Rhodes

Rhodes

By Christopher Ford

Waiting for the slowing vehicle to stop and open its doors, Christopher Flores leaned back against the white Cadillac Escalade, reached down and brushed at his right elbow with his left fingernails, faintly satisfying the itch.

“Aren’t you going to take better care of that?” Though Eddie Rhodes wasn’t even looking at him.

“It’s just an itch.”

“Better look closer.”

When his head craned downward, Flores jolted up with wide eyes staring down at all eight legs of the little scorpion sitting halfway down his outstretched arm - frisking away with its stinger, though thankfully not breaking skin.

Nerves shot, he swiped the venomous critter off with an anxious backhand and watched it plop ungracefully ino the harsh Pakistani sands, then wriggle in a futile fury until it scampered out of sight.

Blood still rushing, Flores glanced up at the thumping of car doors and the sight of the four others silently grinning in his direction, some shaking their heads.

“Har har. Let’s get to work,” as he approached the group.

Without a sound, the five of them stepped up to the little rectangle of concrete sticking out of the ground; nearly invisible at not much of a distance at all, only reachable to those with the proper information.

Pennyweather, donning an all black combat suit, pulled out a large, serrated chunk of metal, slid it into an imperceptible slot and as a heavy clank echoed, the stubborn metallic door swung slowly open with a creak, unveiling darkness beyond the threshold.

“Well this one’s different,” Cash piped up with percolating incredulity.

Rhodes and Pennyweather met eyes.

“The old man hasn’t let us down yet,” Rhodes said, now the first to breach the shadows, followed by Pennyweather, Cash, then Alexander Page.

“If he does he’s going to be a dead man,” Flores finally entered as well.

Eyes took a moment to adjust to this new lack of light and the possibly 100, 200 feet of sleek, metallic hallway leading to a cavern of bright electronic whiteness, lighting nothing in particular.

Collectively, ten cautious feet trickled slowly down the corridor, handguns and rifles drawn, arms raised and alert, index fingers giddy.

The taps of footsteps stopped when words were shouted in a foreign language from the end of the path, which was now hailing with cacophonous gunfire.

Each man sunk into the walls, returning fire, knowing every deafening blast might be the one that ends their life.

After about forty-five seconds of deadly uncertainty, groans came from the end of the path, and the sound of gunshots dissipated like a gradually closing faucet.

“Okay this one’s not so different,” said Cash.

“Everybody still alive?” Page looked around.

“Come on, we have a job to do,” and Pennyweather pressed forward.

There was nothing in the room at the end of the hall. Just a door which lay perfectly flush with the left wall, it went nearly unnoticed until Pennyweather approached and began inspecting the little metallic box rigged up with wires to where a door-handle should be - most likely the mechanism for releasing the inner latch.

“Cash?” Pennyweather looked his way.

From underneath his olive-green vest, Cash produced a tiny device with a discreet keypad and a digital display. He hooked it up to the metallic box by the door and began typing away.

He smiled then blurted an “ah ha!” then “wait. What?” and “Uh huh…”

“What is it?”

“Uh… I think it’s a security question.”

“What’s the question?”

“Just one word, and it’s in english: ‘Ascension?’” Puzzled, Cash tapped away with a few guesses, all returning an ACCESS DENIED message.

Pennyweather spoke. “Try Dome of the Rock.”

He tried it and with a happy little chime and green LED lights, the message read ACCESS GRANTED.

Cash looked back. “How’d you know that?”

“I paid attention in history class.”

Cash shook his head and as he successfully pulled the door open, a loud click, then a much greater bang and a large burst of fire sent Cash’s body flying in different directions.

Moments passed and in the aftermath of the unexpected violence, Flores chuckled as Pennyweather moved ahead beyond the charred doorframe, followed by the others after a few more seconds.

This was an even smaller room with a brief row of aluminum lockers lining the wall, just beside a modest desk with a few drawers and nothing on top but a cloth sack and a closed laptop, all underneath a flickering fluorescent light that didn’t inspire much confidence.

Alexander Page sat down at the desk, opened the computer and began browsing files, finding nothing but documents written in Arabic - he pulled out his little black translation notebook, and soon his eyes were darting back and forth between the two.

Rhodes unraveled the bag, inspecting its glittering contents.

“What’s in there?” As Flores got closer.

He reached in and pulled one out. Just like the other jobs - gold bars, pressed with the insignia of whichever militia once owned them.

“How much we got?”

He counted, hesitated to speak. “Maybe twenty thousand dollars.”

Glances were quietly exchanged.

“That’s it?” Flores started rocking his rifle unknowingly. “That’s not a treasure. That’s a fucking car.”

Rhodes spoke with a smirk “Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money to the right person.”

Impatient, turning his back “well I guess I’m the wrong person.” He made a move for the lockers. “What’s in here?” He sifted around. Rifles, ammo, grenades. “Well that makes sense at least. I thought these guys were like the top lucrative arms dealers around here.” He pointed at the bag. “That amount seems like just one payment. And a small payment.”

“At least we only have to split it four ways.” Pennyweather offered.

Still impatient. “Nothing about this was right from the start. I think it’s a trap. Let’s get outta here.”

Rhodes stepped forward. “Chill out. We’ll look around a little more, see what we missed. Then head out and tell the old man what happened.”

Flores dropped his head and exhaled.

“That’s funny,” Page called from the desk.

“What?” Flores’s head peeked up.

“Been checking out the security system.” Page spoke with wariness. “Looks like the door that killed Cash was rigged to blow no matter what.”

A sudden noise came from the corner of the room. Flores jerked his rifle in its direction, alerting Rhodes, who, in less than a second, mimicked this action, pointing both his handguns at the motionless lockers. Not missing a beat, Pennyweather similarly raised his gun and sent a bullet through Flores’s neck, who then flew forward, downward; stopped moving.

Rhodes shot a look at Page, Page turned to inspect Pennyweather, unsure if he saw what he saw.

No one spoke.

Instantly, Pennyweather raised his arm at Rhodes and squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet into his leg, then swung around to take care of Page. Easily.

Rhodes didn’t fall, recovered mentally and physically from the shock of a gunshot wound, then sent a flurry of his own at Pennyweather.

Pennyweather reached and flung the desk before him, now using the broad side as cover.

Rhodes dove for the door and into the first room at the end of the hallway they’d come in from.

Finding his own cover around the corner, he looked down and took note of how much ammo remained.

“I take it only you were meant to make it back to Jodhpur?” Rhodes called out during this apparent ceasefire.

“The blue city was just for me, baby.”

“You’re trash.”

“You’re dead.”

Something to the left caught Pennyweather’s attention - Flores, alive, hardly, looking right at him, pulling the pin from a grenade and casually letting it fall in his direction.

The chain reaction of the grenade and ammo stockpile sent a shock throughout the whole structure, challenging its integrity. Dust was everywhere and a visible gas leak felt like knives to the lungs. Soon the whole place was entirely uninhabitable.

Near the entrance now, he stumbled forward, crashing his shoulder and neck into the wall before making it outside. He’d lost his guns somewhere along the way - but snagged the sack of gold

Hurting everywhere, he hobbled into the SUV he’d come in.

He turned the key, ignited the engine, then three or four gunshots peppered the hood, the last one shattering the windshield.

The car engine was suddenly dead - Pennyweather was either a very good or very lucky shot.

Bullets continued to spray, and Rhodes clambered into the backseat. What luck. Flores, the idiot, had left his large hunting knife in the car. Covertly, he opened the back door and slid out, crouching near the ground, peeking between the tires for his assailant’s feet.

Loudly, “maybe you should look closer before diving head-first into a pile of money, eh Rhodes?”

“How do you know the old man’s not just gonna have you killed, too?”

“He likes me. Plus I have dirt on him - that’s why he likes me.”

Rhodes thought back - the journey here had been unlike all the other jobs. From the city they took a helicopter which flew, he now realized, unusually far above the Earth and it was difficult to determine which direction they had taken off. And the drop-off point had conspicuously placed cars, taking them through a winding route no Earthly man could hope to recall.

“The idea was to leave you all dead. Your body’s presence, and rank as a general officer, would raise eyebrows. Speculation would fall on you. Meanwhile the old man and I have no trouble at all taking off these stupid branding marks and turning the gold into cash.”

“What if I got outta here alive?”

“You’d never make it back. Can’t call anyone. I’ve sabotaged both cars. You couldn’t hope to return by foot. I have the only water left. Even if you did get out of this... we have 14 frightened privates due in court next month. Ready to talk about these mercenary raids. Ready to point the finger at you.”

It wasn’t easy, but when he’d comprehended the words, Rhodes spoke at last. “I’m innocent. I’ll prove it. And I can kill you.”

“How?”

“That gun you’re pointing at me: it’s one of mine.”

Pennyweather glanced down at the gun, then back at its target. “So?”

“You know I can count, right? You’ve got one shot left. When you’ve wasted it, this knife is going in your brain, and I’m taking that water.”

“Try it.”

Rhodes stepped into view. Advanced slowly, brandishing the tall blade.

Pennyweather’s barrel stayed true.

Stillness.

Knife raised by his right arm, Rhodes swung his left from behind his back and a brick of gold soared into Pennyweather’s forehead. “AGH!” Eyes closed, he cradled his wound and carelessly sent his only bullet into the air.

The knife went in. Pennyweather fell.

He checked, but there really wasn’t much water left.

It would keep him going for just a little longer.

***

Delirious and frozen to his core underneath the mid-eastern stars, Rhodes followed a thoughtless spiraling path downhill and into a pit swallowed by dunes of sand on all sides.

When eyes opened next, he was attached by tubes to a beeping machine, lying down inside some moving vehicle.

His eyes wouldn’t be open long.

There was some nurse by his side, busy, looking down at something. Rhodes clawed feebly at his pants to get his attention.

The nurse leaned forward, “what was that?”

Nearly inaudible: “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars for some water.” And though his machine signaled a flatline, a grin never left the face of Edward Rhodes.