Undertows. You’re out there paddling and then, just like that, it can get you. You can’t be a surfer and be afraid of what the ocean can do. You’re alone and you catch a wave and ride your board like a magic carpet all the way back home. I love that feeling, man! Especially when I see that little curl of a wave on the horizon and I know it’s going to grow for me as I paddle hard toward it and that if I time it right, it’s going to rise up and challenge me. Wooooohoooo! You know what I mean? Son, there’s nothing like that perfect wave crashing all over you. And that’s what the right woman can do for you, too. Now get out there and get laid.
The corner of Reed’s lips quirked at the memory of that particular conversation. He’d been fifteen and horny. Arch had been a rather unconventional father figure, if nothing else. He’d taken Reed to a rather wild surfing party and…Reed looked at his surroundings at the moment. Yeah, this place had a lot of Arch in it.
The right woman in a place called The Beijing Bombshell in Pristina, Kosovo. It couldn’t get any more surreal than this. The Beijing Bombshell was the hottest underground place in town right now, catering to a very exclusive clientele. One needed to pull strings to get into the club—money, influence, illegal trading, or in his case, veza, the Croatian version of returning a favor from the past.
T had told him his identity—an ex-peacekeeper, MIA, now in the arms-dealing business. “You’re still American, darling, so just be yourself,” she’d said. “You know your weapons, so there should be no problem with discussions about types and quality. We’ve set up your MO for months now, so they’ve heard of you.”
“They know me?” Reed had asked.
“Not you. The person you’re going to be. They’ve done business with you before, but not in person.”
“Ah, understood. What about name?”
“Funny thing, that. We used the initials R.C. for our fake setup, and you’re Reed. So you can stay Reed.”
Reed remembered the expression in T’s honey-colored eyes only too well. The woman could speak volumes with just one look. “So do they call me R.C. or Reed?” he’d asked.
“Whatever you like.” She’d shrugged. “It’s your identity now. Make it personal.”
That was the first thing they’d told him at the training workshops. He had to make it personal or it wouldn’t look real. “Okay. Reed to my friends, R.C. for business,” he’d said.
“Now, darling, you have to tell me what R.C. stands for,” T had said.
Reed had thought for a moment, then said solemnly, “Really Cool.”
T’s face had lit up with amusement. “That,” she’d said, “was pretty funny, Joker.”
But the Joker never joked. Not in public, anyway. Reed leaned back against the bar lit up with neon lights, which shot colorful electronic pulses to the beat of the music. He soaked in the strange atmosphere of blond Asian women strutting around in bustiers and fishnets, cavorting in and out of the arms of men that looked as if they had either come out of the theater district or a street fight, depending on the state of their clothing. T had told him that was one of the club specialties—all its women wore Marilyn Monroe blond wigs. It had become such a rage that even the women who came to party had begun to dress up that way. On the weekend they came by the hundreds, partying while making deals involving drugs, weapons, and other illegal activities. All to the beat of some kind of techno tango. The owner was a very eclectic man.
Reed was here to meet with him. He looked around again. Men were openly caressing lines of women, choosing their companions for the night. Some went for the petite Asians; others preferred the taller, more voluptuous, heavily made-up Caucasians. He was supposed to mingle with the crowd so the owner could see where he was, but he really didn’t have any desire to go over there and make a play for any of those girls.
There
The corner of Reed’s lips quirked at the memory of that particular conversation. He’d been fifteen and horny. Arch had been a rather unconventional father figure, if nothing else. He’d taken Reed to a rather wild surfing party and…Reed looked at his surroundings at the moment. Yeah, this place had a lot of Arch in it.
The right woman in a place called The Beijing Bombshell in Pristina, Kosovo. It couldn’t get any more surreal than this. The Beijing Bombshell was the hottest underground place in town right now, catering to a very exclusive clientele. One needed to pull strings to get into the club—money, influence, illegal trading, or in his case, veza, the Croatian version of returning a favor from the past.
T had told him his identity—an ex-peacekeeper, MIA, now in the arms-dealing business. “You’re still American, darling, so just be yourself,” she’d said. “You know your weapons, so there should be no problem with discussions about types and quality. We’ve set up your MO for months now, so they’ve heard of you.”
“They know me?” Reed had asked.
“Not you. The person you’re going to be. They’ve done business with you before, but not in person.”
“Ah, understood. What about name?”
“Funny thing, that. We used the initials R.C. for our fake setup, and you’re Reed. So you can stay Reed.”
Reed remembered the expression in T’s honey-colored eyes only too well. The woman could speak volumes with just one look. “So do they call me R.C. or Reed?” he’d asked.
“Whatever you like.” She’d shrugged. “It’s your identity now. Make it personal.”
That was the first thing they’d told him at the training workshops. He had to make it personal or it wouldn’t look real. “Okay. Reed to my friends, R.C. for business,” he’d said.
“Now, darling, you have to tell me what R.C. stands for,” T had said.
Reed had thought for a moment, then said solemnly, “Really Cool.”
T’s face had lit up with amusement. “That,” she’d said, “was pretty funny, Joker.”
But the Joker never joked. Not in public, anyway. Reed leaned back against the bar lit up with neon lights, which shot colorful electronic pulses to the beat of the music. He soaked in the strange atmosphere of blond Asian women strutting around in bustiers and fishnets, cavorting in and out of the arms of men that looked as if they had either come out of the theater district or a street fight, depending on the state of their clothing. T had told him that was one of the club specialties—all its women wore Marilyn Monroe blond wigs. It had become such a rage that even the women who came to party had begun to dress up that way. On the weekend they came by the hundreds, partying while making deals involving drugs, weapons, and other illegal activities. All to the beat of some kind of techno tango. The owner was a very eclectic man.
Reed was here to meet with him. He looked around again. Men were openly caressing lines of women, choosing their companions for the night. Some went for the petite Asians; others preferred the taller, more voluptuous, heavily made-up Caucasians. He was supposed to mingle with the crowd so the owner could see where he was, but he really didn’t have any desire to go over there and make a play for any of those girls.
There
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