“Are you sure you want to do this?” asks Brock with concern as they approach the scene of the Shindan takedown. A small oil slick occupies the spot where Joanne’s car sat.
“Yeah, just don’t hit me too hard,” replies Rebekah resolutely. “Make it look real, just not too real.”
They walk a few more meters and then pause just before turning the corner. “Okay, let’s make this convincing,” she says, spinning around to face Brock. “Guys, we’re about to start. Please keep in mind I have no idea how long we can keep them busy so get ready to run.”
A moment of nervous silence passes before Rebekah nods at Brock, then turns around to face the street.
He takes a deep breath.
“You fucking bitch!” he screams at the top of his lungs as he grabs her smooth black hair from behind. She advances and pulls away into the street, causing her head to jerk back as Brock maintains his grip.
They tussle loudly, stumbling slowly into the middle of the street, shouting obscenities and accusations at each other. She lands a few blows against his body causing him to lose his grip on her hair. As she stands up, his open palm swings around and connects solidly with her face. The sound of the slap reverberates down the street.
Brock freezes, uncertain what to do next. He stares at Rebekah as she holds her face with both hands.
“Oh shit,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was a total accident.”
She holds her head up, both hands over her cheek, tears streaming down her face, and says, “Ow, dude. That really fucking hurt.”
“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” says Brock surreptitiously, still frozen on the spot.
“It’s okay, it’s fine,” she replies wincing and rubbing the spreading redness on the side of her face. “Maybe we should’ve rehearsed this. At least it’ll be more convincing this way. I’m okay, let’s keep going.”
“Okay,” says Brock, suddenly reminded of why they’re there. Glancing around quickly he sees that the two sentries in the yard have left their spots and are watching them intently from behind the iron fence. In the window of the tiny guardhouse behind them Brock can see slight movement.
Suddenly, Rebekah screeches an ear-piercing, “Fuck you, asshole!!” and begins to lash out wildly at Brock.
He screams back and once again grabs the back of her head by her hair. Her hands hold his at the wrist, covertly guiding them and herself downward into a compromising pose.
The two guards jump into action and quickly make their way through the double gates of the caged entrance, all the while being surreptitiously observed by Elvis and Mirabelle. As the police officers approach the rowdy fight the two agents quietly follow behind, first securing the inner door before opening the outer one, just as they’d observed. Finally, they scurry away from the altercation and disappear into the shadows of the darkened street.
This time it’s Rebekah who catches a glance at Mirabelle and Elvis making their getaway. She turns her head away from the quickly approaching officers and in a very controlled volume says, “They’re good, they got away. Time for phase two.”
Brock relaxes his hold on the struggling woman as she comes up to face him. Half of her face is still red from the slap but her expression has transformed into a smilingly devious provocation. She flings her hands around his neck and pulls his face close to hers, rolling her head around in an imitation of a passionate kiss.
“Grab my ass,” she instructs, breathing heavily between sensuous groans. He pulls her close to him. With a slap he clasps one cheek firmly in his extended hand and pulls her writhing body even closer. She lets out a hoarse moan. Soon Brock feels his hardness pressed tightly up against her sinuous shape. For a brief moment their lips meet and then she wriggles gently away.
He looks deeply into her eyes and is met with the fixed stare of a vulnerable animal. Beneath his firm grip a rigid shudder runs up through her body, ending with an unfocused quiver in her eyes.
Just then one of the approaching officers shouts something in Thai. A strong tugging feeling, like being pulled along with an oceanic wave, draws Brock away from his contact with Rebekah and causes him to look to his left. There he sees the two cops approaching. A moment later the farther officer disappears behind the sightline of the nearer.
At this point Rebekah peels herself off and begins to hurl guttural insults at the oncoming cop – angry accusations about his virility and his ability to pleasure a woman.
Brock looks on in motionless silence, grateful hands crossed over the zipper of his pants. He leans left and right, squinting and trying to spot the other cop but without success.
The other officer’s demeanor quickly changes from one of concern to one of irritation and he begins to shout something while motioning for the two agents to clear the area. Rebekah gives the officer a middle finger and without looking back she grabs Brock by the arm, pulling him to the corner from which they started.
“We just successfully broke into a locked storage container with nothing but a phone and shitty scissors,” she says smiling brightly and running her fingers through her glossy hair. With wide eyes she finishes, “How fucking unreal is that?”
Brock smiles and nods uncomfortably in acknowledgment.
“Oh,” she says, looking down and seeing the source of Brock’s unease.
“If it’s any consolation, I also had a good time tonight,” she continues with cheerful aplomb. Then she bends over in front Brock’s crotch, raises her hand to her brow, swivels the digits outward in a mock salute, and in a gravelly drawl says, “You did a good job today, soldier. At ease.”
With a concluding nod she stands back up and they wait there for a few moments while Brock recovers. In the meantime they exchange excited congratulations with Elvis and Mirabelle.
“You really saved our bacon back there,” says Elvis over the group chat. “That cop didn’t look like he was gonna budge.”
“Yes, iz very good,” injects Mirabelle with an unusually positive inflection in her voice.
Brock catches a glimpse of mild confusion on Rebekah’s face. “I think getting them both out of there together was a fluke,” she says with a correcting nod. Brock agrees with his own.
“Both?” asks Elvis in a tinny voice.
Suddenly, Dmitri’s voice pops into the group chat. “Sorry to interrupt the celebrations, folks,” he says jubilantly, “but you’re all cordially invited to the after-party at the tree. Refreshments are being served.”
Dominic’s laughter comes in over the group chat.
As they all make their way to the shady courtyard their spirited casualness changes to elation. By the time they get there they’ve enthusiastically reviewed the night’s improbable events and are burning with anticipation to examine the contents of the bankers box.
“A busted up paper box?” asks Elvis, pointing to the misshapen container using a small bundle of papers he’s holding.
Positioning his mobile phone to photograph one of the documents in his hand, Dmitri looks up and replies, “Hide in plain sight. If there’s one thing I’ve learned is that electronic info is so much more vulnerable than hard copy. Best security is to keep only physical records.”
“But in a paper box?” follows Elvis with with suspicion.
“It was in a locked file cabinet,” says Dmitri with a minuscule shrug. “Then again, that thing popped open with almost no effort.”
“I rest my case,” confirms Elvis.
Just then Dominic shifts forward from his casual lean, holding up a piece of printed paper. “Guys,” he begins with a nervous energy, “I think I might have something here.
“The phone’s translation is a bit rough but this looks like us. Here, have a look,” he points a finger at a spot in the document. “That’s the address of our old library boo, where we got robbed.”
“Right,” says Rebekah, scanning the sheet intently. “I miss that place.”
“The instructions say to keep tabs on a woman at that location and any of her associates. Sounds about right. Here it says that any scientific papers are to be confiscated. Paraphrasing a bit there,” continues Dominic. “It would explain why Brock’s place got tossed too.”
“Just because we’d met in the park that night?” inquires Brock.
“Seems like it,” responds Dominic. “Here’s what we’re after, the client,” he says, sliding his finger to the top of the page. “An A C Heinrich.”
“Who the hell’s that?” asks Brock, leaning in to examine the name. As Mirabelle does the same she notices that Rebekah seems to have involuntarily recoiled.
“Everysing iz okay?” asks Mirabelle, observing Rebekah’s reaction.
She’s ashen. Her features appear to have sunken inward, the glimmer in her dark eyes has changed to panic, her mouth is hanging open.
“Rebekah?” says Dominic. The whole group puts down their papers to focus on her.
Her mouth moves slowly as though she’s trying to make words but nothing’s coming out. Terrified, she glances quickly around the group and then with her arms outstretched for support begins to back away unsteadily.
“Rebekah?” repeats Dominic with concern. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I …” is all she manages in reply, all the while moving away from them.
Elvis now steps forward and asks, “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”
Still retreating she shakes hear head and puts up one hand to stop him advancing.
“Then what is it?” he asks with urgency. “What’s going on?”
She closes her mouth tightly and shakes her head one more time before turning around and hurrying into the street through the shadows of the courtyard.
“What the hell’s going on, Rebekah?” shouts Dmitri as Brock runs to follow her.
In the early morning quiet of the small courtyard, Dominic, Dmitri, Mirabelle, and Elvis stare at each other, dumbfounded and speechless.
“For fuck’s sake, Rebekah, wait up!” Brock shouts after her as he hurries down the lamp-lit street. In a few moments he’s overtaken her and he spins around in front of her, blocking her path.
She comes to a stop with a stomp, hands clenched in tight fists.
“Look,” he says assertively, “I don’t know who or what this A C Heinrich is but you obviously know something, and seeing as how we’re all involved, how we’ve all come all this way, how we’re all getting shot at, I think we deserve something more than just a silent freakout.”
“You deserve more than me,” she responds quietly through clenched teeth.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asks Brock, frowning.
“It means we’re in danger because of me,” she replies fearfully. After a long pause she says, “Probably best if I don’t say any more. I shouldn’t have even said that. I … I need time. Time alone. I need to think.”
Brock runs his palms up slowly over his face, through his hair, and down the back of his head. Holding his hands around his neck and tipping his face skyward he takes in a long, deep breath. He slowly releases the air from his lungs, drops his shoulders, and says, “Okay. I trust you. I’ll be back at the tree when you’re ready.”
“I don’t … I can’t guarantee anything,” she says, distraught.
He walks past her, holding up an open hand to signal the receipt of her message. Soon he’s disappeared into the thick contrasts of the dense city street, leaving her alone. She buries her face in her hands.
Approximately half an hour passes. The omnipresent hum of the city builds along with a peachy swelling in the eastern sky. The birds in the tree of the tiny courtyard begin to chirp excitedly.
With a solemn face Rebekah plods through one of the crumbling entrances and plops herself beside Brock.
They’re alone.
“Where is everybody?” she asks.
“They left. Took the box with ’em. Didn’t say where they’re going. Didn’t say when they’re coming back, if they’re coming back. Seemed pretty pissed,” he replies sleepily. “I said the same thing to them I told you.”
“Hmm,” she replies with a nod. “If I can walk away so can they.”
“Yup.”
“Well, I’m back.”
“And?”
“And I thought it over and you’re right, you guys deserve the truth. I’m just having a real hard time with it. It’s a lot, you know?”
“Okay. No need to rush,” he prompts, leaning back and closing his eyes.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” she says.
“How about whoever this A C Heinrich person is?” proposes Brock lazily.
She hesitates reluctantly for a moment.
Finally she answers, “It’s not a person. It’s people. The A C stands for Arti and Cornelius.”
“And who are Arti and Cornelius Heinrich?” he asks dreamily.
“My mom and dad,” replies Rebekah flatly.
“What?!” yells Brock, springing bolt upright.