my safety gear has to be from the Stone Age. I like the modern reactive gear just fine, thank you. It’s a lightweight plastic mesh that inflates when struck. Most of the time, you don’t even know it’s there, but it’ll do the job if needed. She didn’t argue a bit when I handed it to her, just pulled the shades down over her eyes, slapped it on, and fastened the strap under her chin.

“Wait till I get ready,” I said, throwing my leg over and thumbing the start pad. 2010 was the first year Harley started using the biometrics instead of the original key starter, but this was an updated version. For anyone else except me, the bike would be nothing but a pile of iron and rubber. When I touched it...

VAROOOOM!

There ain’t nothing like 350 kgs of throbbing iron moving and humming between your legs! Okay, maybe there is one thing better, but this is pretty damn close. Tinker Bell didn’t wait for me to tell her anything as she hopped on the back, put her feet up on the passenger runners, and grabbed me like she expected us to take off.

“Ready?” I asked as I pushed it down into gear. I tried to keep this as close to original specs as possible, including the loud pipes, but she didn’t have any trouble hearing me since these two helmets were mated with their own intercom.

“God, this is so cold!” she squealed, and I almost winced since it was coming directly into my mastoid implant. Luckily, the internal compensator toned it down to just below the painful level. Nodding, I lifted the kickstand and let out the clutch. That’s right, real clutch (look it up: it’s right there next to rotary telephones in the obsolete technology section of the encyclopedia), real gears, and it takes real practice to use them together.

We started moving smooth as a baby’s butt, and by the time we passed the end of the pier and glided around the huge, and I do mean huge, black limo parked there, I was becoming a little afraid Tink was going to orgasm and fall off the back. Not that it could happen; she had her fingernails through my shirt and I swear three centimeters deep into my sides. Uncomfortable, yes, but there are worse things than having a pretty girl leaving claw marks on your body ― much worse.

“I take it you haven’t ridden much,” I said as I pulled out onto Apollo Beach Boulevard, heading towards the intersection with North Tamiami Trail, and eased it up to 35 kph.

“Never!” she gushed. “Well, a couple of times on a scooter, but Mom just about killed me when she found out.”

“Am I going to have to watch my back from now on? I don’t need someone gunning for me because I gave their money train a thrill ride.”

“I’ll never tell.” I could almost hear her grin.

“You won’t need to,” I answered, nodding to the rear-view mirror. That big black limo had pulled out behind us and was tailing at a discreet distance.

“He won’t say anything; at least he’d better not!” I just shrugged. It wasn’t very far, as I’d promised, and soon we were pulling into the parking lot of the building where I rent a small office to handle the business crap that needs to be done. The lot was empty, so I pulled into a space next to my office door. Thumbing the kill switch, the 1.6-liter engine rumbled to a stop, and Tink jumped off. I swear she was vibrating when I dismounted and took my headpiece off.

“God, that was great!” Her blue eyes actually sparkled as she handed hers to me, and I dropped them in one of the bags. “When are you going to take me on a real ride?”

“Business before pleasure,” I chuckled, thumbing the lock and pushing the door open. Being the gentleman I held the door open for her as she skipped into the office.

The lights came on as we entered; I knew nobody would be there today. It was Sunday, and Crystal wouldn’t come in till sometime late Monday morning to clean up anything needed from the weekend. Sally sometimes helped out in the office also, but she had been out on this last trip with me and probably felt just as wasted as I did. Besides, she would be getting ready to watch Bob, her husband, play this afternoon if the Bucs were out of town today; if not, she’ll be heading to the stadium. Football never did interest me all that much, so I never knew what their schedule was. Didn’t matter; I could handle this, and if I fucked it up too badly, Crystal would fix it tomorrow.

“Sara?” I said to the air.

“Yes, Daniel,” came that beautiful contralto. Damn, I miss that woman even after five years.

“Standard contract, fill in the dates and the options as Ms. Delmar and I discuss them.”

“Yes, Daniel.” Tink was looking around curiously and raised her eyebrows when she saw the monster cage, okay, the playpen, over in the corner by Crystal’s station. She didn’t ask, so I didn’t say anything. Crystal brings her two-year-old and newborn to work most of the time, which is just fine with me so long as the rugrats don’t reprogram the system or anything like that. Hopefully, since the oldest is only two, I won’t have to worry about that for a couple of years. Anyway, they don’t bother me when I’m in here, which isn’t that often, but she gets to bond with her kids, and I get one very happy employee. Win-win as far as I’m concerned. Yes, since you ask, Crystal is a fucking knockout, but she’s about as happily married as a woman can get, which suits me just fine. I like having pretty women working around me, but I strictly adhere to the “You don’t make your bed where you make your bread (slang for money, you babies!).”

Anyway, I know both Bob and Norm ― that’s Crystal’s guy ― and happen to like both of them a lot. I would never do anything to hurt either one of them, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Bob about doubles my mass and can bend steel rebar into pretzels without breaking a sweat. Come to think about it, he just might be able to take me in a fair fight. Luckily, it would never come to that since I never fight fair. As for Norm, well, Norm is one of the sweetest, most gentle beings I have ever met. Hell, if I were gay, I might try to fuck him myself. Both of my girls think the world revolves around their guys, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s just as it should be. God love them both! I get a happy crew, and for some reason, they both think their boss would walk on water if it weren’t for the nail holes in the bottoms of his feet.

Beats the hell out of me where they get that. They must be crazy since I know for a fact both of them are a hell of a lot smarter than I am. Of course, that’s damning with faint praise. Specfor didn’t recruit me for my brains, just my ability to kill, destroy, and survive.

I motioned for Tink to have a seat in front of the wall screen where I could project the list of options she might be interested in. She grimaced a little when I lit up a smoke but didn’t say anything. Fuck it, my office, my rules. The only thing I hoped was the deodorizer would clear the air before Crystal came in, or she’d have a fit and give me a ration of shit. I never smoked around her kids, but that didn’t stop her from trying to reform me. Lots of luck on that! What is it about women that when they feel comfortable around you, somehow they assume they have the right to run your life? Kathy did it, Crystal does it, and come to think about it, so does Sally. Oh well, nothing’s perfect.

I started the canned presentation for Tink and let her make the decisions. I mentioned options, but to tell the truth, there weren’t that many. I run top-end luxury charters that include pretty much everything, including food, booze, and entertainment. The choices came down to mostly how much and what kind of each. Did they want human servers? If so, how many? Everything could be automated, but I find those who can afford my prices like having real humans doing the grunt work. Suits me; it all pays well. The only thing I don’t provide is the sex partners; those my clients have to bring themselves. I have nothing against pros, but I’m no pimp, and I don’t get into that part of the deal. My clients can bring anyone they like out with me and do about anything they want just so long as it’s consensual. And no rough stuff. You want to pay a woman to use her body? That’s between you and her, but you take a swing at her on my boat, and you’d better hope your medical is paid up. It didn’t happen often, but I have had clients who thought their money could buy anything and came back with a broken wing because he thought his pretty bit of arm fluff would look better with a black eye. I make sure what few rules I have are well known, and I never give a second warning or a second chance for that matter.

This part turned out to be easy. Some clients will sit there dithering back and forth over minutia until it about drives me crazy, which is why I usually let Crystal take care of it; she’s much more the diplomat than I am. Why someone would want to sit there and worry about a two-thousand ND difference when they’re plunking down forty to sixty grand minimum is beyond me. I try to live by the rule, “You don’t sweat the small stuff,” and believe me, this is the small stuff.

Tink wasn’t like that at all. She just plunked down in the chair, crossed those killer legs ― did I mention she has killer legs? ― and started gabbing with Sara as the program ran. I know some people ― okay, a lot of people ― aren’t comfortable talking to an AI. Tink wasn’t one of those. She just sat there and talked like they were old friends. Myself, I’m ambivalent about AIs. I know they’re supposed to be nothing but really sophisticated programs with variable logic that simulated thought, but I’m not so sure that I don’t qualify under that definition. All I know is I find it easier to believe Sara is self-aware to some extent than I do believing in some nebulous god-thing out there somewhere; Sara I’ve talked to, the god-thing I haven’t. I don’t want to get started on the whole religion bag; talking about it to someone is about as useful as trying to teach a pig to sing: it’s a waste of time and it annoys the pig.

Anyway, in no time at all, Tink was done, a contract signed, and we were ready to leave. I’ll tell you what, that little girl is no air-headed bit of fluff; she knew exactly what she wanted and made decisions without a second’s hesitation. Just my own opinion, mind you, but I think you can estimate the real intelligence of a person by watching them make decisions. Others say making snap decisions indicates you’re lazy or not able to comprehend the full ramifications of the decision. Bullshit! In my experience ― and I’ve seen plenty of both kinds ― the dithering un-deciders make just as many mistakes as the ones who know what the hell they want; it just takes them a lot longer.

“So now what?” she said, jumping up from the chair.

“Now?” I muttered as I signed my own X at the bottom of the sheet. Remember, I’d been up for over two days, and the only thing I was looking forward to right then was my rack, a shower, and a tumbler of scotch; not necessarily in that order. Maybe later I’d hook up with the Lost Boys at Bennie’s, fry a few brain cells, and maybe, just maybe, see if Sue was interested in some company for the night. Sue was the big-titted waitress who worked most evenings at Bennie’s, and at times she was interested in sharing a little sheet time with me. I haven’t looked for or wanted any serious relationship since Kathy died, but I didn’t mind a little female company every now and then. Sue already had five or six exes trailing behind her, so she wasn’t interested in anything more than a little mutual pleasure every now and then herself, which suited me just fine. I blame it on the lack of sleep, but I’d be damned if I could figure out what my little fairy princess was talking about.

“A ride,” she prompted. “You promised me a ride on your bike.”

“I did?” I did? Okay, maybe I did, sort of. “Oh, that’s right, I did. Not today, Sunshine. I told you I’ve been up for the past couple of days, and there’s no way I’m taking anyone out for a ride when I’m this wasted. Ain’t safe. Maybe later on this week if you really want to.”

“I thought you bikers were big, tough guys who didn’t worry about that stuff,” she pouted. That’s right, she actually pouted! Well, actually, it was a fake pout. Don’t ask me how I could tell, but I could.

“You must be thinking of the olden days,” I chuckled. “Back when men were men and sheep were nervous. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. I may be old, but I’m not as old as I want to get yet. Riding around dead tired is a good way to get just that: dead, and while you’d make a pretty honor guard for the trip to Valhalla, there’s no damn way I’m taking you there. You want a ride then, that’s fine with me. I haven’t turned down a pretty girl on the back of my bike yet, but it’ll have to be when I’ve had a few hours’ sleep.”

“Okay, old man. When?”

As I was to find out about my little Tinker Bell, she was persistent as crotch-rot in the jungle; she never took no for an answer, and when she clamped down on something, she was more pit-bull than fairy. You had a better chance of dissuading the tide from coming in than you did keeping her from what she wanted. Actually, I kind of admire that in a person, even if it did come wrapped up in a package prettier than a Christmas present. Okay, especially if it came in a hot little package.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Sara, please give Tinker Bell my ident’, give me a call, and we’ll set up a time.”

“Wednesday, 1600 hours,” she answered decisively. I think I’ll have to stop putting that modifier in for her; everything she did, I think she did decisively.

“Ah, well,” I mumbled.

“You are free for that evening, Daniel,” Sara interjected. I know I’m considered crazy and not overly bright to boot, but I know when to declare victory and retreat.

“Fine, fine, 1600 Wednesday,” I chuckled.

“Where?” she came back immediately. I’ll bet she never even contemplated I wouldn’t fold like a deck of cards.

“Just show up at the boat where you found me. I would suggest you wear some long pants and boots if you have any.”

“Icy! I’ll see you then!” With a flutter of motion that I swear had to produce fairy dust in the air, she was out the door and gone.

“What the hell was that all about?” I mused.

“You have a date, Daniel. Wednesday at 1600 hours,” came Sara’s disembodied voice.

“I don’t date,” I responded automatically.

“Of course not, Daniel.”

Chapter 2

Other than as a pleasant memory, I pretty much forgot the whole thing. I went back to the Katherine, crashed, and later got up and went to Bennie’s for something to eat and see if any of the boys would show up. A couple did, and we sat around jawing for a while. I told them about Tinker Bell, and we all had a good laugh about the whole thing. I don’t know if Sue was interested that night or not. I didn’t ask since I was still dog-tired. I called it an early night and went home to crash again. Getting old is a real bitch!

The next few days were pretty much routine: boat maintenance, interviewing suppliers and contractors, workouts, and pulling Mike’s ass out of jail, again. Mike ― that’s Sergeant Michelle Darlington UN-Specfor (retired) to you, buckaroo ― is one of the Lost Boys and as such will have my love and support for the rest of our natural lives, but she can be one mean drunk and without a doubt is one of the biggest pains in my ass I have.

She always was a troublemaker, and it hasn’t gotten any better since all of us retired. All of us have been in scrapes once or twice since our service days ― high spirits and all that ― but Mike, also known as Nibs, has been in more trouble than all the rest of us combined. I wish she’d find some guy with a horse-cock that could keep her stupefied for more than a day or two. What she really needs is someone to slap her over his knee and wail the tar out of her ass. By the way, I wouldn’t recommend trying it since she knows just about every way possible to kill a man and likes the ways that are most painful. Of course, if someone did succeed in this highly dubious venture, he’d have to contend with the rest of the LBs. To tell the truth, I’m not sure which is the most dangerous prospect: six highly trained and heavily armed killers after your ass or just her. It’s a toss-up. Dead is dead, and all of us will eventually find our way into that long night, but how you get there makes a difference, at least it does to me. Just a word to the wise: don’t piss her off. Post-script: she gets pissed off easily when she drinks. Post-post-script: She drinks a lot.

Maybe I’m what they used to call an enabler, but I have a difficult time faulting her for her self-medication. I don’t think any of us that came back from the war ― doesn’t matter if it was the jungle or the sandbox ― made it back completely undamaged; we all have our personal demons we wrestle with every night. I can remember waking up every so often screaming. If I hadn’t had Kathy, I probably would have slipped into the bottom of a bottle myself. Who am I to say those who ended up there or tranked out on recreational pharmaceuticals don’t have the right? Most handle it better than Mike does, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be there for her no matter what she does. She saved my bacon so many times I can’t even begin to count; what’s that against holding her hair out of her face while she tries to puke her guts out in the gutter or bail her ass out of the brig when she beats the crap out of five more-or-less innocent longshoremen? Everybody has their burdens to bear, and I guess she’s one of mine. Hopefully, I’ll never let her down, but damn-it, she can be one hell of an aggravation!

“Daniel,” Sara interrupted me while I was reviewing one of the millions of stupid reports our benevolent government demands from the few actually productive people in our great land. I don’t know why I bother. Crystal hasn’t let a mistake show up in any of our reports or correspondence since that time I caught her purposefully inserting a typo or two in some reports when she first came to work for me. She admitted she did it because she’d had bosses that just wouldn’t release a report until they found something wrong; I guess it made them feel they weren’t doing their job unless they found something to piss about. I pointed out that my job was finished when I found someone who could do it correctly and that my ego was more than sufficient to withstand the realization that she was much better at this kind of nonsense than I was. She still wants me to look them over before they’re submitted, something about the fact that I’m legally responsible for them or some crap like that. Personally, I think it’s just to share the aggravation of these time-wasters with me; whatever, most of the time I’m a good boy and do it.

“What?” I muttered, trying to tear myself away from the fascinating accounting of how many protected transsexuals I hired that quarter. (The number was zero, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to know or care, for that matter. I know I didn’t.)

“Ms. Delmar will be here in approximately 17 minutes.”

“Who?” I asked, still befuddled by the seemingly endless categories the government came up with to describe the part-time and contract employees I’ve had.

“Ms. Delmar,” she repeated. “Tinker Bell.” Most people think a machine can’t sound aggravated at somebody; let me tell you, they can.

“Oh yeah, Tink. What about her?”

“You scheduled a ride with her on your motorcycle, Daniel, at 1600 hours today.”

“Oh, okay. Well, she probably forgot all about it,” I said, looking up at the cloudless sky. It would appear that if she did show up, I wouldn’t have the weather to use as an excuse to back out of it.

“She called to confirm, Daniel. She will be here in approximately fifteen minutes.” Shit! Well, I can’t say I’d rather be reading these stupid reports than taking a pretty girl for a ride on the bike, so I headed down below and changed into a pair of jeans and boots. I kept the black T-shirt I was wearing and passed on the jacket or vest. I looked more “old school” biker-bad like this, and besides, it was much more comfortable. I was just coming back up on deck when she appeared at the railing.

I almost laughed. She looked like the archetypal “biker chick” you’d see in the old videos. Black, skintight syntho-leather pants, bike boots (the 8 cm spiked heels might have been a bit much, but they did make her look sexy as hell), and a syntho-leather jacket. She had her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and was sporting a pair of self-tinting biker glasses. Like I said, she looked like she came right out of central casting and cute as hell to boot!

“Hey, Tink, ready for a ride?”

“Damn right, old man. I was sure you’d have forgotten,” she replied with a grin.

“Sara wouldn’t let me,” I answered truthfully. I was able to avoid any further incriminating questions, and soon we were rumbling down the coast road. I noticed her limo didn’t follow us this time.

I really enjoy riding, but I really enjoy taking a bike virgin out for a ride. There are generally two types. There are those that are scared to death as we scoot along at about a 110 kph just centimeters above the pavement, and that’s not so much fun. No matter what others may say of me, I don’t get my jollies hearing people scream in fear. Well, not most of the time anyway.

Then there are those that take to the bike like a fish to water. Tink was definitely one of these. I swear I never actually heard her squeal, but I could practically feel her grin behind me the whole time we were riding. The joy she felt on the back of the machine was almost visible as we rode. It was a blast. After a couple of hours, the tank was getting low, so I turned us back and asked if she was getting hungry.

“What? You’re going to feed me? Like a real date?” she teased. “Where are you going to take me?”

“How about the baddest, nastiest, low-life biker bar in town?” I laughed.

“Icy!” she cooed. “So am I going to see some real bad-ass bikers for real?”

“Bad as they come, around here, anyway,” I admitted.

“They have chains and knives and everything?” she asked. “Maybe we’ll see a fight.” She must have been watching some of the old 2D flicks. Where else would she pick up that garbage? I didn’t have the heart to tell her if there were any knives; they would be vibro-blades, and chains were unlikely since most everybody would probably be packing heat. You probably guessed already I was taking her to Bennie’s, and just about everybody there would be a vet. Coming in there with me, she’d be safer than in one of the five-star hash-houses downtown. But why spoil her fun? For some reason, most women liked the feeling of danger, even if it’s only the perception of danger.

“I’m sure you’ll cause a riot when we get there,” I chuckled. For some reason, she seemed to think that was funny.

Pulling into the lot, I parked next to a number of other old classics along with a few of the newer, sleeker-looking two-wheelers. Bennie’s looks like a real dive, and I know for a fact Bennie spends a lot of time and money making sure it continues to look like one. It was dark and dingy inside, and the smoke, some of it actually real, hovered like a cloud over our heads as we threaded through the mostly empty tables to my favorite booth near the back. It was still early, so I didn’t expect many people to be in yet, but I wasn’t all that surprised to find a few of my team sitting there when we finally arrived.

Slightly, Tootles, and Nibs were there munching on a big plate of cheese-covered nacho chips as I shepherded Tink into the booth and plopped down beside her. Mike ― that’s Nibs if you remember ― was already well on her way to getting hammered, but from her sloppy grin, I could tell this was one of her “happy” drunks, which was a blessing. Slightly, aka “Top” or less frequently Master Sergeant William Marker, was nursing a beer while Tootles or “Weird” (his discharge papers read Sergeant Nathan Willis, but I don’t think anybody actually called him by his given name) sipped on some flavored water concoction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him actually drink alcohol or get high for that matter.

“Hey, guys, this is Tinker Bell,” I started the introductions. “Tink, these are some of my old service buddies. That’s Top, the quiet one over there is Weird, and the pretty lady there drinking herself to death is Mike.”

“You say the nicest things, Captain,” Mike grinned. I wasn’t kidding on either account; Mike really was pretty, but then so is a coral snake, and unfortunately, she was drinking herself to death.

“Say, I know you,” Mike slurred slightly. “I’ve seen your face somewhere.”

“Antigua Delmar, pleased to meet you,” Tink said seriously and offered her hand to Mike. Mike looked surprised for a second and gently took it like she was handling antique china. Tink then shook Top’s and Weird’s hands. As usual, Top had almost no reaction, and Weird, well, Weird was Weird.

“No fucking shit! You’re the Antigua Delmar?” Mike asked delicately, as usual. “Like, the singer Antigua Delmar?”

“The only one I know of,” Tink admitted.

“Wow, that’s fucking intense,” Mike said, trying to focus on my diminutive riding partner. “What are you doing here in this shit-hole?”

“Watch what you say, Mike,” I warned. “Bennie hears you, and he’ll put you in time-out again.” Mike has been banned-for-life from Bennie’s more times than I can count. He gets pissed off at her for doing something stupid, usually for causing damage ― to other customers more often than not ― and tells her to never show her face again. She’d had her latest banishment lifted just before she busted up the longshoremen ― luckily somewhere else ― and was still on probation.

“I’m being good, Boss,” she protested.

“I take it you know who Tink is?” I had to ask.

“And you didn’t, did you?” she shook her head. “Boss, your little girlfriend is more popular than God right now. All over the vids and music stations. You really are an old fart.”

“Three number-one hits in the last eighteen months,” Weird chimed in, staring past us into nothing. “Two number-one selling comps; highest-grossing entertainer in the domestic market; number three in Europe and number two on the SA (South America) English-speaking charts.”

“Wow, you know my stats better than my publicist,” Tink laughed. “You a fan?”

“I...” Weird shook himself slightly. “I don’t think so.” Tinker Bell looked really puzzled, and I sighed.

“That’s just the way he is, Tink. He’s Weird,” I smiled gently. She looked at me like I had two heads. Maybe she was wondering how I could dis my friend in front of her, or maybe why it didn’t seem to bother him. I sighed. “Weird, what time is it?” Weird glanced at his chrono.

“It’s 1837.34, Wednesday, June...”

“Show her your watch,” I interrupted. He blinked twice and showed her the face of his chronograph. I knew it wouldn’t be reading anywhere close to the time he just gave to us. Tink looked at his watch, glanced at her own, and then back at his.

“But that doesn’t say anything like that,” she blurted.

“Tell her how you know what time it is, Weird,” I prompted.

“Cap’n, you know how,” he sounded almost hurt. “The chrono was calibrated against the universal standard when I bought it at 1343.55, August 4^th, 2045. On September 23^rd at 1548.23 I checked it against the standard and found it to be 0.34 milliseconds slow for every minute. Given what it now reads and the difference between checking against the standard I simply calculate the difference and adjust the reading giving me the correct time.” I glanced over at Tink and was unsurprised to see her gaping at Weird, her jaw practically hitting the table. It was the normal reaction; I’d seen it hundreds of times.

“Ask him why he doesn’t reset it,” Mike grinned.

“I ... I ... don’t know how,” Weird frowned.

“But that’s just plain...” Tink started and suddenly clamped her mouth shut.

”Weird!” Mike and Top shouted at the same time.

Tink glanced at Weird and started to look like she was going to get upset, so I figured I had to say something.

“It’s all right, Tink,” I said gently. “Weird doesn’t think like the rest of us. His brain isn’t wired like ours; maybe not like anyone else’s in the whole world for all I know. He knows he’s different and it doesn’t bother him. Just ask him.” She looked over at Weird questioningly.

“It really is okay, Miss Delmar,” Weird grinned at her. “The Cap’n’s right. I know I’m different. I suppose I could learn to reset my chrono but this way is just as easy for me. Besides, they wouldn’t have as much fun if I did it the normal way.”

“He’s a mutant,” Mike said with an exaggerated nod. “But he’s our mutant so nobody gets to fuck with him except us.” Top just rolled his eyes and sighed. Before anything more could be discussed about Weird’s weirdness, Sue came over to the table to take our order. She gave Tink the hairy-eyeball but that wasn’t jealousy; she probably thought Tink was underage and going to try to order alcohol. Of course Tink was old enough but she sure didn’t look it. She didn’t even try though, just ordered a cola.

“Same for me, hon, I’m riding today.” I never drink and ride. I also ordered a burger and fries for the both of us; extra fries, Mike has a tendency to be a little communistic with fries on the table. You know, each according to his own need.

“Sure thing, sweetie, I’ll be right back,” Sue said and disappeared.

“Girlfriend?” Tink asked with raised eyebrows.

“Naw, just fuck-buddies,” Mike piped in.

“That’s enough, Mike,” Top said suddenly. “Keep a lid on it or I’ll tie you up and send you home.”

“You and what army?” Mike blustered.

“Me, and if I can’t do it the Captain will.” Yeah, like I could have taken Mike on her worst day. Luckily I knew she’d let me break her arm before she’d purposefully hurt me. Mike was the best sniper I have ever seen when sober and almost as deadly in hand-to-hand combat.

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled. “I’m such a bitch.”

“Yes you are,” Weird reached over to pat her arm. “But you’re our bitch.” She laughed at that and drained her glass.

“So what are you doing with this old wreck?” She turned back to Tink like nothing had happened ― that’s our Mike. “Young, rich and a stone-cold fox and he’s, well you can see what he is. Not that he doesn’t have certain endearing qualities, if you like that type. But still...”

“She’s a client, Mike,” I said with a grin. “She just wanted a ride on the hog.”

“Oh, okay. I can see that. Sorry.” She wasn’t, but then that’s our Mike also.

“It was so cold!” Tink gushed. “I’ve never been on anything like that!”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Mike replied wistfully. Mike had lost her license years ago with the admonition that if she ever got behind the wheel of a car or on a bike ever again the State of Florida would do its best to put her away for the rest of her natural life. “So what’s it like being a superstar?”

She must have heard that question about a thousand times, but Tink was really nice about it. In between bites of her burger, she told us about what she did, her schedule, and even a few of the funny things fans did to get attention. I was surprised I got to eat as much of my burger as I did, but Mike did take most of my fries. Not that I was complaining; she was too damn skinny and really didn’t look good. If feeding her off my plate was what it took, then I’ll order seconds.

“Actually, this is the first time in a long time I’ve been able to just sit somewhere in public and not have a dozen people come up to me while I eat. It’s kind of nice. Must be I’m not as popular as they keep telling me,” she laughed.

“Sweetie,” Mike said, still munching on a fry. “There probably ain’t ten meatbags in this joint who have even heard of you, let alone recognize you.” She was most likely right; Bennie’s clients tend toward the older side. “And anyway, ain’t nobody going to bother you while you’re sitting next to the Boss, even if you were nekked and sucking on his...” Top’s elbow interrupted her. “Oof, ah, sucking on your straw. Not unless they have a death wish, that is.”

Tink looked at me speculatively.

“A wholly underserved reputation,” I assured her. “It’s been days, maybe even weeks since I actually killed anyone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said and grinned. “Weeks, huh?”

“At least,” I replied. She turned back to her burger but scooted just a tiny bit closer to me. I chuckled.

Soon after that, it was time to get her back, so we said our goodbyes and hit the road. Her limo was waiting for her at the end of the pier, so I let her off next to it. The driver popped out and opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she said. “That was so cold! I had a great time.”

“My pleasure,” I said with a little salute. She stood up on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the cheek and scampered into the back of her ride, saying, “See you next week.”

So went my first “date” with Antigua Delmar.

Chapter 3

Gossip rags are like cockroaches: there are millions of them everywhere, and you just can’t kill them. The names change from “Galaxy” to “Nova” to “Star Struck,” but they’re all the same. I never saw the cameras nor the lowlifes behind them, but starting the next day, there were pictures of Tink on the back of my bike all over the bloody things.

Apparently, I was her sex slave, or she was my kidnap victim, or some other outrageous bullshit. It was annoying. Luckily, I don’t answer my calls, and I never programmed Sara to be nice. I wonder if the creeps even knew they were being so cleanly and exactingly eviscerated by an AI. I doubt it; my guess is most of them would have lost a battle of wits with a sponge. They were persistent, however. I’ll give them that. When the second one almost got onboard the Katherine, I asked Marmaduke and Binky to come down and help keep the pests off the pier.

Marmaduke and Binky, a.k.a. Sergeants Samuel and Stanley Kolbe, are two more members of the Lost Boys. They’re fraternal twins and about as different as two sides of the same coin. They’re big boys, about ten centimeters taller than I am, but that’s where the similarities end. Sam is as dark as Stan is fair and built like a brick, kind of like me. His body doesn’t slope down from broad shoulders to a cute narrow waist like the heroes in the vids; no, they go straight down, just like a brick. And let me tell you, there isn’t a gram of fat on that boy anywhere, just solid muscle. I’ve seen him out-arm-wrestle Crystal’s Bob without breaking a sweat. Remember Bob, the one who bends rebar? I think Sam could straighten it out again. Bob wanted to get him a tryout with the Bucs, but Sam wasn’t interested. I think he was afraid he would really hurt someone, and he was probably right.

Stan is fair, as I mentioned; blonde with the narrow hips and handsome as a vid star. He’s also, as Mike so delicately puts it, “Queer as a three-peso gold piece.” Sexual orientation doesn’t mean that much to people nowadays and even less to me than most. I couldn’t care less who my team members climb in bed with just so long as it’s not me, and that goes double for Mike. Yeah, she’s pretty, even beautiful, but I’d rather sleep with a live grenade with the pin pulled; it’s safer. Anyway, Stan doesn’t have Sam’s muscle, but he’s the best at what he does: blowing things up. He just purely loves making little tiny pieces out of big things; it’s good to see a man enjoy his work.

The brothers were in between jobs, so they came down to help keep the pests off the pier, usually by seeing how far they could throw them into Tampa Bay. I swear I actually saw one of them skip. Sam used the brute-force method, Stan had more finesse. They squabbled like a couple of old maids over who got the best distance, but I refused to get involved. Besides, it wasn’t really a contest; brute force has a finesse all its own. Sure, the marina has its own security, but for the most part, they just hung back and watched. I think they were making side bets themselves.

After a few days, it all died down. I hadn’t been seen with Tinker Bell since that bike ride, so the public was probably getting bored with it, and besides, it must have been getting pretty expensive with all that camera equipment ending up in the bay.

Anyway, it was a huge pain in the ass, and I was glad when the day for the charter came. I’d been out for two days before that, so we needed a quick turnaround to get ready for the Friday-night sailing, but that wasn’t a problem for the cleaning crew. They were real pros, and we’d done this many times before. Sally was going to help me out for the weekend cruise along with a couple of other girls we often brought on part-time for bigger crowds. She generally didn’t like doing that during the season, but since the Bucs were out of town and I promised we’d be back in before the game, she agreed.

She helped me greet our guests at the bow and direct them back to the lounge while the rest of the guests were arriving. I told you before I liked having pretty women work for me. Well, pretty doesn’t quite cover what Sally looks like. Try pure sex with red hair, creamy white skin, and more curves than a country road. I keep telling Bob he doesn’t deserve her, and he agrees, but then I’m not sure any mundane man deserves Sally. But she loves him like there’s no tomorrow. No accounting for taste, right?

As I said before, I work the higher end of the trade, so I’m fairly used to the rich and their hangers-on coming and going, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many limos piled up at the end of the pier like I did that day. If that’s the kind of money you find in the music business, then I am definitely in the wrong line of work! There were the obligatory old rich men with their arm candy ― either trophy wives or weekend rentals ― old rich men with their pretty boys, and a few old battleaxes with either arm candy or pretty boys. Quite a mixed bag all around, but no Antigua Delmar as of yet. Not that it mattered all that much to me; her guests could wait with the rest of us and drink expensive hooch (smuggled, of course), eat off the buffet, and schmooze with each other and try to keep their hands off the girls and their eyes on Sally’s ass.

According to the guest roster, everyone was aboard except the hostess, and it was getting close to the scheduled sailing time when the biggest limo of them all pulled up right onto the pier. I figured it had to be Tinker Bell, so when she popped out of the rear of the land yacht, I wasn’t surprised. The woman that got out after her did surprise me.

I told you Antigua Delmar was pretty, more than just a cute kid, and Sally is a knockout, and my wife, Kathy, the love of my life, was a very handsome woman; none of them even came close to this vision. She appeared to be a little taller than Tink, with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair, a perfectly proportioned body, and get this, the most perfect legs I have ever seen in my life! She should have been under glass in the Louvre. I think my heart stopped.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe,” Sally chuckled and nudged me with her elbow.

“Huh? I don’t know what you mean,” I gasped.

“Sure you don’t,” she smirked. “And next you’ll be telling me you didn’t even notice her.”

“Notice who?” I had her fooled, I’m sure of it. She kept chuckling, annoyingly so, until Tink stepped over the brow and threw her arms up to me.

“My sex slave!” she hollered. I groaned.

“I thought you were my kidnapping victim,” I answered as she hugged me.

“You read what you want; I’ll read what I want,” she said. Turning, she introduced the goddess standing behind her. “Captain Chaos, this is Cynthia, my manager, and my mother.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said. At least I hope that’s what came out. It could have been incoherent guttural noises, but if it was, I didn’t want to know. “And that’s Mayhem, Daniel Mayhem.”

“So you’re the one who kidnapped my daughter and ran off with her on that ancient death machine and then forced her into that den of iniquity.” Touching her hand was like holding onto spun silk.

“Den of iniquity? Oh, Bennie’s. I’ll have to remember to tell him you said that; he’ll like it.” I think she pulled her hand back. I’m not sure I could have let it go by myself. “As for the bike ... Well, she forced me to.”