David Dun: Overfall

He kissed her deeply-she tasted like the sweet spice of her cinnamon mints. The movement of her tongue stirred him and the feeling of her against him brought his hands low to cup her buttocks. He knew to lift her as she wrapped her legs around him.

She wanted him, but loved the slowness of his love-making and the patience that obliterated time. After her exuberance had nearly overtaken her, she rolled him over and sat astride him, feeling the sweet torture down to her thighs where his hand now became the genie of her imagination.

The want of him was almost painful, but she didn’t utter a sound; she was sure that he was hearing more from her than she knew to speak.

“I love you, I love you,” she finally whispered, feeling her breaths go nearly desperate, the sweat running down her sides and making the bedsheets wet.

Perspiration poured from her body, and he pulled her close to taste it with his tongue. At her throat as he mouthed her shivers, he could feel her clutch telling him things that she would not say. Once again he let her find her way until she gave herself to a waltz that he slowly began to hear. When he had found the rhythm of it, he learned her new dance and took her waist in both his hands. It was narrow and taut, the muscle of it firm, the movements of it growing strong. There was a clench in her thighs that told him she was nearly spent. He used their sweat to slide her like a car gone wild on a rain-slicked street.

When they had exhausted each other, she sat astride him with her head bowed and she looked and saw that she was naked, and she giggled and fell on him, leaving him to wonder if it would ever be that good again.

She lay with her face inches from him, her eyes not leaving his. The amber brown hues of them were at once soothing and exhilarating.

She leaned and put her lips to his ear. “Who are you?”

“I was born Samuel Browning. My name now is Kalok Wintripp. My father was of English descent. He was an Air Force parajumper. I grew up in Alaska. I received my Ph. D. from MIT when I was twenty-four and I took it as Kalok Wintripp. Grandfather picked my Indian name. It is the Tilok word for Eagle.”

“I have an idea,” Michelle said to Samir over breakfast. He was less shaky than usual, as she had used extra oil that morning.

“Hmm?”

“I think we should give you a huge dose of the oil so that you can think like you used to think. A window of sanity, so to speak. All or nothing-figure out what to do to end this torture.”

Samir rang a bell and a servant appeared.

“Get me Fawd,” Samir said.

The man appeared in two minutes.

“Tell him,” Samir said.

She explained her idea and elaborated, this time emphasizing that the old Samir would have found a way out of the current predicament.

“I agree,” Fawd said.

“Okay,” Samir said. “Get it and let’s start.”

Michelle could see a difference within fifteen minutes, and marveled at how simply some unknown chemical or drug transformed the man. Ironically, it was his vulnerability that in part had drawn her to him, and now it faded fast.

This time when Samir walked into the five-star hotel in downtown Kuching, he felt like the billion dollars he was worth. He and Fawd had spared no expense when it came to men, and Fawd had been smart enough to keep a large contingent parked around various cheap hotels in Kuching and some in tents camping in the jungle. This time they would not bother to approach the compound so cautiously.

Benoit spoke quietly to Chellis, who sat behind an ornate desk longer than he was tall. His head was bowed over his hands and a thumb rubbed each eye.

They were in an eight-bedroom country house that was nearly a mansion, with surrounding grounds that measured in all over forty hectares. It was a gentleman’s farm an hour’s drive from Paris and located on a hillside near Chevreuse in a pastoral setting chosen by Benoit more for its security than its notable tranquility. It was prime real estate, with privacy and a view at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. Clearly it would be hard for Chellis to leave undetected.

“Do you have to leave?” he said to her as she gathered her gloves.

“I do. I have to run the business. But I’ll be back. You’ll be safe here, I promise. You’ve picked the guards yourself.”

“But the Nannites.”

“Yes. We went over that. With the iron grids they can’t get in here. You’re safe anywhere inside this house.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“I feel as if I’ve gotten the vector somehow.”

“That’s silly, DuShane. You’ve been so edgy since we left my house.”

“But didn’t you say the Nannites were coming?”

“I did. And wasn’t I right? As tragic as it is, didn’t they come?”

“Yes.”

“So you see. We’ve fixed this place up especially.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’ll stop by this evening.”

“You promise?”

“Yes. And Greta will give you a massage.”

“Oh, good.”

She turned the television to the financial channel to distract him and left quickly, hoping he wouldn’t start to weep again. She had no idea how Jacques had supercharged the Nervous Flyer profile, but it certainly had worked, as had the large dose of drugs she’d hit him with right after the port wine. As Jacques had promised, DuShane had no clear memory of that day.

“He’s really bad today, just cracked like that,” she said to the supervisor of security just outside the door. “You mustn’t let him outside. If he wants to leave remind him about the Nannites. It’s a part of his fantasy, and the doctor says it’s okay to use it to keep him from hurting himself or others.”

“I know, mademoiselle. You have explained it very thoroughly.”

“I’m sorry. I’m repeating myself. It’s just that we want to keep him safe.”

It took an hour in light traffic to return to downtown. Soon she and Marie would move him back to the Paris apartment. She walked into her new office, originally Chellis’s, which she was fast making over, and looked expectantly through her messages. She was growing concerned that she had not heard from Gaudet. He was the one remaining person who worried her. Sometimes she imagined that he might read her thoughts, and if he did he would slit her throat-if he was feeling charitable. He would do worse if he was not.

The phone rang. She grabbed it. “Hello?”

“This is Jacques.”

“I haven’t heard from Gaudet.”

There was a strange sound. Then a new voice. “Neither has Jacques.”

She recognized the voice. It sounded like a reborn Samir Aziz.

“Mr. Aziz?” she asked, her mind whirling to understand what could have gone wrong.

“So you recognize me. And I you. Jacques here tells me that DuShane Chellis is indisposed. Permanently. Right, Jacques? Tell her where you are.”

“I am in the primate wing.” Jacques’s voice sounded distant.

“Oh, come on, Jacques. You’re in a monkey cage. Tell her you are in the monkey cage. And tell her who is with you.”

“I am in with Centaur.”

“And what is Centaur wearing?”

“He’s wearing his backpack.”

“Benoit, do you think an adult male macaque in a full fighting rage could kill a man?”

“Unarmed?”

“Good point. Fawd, let’s give him a club. What about if we give the man a club?”

“Centaur will kill him.”

“What will you give me not to push Centaur’s buttons?”

“Have you given Jacques the vector?”

“No. But I have it right here. But you’re getting ahead of me. I wanted to see Centaur do his thing.”

“Don’t do it. We can talk. We can make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can have all the antidote you want.”