Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Wonderful news,” said Jack, slumping in his scat. “Can’t we outrun them?”

“Not with this traffic,” said Cassandra, waving at the congestion ahead. “There’s too many trucks for us to weave safely in and out of traffic. We’re moving at a steady fifty. Don’t worry. We can take them.”

Jack suspected the Amazon was using the heavy traffic as an excuse. She hated running from a fight. No matter what the odds. He only hoped Cassandra’s honor wouldn’t get them both killed.

The Amazon grunted in satisfaction. “Here they come. The first car is making a move. They’re pulling up on your side. Obviously, you’re the primary objective, Jack. These guys want you dead.”

“Terrific,” said Jack. “You have a plan?”

“Of course,” said the Amazon. “Something nice and easy and unexpected. Grab the sack. Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing in it that can hurt you. At least, not as much as a bullet.”

Immeasurably cheered by that remark, Jack reached behind him and pulled the cloth bag onto his lap. Something large and active wiggled on his legs. But he was too concerned about the assassins to care.

“Now what?” he asked, terribly aware of the other car’s hood only a few feet away from their rear bumper.

“Shooting accurately from a moving car isn’t easy, even for trained killers,” said Cassandra. “The man in back won’t risk firing until they’re right on our side. Loosen the string on the top of that sack. Be ready. When I yell, toss the bag out your window. And then duck.”

Jack untied the cord on the cloth bag. Putting both his hands beneath it, he waited for Cassandra’s command. Behind them, a motor roared.

“Now!” the Amazon shouted, and spun the steering wheel to the right.

Metal screeched against metal as the Buick slammed hard into the black Cadillac. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver of the other car, feverishly fighting to keep his vehicle on the road. Then, obeying orders, Jack hurled the cloth bag out the window. Sending it hurtling directly into the front seat of the other car.

Immediately he ducked, expecting the roar of gunfire. Instead, there came a horrifying scream, the screech of tires, and the sound of steel hitting concrete. Seeing the ghost of a smile appear on Cassandra’s lips, Jack slowly straightened in his seat.

“Perfectly executed,” declared Cassandra, her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror. “They collided with the cement guardrail on the shoulder. The Cadillac is pretty well demolished, but that’s their worry. No other vehicles involved, but traffic behind them has slowed to a crawl. As usual, nobody on the highway can drive past an accident without gawking for a few seconds. By the time their buddies in the following car make it past the scene, we’ll be downtown.”

“What was in that bag?” asked Jack.

“A snake,” said Cassandra. “A nice big one I found in the woods. Not the least bit dangerous, but it sure looked vicious. I thought it might distract the driver at a crucial instant. Guess I was right. Surprising how the coolest professionals are suckers for large, ugly, nasty reptiles.”

Jack drew in a deep breath, glad he had not asked Cassandra earlier about the contents of the bag. He was not particularly fond of reptiles himself.

“They were both mortal,” he said, as much to himself as his companion. “Neither of them were supernatural.”

“I noticed,” said the Amazon. “It looks like not all of your enemies are mythological beings. Any idea who the killers might be? Or why they are after you?”

“Unfortunately,” said Jack, “I suspect I know the truth. Something the first killer said set off alarm bells in my mind. I think I’ve finally placed the reference. And I’m not happy about it.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts together. The more he considered the clues, the more positive he grew that he had correctly deduced the identity of his attackers.

“You’re wrong about the supernatural element,” he continued. “The evil mastermind behind these assassination attempts is a particularly notorious mythical being. He’s definitely not mortal. The problem for us is that his followers are. They’re usually the dregs and lowlifes of society. In these times, that means there could be thousands of them. And most likely, they’re all programmed to try to kill me—without any regard for their own safety.”

They arrived downtown without further incident. However, remaining cautious, Cassandra insisted that they park blocks away from the building in which Merlin’s suite was located. Office workers breaking for lunch provided plenty of cover for their entrance to the complex and onto the elevators. Only when they were on the way up to the thirty-fourth floor did the Amazon relax.

“Dedicated assassins are real trouble, Jack,” she declared when they were alone on the elevator. “Over the centuries, I often served as a bodyguard for the rich and famous. I worked for both kings and queens and, at times, the masterminds who pulled their strings. In every case, when a group of dedicated professionals decided that their target had lived too long, death proved inevitable. Even the most competent protector, and I was the best,” the Amazon stated completely matter-of-factly, “could not stop fanatics.”

Jack nodded. “Ever hear the story of Saladin’s pillow?”

“No,” said Cassandra, a puzzled expression on her face. “I remained in the Far East during the Crusades. I found chivalry repulsive. What about Saladin?”

“I’ll tell you shortly,” said Jack, as the elevator stopped on Merlin’s floor. “First, it’s time to face my mother.”

Steeling himself for the inevitable, Jack pushed open the door that read, Ambrose Ltd., Investments. As always, a brief smile flickered across his lips as he silently scanned the company motto etched in black letters beneath the title. We Guarantee Your Future. Merlin used the best possible method to back up his investment advice. He studied the future in his crystal ball.

“Johnnie!” Freda Collins’s voice had lost none of its earsplitting intensity in the year since Jack had seen her last. As usual, the hug that followed squeezed the last breath of air from his lungs. Jack stood six feel tall, and was slender and dark like his father. His mother matched him in height, but was blonde, blue eyed, and big busted. Many people, seeing and hearing her for the first time, mistook her for an opera singer. Or a lady wrestler.

After crushing his shoulders to a pulp, his mom thrust him an arm’s length away. “Still skinny as ever,” she declared, with a laugh that shook the room. “Maybe married life will put a little meat on your bones.”

Then she paused, catching her first sight of Cassandra, who stood frozen in the doorway. “You?” said Freda, an odd note in her voice.

“You,” his mother repeated, this time not as a question, but as a statement of fact. Then she spat out a word in an unknown tongue that sounded remarkably like a curse.

Jack’s eyes bulged. In all of his life, he could never once remember his mother swearing. But he never recalled seeing the look of intense emotion that swept across her face as she stared at Cassandra.

“So you refer to yourself as Freda now,” said Cassandra, her own voice tight with suppressed feelings. “Quite a change from the old days.”

“You are obviously the one called Cassandra,” said Jack’s mother. “I should have recognized you from Merlin’s description. Though I assumed you long dead, food for the ravens.”

“As did I of you,” replied Cassandra. “Ripped to shreds on some battlefield by vultures.”

With a savage howl, Freda Collins flung herself forward. To be met in midair by a screaming Cassandra Cole. Arms locked around each other’s shoulders in an unbreakable grip. A few anxious seconds went by before Jack realized that the two women were embracing. And laughing wildly.