Ken Goddard - Chimera

“Are you sure our mom knows about this?” the second boy — who had already set himself down in front of the computer and was eyeing the connections warily as the odor of hot pizza began to fill the room.

“She knows you’re going to be using my covert business laptop through this specific Internet connection to see what you can find out about Michael Hateley and his globe-hopping buddies, and I’m sure she’s got some clever way of monitoring what you do; but — ” Bulatt started to say.

“Did she actually turn on and operate your laptop?” the boy interrupted.

“Not as far as I know,” Bulatt said. “She just gave me the firewall box.”

The two boys looked at each other, smiled, and nodded. The boy at the computer quickly disconnected the firewall box at the wall and laptop, reconnected the computer directly to the wall, and then turned back to Bulatt. “Now she can’t monitor us.”

“At least not very easily,” the boy stacking slices of pizza onto a plate amended.

“Yeah, that’s true, she’s pretty sneaky,” the boy at computer agreed as he grabbed a slice of pizza from the plate his brother sat next to the laptop. “But, at least this way, it’s not really our fault if we go too far.”

“That’s precisely the idea,” Bulatt said.

The pizza boy started to sit down next to his brother, but then looked over at Bulatt. “Hey, you guys want some of this pizza?”

At that moment, the pungent aroma of Thai spices and garlic erupted into the room, easily competing with — and quickly overwhelming — the odors of baked cheese, crust, tomato paste and pepperoni.

“Eeew, what’s that?” the boys chimed in unison as they turned their attention to Achara, who had turned away from the computer discussion and was now busily opening up boxes labeled KAT WOK and filling plates.

“That,” Bulatt said with a satisfied sigh, “is what real food smells like.”

An hour later, Bulatt set his plate aside, leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, and sighed contentedly, very much aware of the enticingly warm leg of Achara Kulawnit pressed tightly against his. “That was an excellent meal.”

Ten feet away, the twins continued to mutter, point at the laptop screen, and then quickly work the keyboard and mouse; just as they’d been doing for the last hour in between occasional bathroom, soda and cookie breaks.

“It was very nice,” Achara agreed with a yawn as she contemplated the last Szechwan green bean that she held casually at the end of her chopsticks, “but I can do better.”

“Really?” Bulatt’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.

“Absolutely.” Achara extended the green bean in front of Bulatt who groaned, leaned forward, bit off half, and then sank back into the cushions with another contented sigh as Achara popped the remaining bean half into her mouth. “It’s just a matter of carefully controlling the heat.”

“And you know how to do that.”

“Absolutely.”

Achara glanced over at the twins, eyeing them with an expression on her face that Bulatt couldn’t quite interpret, shook her head, and then turned to Bulatt.

“Speaking of which, I assume you do realize that we could have had a much more intimate dinner if you hadn’t brought along the chaperones,” she added in a quiet voice, her facial features shifting to an expression that was much easier to read. “Tell me you did that because you want very badly to find the men who killed my brother and shot my father.”

“Definitely because of your father,” Bulatt said, meeting her gaze. “I promised him I would find and deal with the men who killed your brother and his Rangers.”

“My brother is at peace with my mother, my father is a very understanding man, and that was an evasive answer,” she said softly.

“Yes, it was,” Bulatt agreed.

“But you still plan on sleeping out here on the couch, guarding the door all night; just in case this John Smith character figures out where we are, and tries to interfere with our investigation again?”

Bulatt glanced down at his wristwatch. “Smith isn’t going to find us, even if he’s awake and looking, which I seriously doubt; and, in about three more hours, he’s going to be much too busy to care about us at all. So, to answer your question: yes, I am going to stay here on this couch and keep an eye on those two, because they’re my biggest concern at the moment,” Bulatt said, nodding his head in the direction of the twins.

“Why, because you’re concerned they might go too far?”

“No, actually, I’m concerned they might be too afraid of their mother to go far enough.”

“Ah.” Achara considered the implications for a few seconds. “And while all of this illicit probing and data mining is going on, you really think the little ones are going to be sufficiently… distracting?”

“Not necessarily, but I do think they’re going to scare the shit out of Smith and his pals for at least fifteen seconds — and make them a lot more thoughtful about other possible consequences down the road — while they’re busy discovering that all their tires are flat, all their car-door keyholes are filled with glue, all their lock releases are duct-taped, and all the Satellite Security systems are disabled. And after that, they’re going to be very busy trying to figure out how to get their trussed-up watchman out of that SUV without breaking a window and setting off the car alarms and waking up the neighborhood.”

“Or getting bit, I suppose.”

“That too,” Bulatt agreed.

“And you’re sure Smith won’t try to hurt them?” Achara asked, looking concerned.

“Oh I’m sure he’d get around to thinking about hurting them, eventually,” Bulatt said. “But, long before that happens, he’s going to find himself confronted by a team of pissed-off special ops agents who are going to want all of their evidence back; and who are going to be very upset if a single hairy leg is harmed.”

“You’re talking about Henry Lightstone, that agent who you said couldn’t tell a dead Cat Island turtle from a live one?” Achara said dubiously

“Henry is making dramatic improvements as a wildlife agent,” Bulatt said, smiling. “And he’s actually getting pretty good at telling dead turtles from live ones. He just doesn’t like getting bit.”

“By turtles?”

“By just about anything; it’s sort of a personality quirk.”

“But you did say he’s more aggressive than you are?” Achara pressed, still sounding dubious.

“Henry is definitely more aggressive than I am, in a devious sort of way; Larry knows every bureaucratic trick in the book; Mike’s off the chart in terms of technical skills; and Dwight’s perfectly capable of ripping arms and legs off guys like Smith and his associates,” Bulatt said. “All things considered, I don’t think you have to worry about the little ones at all.”

“Well, in that case,” Achara said, making an unsuccessful attempt to mask another yawn, “I’m going to go to bed, and I’m taking our little ones with me.” She got up from the couch, bent down, and picked up the cardboard file box. She started toward the bedroom on the left, paused, looked back at Bulatt — who was in the process of stretching his legs out on the couch — lifted one end of the box top slightly, reached in, pulled something out, and then walked back to the couch. “But I wouldn’t want you to get lonely out here, all by yourself,” she added with a dimpled emphasis as she dropped a little furry bundle on Bulatt’s chest.

Bulatt and the twins all watched Achara walk into the bedroom and close the door.

“Wow,” the boy at the computer keyboard said, “she is definitely hot.”

“Classic warrior-princess babe,” the other brother agreed.