Axton’s last thoughts were She’s safe. He was a winner born to lose, yet, somehow, even at times like this, when he was dying in great pain, hope survived. To distract himself from the aching loneliness and from the fallen beam pinning him amid the smoke and ravenous flames, he concentrated on the lovely dulcimer until everything went to black.
That was ELEVEN.
TWELVE found Axton killing five men aboard a Luna shuttle, bare-handed, so as not to endanger Tilde with weapons fire. His opponents imposed no such restrictions upon themselves. Before he killed them, they fired freely, crippling most of the ship’s controls and piercing the reactor coolant system. The cabin was filling with toxic gas, and only one space suit still functioned. Tilde fought him, but he got her into the suit somehow. With a kiss, he closed the visor and strapped her in. Their song was playing on the comms. Of course it was. Axton had to hold on. It took all his training, all his focus, but he managed to wrestle the ship into a rough but survivable landing near a friendly complex before everything went to black.
SIXTEEN and SEVENTEEN, Axton saved Tilde but died by poisoned Longmorn Single Malt and tiger respectively, while Joni strummed her dulcimer. No matter how hard he tried, he could not survive. It was as if something were actively working against him. His training told him that most of his situations were fifty-fifty odds, yet somehow things always went the wrong way.
TWENTY-SEVEN.
Axton rushed through the pouring rain and across the motel parking lot to Room 8, where she’d be waiting. He was alert, in the moment. It wouldn’t be like last time. This time, everything would go perfectly. The voluptuous Tilde would be his and his alone!
He unlocked the door and slipped inside, dripping wet. Joni was playing on the sound system, something plucky from her Blue album. It was perfect.
Tilde was waiting in the bed, nude, her anticipation on dual display through the thin sheet.
The door burst open behind him, and in rushed a man in a loud sports coat. In his right hand, he held a Kimber 2K11 9mm with extended magazine, giving it 20 rounds. “Caught you, asshole! Thought you’d poke my wife, eh? You’ll have to be smarter than that!”
“You let him follow you? You didn’t even lock the door? Jesus, Axton! We’re on deadline. Oh, just shoot him, Rusty.”
The man in the loud sportscoat fired one shot, striking Axton in the chest.
Everything went to black.
TWENTY-SEVEN-β.
Axton rushed through the pouring rain and across the motel parking lot to Room 8, where she’d be waiting. He was alert, in the moment. It wouldn’t be like last time. This time, everything would go perfectly. The voluptuous Tilde would be his and his alone!
He checked around the lot. By the light of the red neon Passion Pit Motor Lodge sign, he could see a man sitting in a parked car. The engine was off; he was just sitting, scanning the area. Axton made his movements casual, walking past Room 8 and into the breezeway. He paced in a tiny circle for twenty minutes, though the thought of Tilde burned in his mind and in his loins. At last, he decided to try again. Looking around, Axton saw that the car where the man had been was empty. There was no one else around, so Axton made his way to Room 8.
He unlocked the door and slipped inside, dripping wet, locking the door behind him. Joni was playing on the sound system, All I Want from her Blue album, her foray into the dulcimer. Everything was perfect.
Tilde was there under a sheet which barely covered her dual excitement. Wait, she wasn’t excited for him. She said nothing, but Axton sensed that her twin points stemmed not from sensual arousal, but from –
“Bang,” the man in the loud sports coat said, emerging from the bathroom with gun in hand – a Kimber 2K11 9mm with extended magazine, giving it 20 rounds. Serious killing power.
Tilde was pissed at Axton. “You took too long. I thought it was you and let him in,” Tilde said, all trace of nerves vanishing from her voice.
“So, just for fun, I’m going to put these cuffs on you and ravage Tilde while you watch, buddy. You don’t mind, do you?”
Axton sized up the situation. He had no gun. Rusty had him covered. He held out his hands to allow Rusty to slip the cuffs on.
“You’d like that, for me to get close and then fumble with my hands while you grab my gun. You put them on him.” Rusty motioned with the pistol for Tilde to do the honors. She slipped out of the sheets nude as the day she was born, her perfect figure highlighted in the red neon of the motel sign. Rusty let out a low wolf whistle.
And then a gurgling scream.
In the split second it took Rusty to compare the color of rug and drapes, Axton swung his arm slapping the pistol from Rusty’s hand and sending it onto the bed. Axton moved swiftly behind Rusty and, using both hands, gave the man’s head a violent jerk to the right. The snap was audible. Rusty and his loud sports coat fell to the stained motel room carpet.
Axton moved to embrace Tilde. Like Joni’s song, he was overcome with loneliness and a desire to connect with someone.
Tilde pushed him away. “Don’t hug me, you’re soaked. Anyway, snapping a guy’s neck in front of me is not the aphrodisiac you obviously think it is.”
“That’s what the music is for.” Something stirred in the red-tinged shadows at their feet. “I could have a partner – probably do have a partner!” the dead Rusty said, looking up from the floor with his head tilted at an impossible angle. “The other bad guy could be breaking down that door right now.”
“He’s right, Axton. There’s no time for fooling around. You’re picking up on the fine details but missing obvious things. The priority here is to get me to safety.”
Rusty was on his feet, having retrieved the pistol from the bed. “It’s the romance scenario. It’s distracting him,” he said.
Tilde was incredulous. “You want to tell that to our client? Her order said: a fighter and a lover. By the way, that’s cheating. You’re dead.”
Rusty was getting worked up. His head lolled from side to side on the broken spindle of his neck as he spoke. “All I’m saying is he should have picked up the gun after he killed me.”
“No. We’ve been through this. Axton doesn’t use guns unless he has to. They’re too hard to explain to police or airport security.”
Folding her arms across her perfect breasts, Tilde said, “You look ridiculous standing around with a broken neck.”
“It’s only sprained. Like any decent thug, I knew to lean into the twist, protect the neck.”
“It looks broken to me,” Axton said defensively.
“Don’t argue,” Rusty’s voice took on an edge of anger. To Tilde, he said, “I think we’ve got as much as we’re going to get out of Sleazy Motel Scenario. We’ll move on… after we eat. Jesus, Teetee, we blew off lunch.”
“We’re on deadline,” Tilde said. Rusty, his head lolling to one side, pouted. “Fine. We’ll work while we eat. It’s got to be conflicting priorities defeating his higher heuristics. Axton should be setting the priorities. I told you, this is where the man is better than the machine. This is why we’re using Axton and not some cheap synthbot. Fine, we’ll trace it. Go ahead and power down the scenario.”
Another failure on the brink of victory. Axton knew how the toast felt when an idiot dropped it. Would it always be this way?
Rusty said, “The auto-save is faster,” and pulled the trigger.
Everything went to black.
THIRTY-FOUR-Γ. Inconclusive proof that Tilde ultimately made it to safety, but the Tilde Avatar did register an intense orgasm during intercourse with Axton the very instant he killed the assassin. Similar results on THIRTY-FOUR-Δ and THIRTY-FOUR-Ε. In each case, Axton died from wounds suffered in the shootout while Joni played dulcimer and sang of being intoxicated by romance. Axton did not regret his sacrifice, but he felt a certain longing.
FORTY found Axton triumphant! The castle was collapsing from the explosion, but Tilde was safe… and he was by her side.
FORTY-ONE. Tilde rescued from the brothel to Joni strumming out her tale of fleeting romance and wanderlust in the jubilant Carey. Axton alive.
FORTY-TWO. The Cartel arrested, the blackmail file recovered, Tilde’s reputation safe. Axton alive and whistling along to California.
FORTY-THREE. The hurricane passed, leaving the casino in ruins but Tilde and Axton alive and enjoying a warbly dulcimer serenade.
The Psy chamber opened with a woosh, and Axton felt himself dragged back through all of his lives and horrible deaths like so much spaghetti extruded through a pasta maker. Axton found himself using more and more food metaphors for some reason.
“It’s time,” Tilde said. Her perfect face had become lined and tired. Even under her drab clothes, he could see her shoulders slouching ever so slightly, her luscious breasts surrendering to gravity. She’s real, Axton thought. “This is it. Project Melpo is riding on you now. Don’t let us down!”
“I won’t, Tilde. I won’t let you down,” he said, and he meant it. He opened his mouth to say something. He wanted to tell her…
Rusty, who actually was going grey, rolled his eyes and rubbed the deep reddened line on his forehead. Tilde’s bangs no doubt hid a matching line. Rusty offered Tilde his half-eaten doughnut, and she took a giant bite with a mischievous wink and giggle.
The trio spoke sparingly as Axton got cleaned-up and dressed for the plane.
Thalia was a woman who’d spent quality time with her stylist and her plastic surgeon. The introductions at her villa on Crete were perfunctory, the sex inevitable though not incredible. She laughed easily, came even more readily, but was not one for pillow talk.
For weeks, Axton followed his instructions as the pair traveled the globe tending her business. In Belgrade, he played a dangerous game, allowing her would-be assassin to close in while he stalked the stalker. His earbuds soothed him with sweet songs of love’s elusive, ever-distant call as Axton flung the man from a high balcony.
His Melpo Psy Training served him well, allowing him to easily discern threats, disarm bombs, and dispatch trained killers. The actual challenges he faced were far more mundane than those in the MPT sessions. No matter the odds, he landed upright on his feet.
In the end, it only made sense to take the fight to his enemies. That is, Thalia’s enemies. Three families were vying for total control, including a faction of her own. His traps were clever, lyrical even. He avoided taking pleasure in his killing, but he allowed himself the satisfaction of serving his purpose. Within two months, all serious threats were liquidated.
Days later, seated at a Rive Gauche café, he told her, “You’re safe now. It’s time for me to leave.”
“You could stay with me.” She said it, her tone neither desperate nor seductive.
He thought about the offer, seriously considered it. They’d seen death together and come out alive. Axton had come to the realization, however, that the thing that kept defeating him was himself. If he stayed, whatever he might feel for this woman would not last. It was a simple trick to land right-side up once or even a few times, but in the end… “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. I feel the urge to be going.”
He didn’t have to die for a living anymore. To the positive, he suffered no serious flashbacks to his many horrible demises. Except for the tiger mauling. He’d never go to another zoo. Ever.
Axton finished his Sauvignon Blanc, stood, smiled, and stepped away from the table. Walking along the Seine, headed nowhere with no fetters to bind him, he whistled a Joni tune. Cursed luck or not, he was a free man.
###
I hope you enjoyed my little story of love and danger. If you really want a messed up life... check out Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army.
https://www.amazon.com/Zebulon-Angell-Shadow-Chris-Riker/dp/1637107056
