God's Girl Friday (UR) Chapter 1

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you're looking to edit grammar or spelling, please, don't waste your time.  Or mine.  Or my cat's, cause they're pretty damn mean.*

God’s Girl Friday


Prologue

“And those that did service the Host proffered unto Jezulah the Word of the Host and the means to understand the Word.
The Star of Morning bade Jezulah to obey as they also carried the Word and the Sword of Flame did agree.
‘Go forth and propagate the Word of the Host so that the Earth will know of the Word and understand it as you.’
And Jezulah accepted the Word and its burden upon his soul and responded to the Angels without anger or fear.
‘I shall do as you bade so that the Earth and the men that walk upon the Earth shall know the Word of the Host as given to me by the Sword and the Star’.”

Untitled Book, Chapter 2, Verse 3

Monday
Chapter 1, Verse 1

         Yuri sighed at the unremarkable décor of the hotel room.  With the exception of two orange fabric chairs surrounding the table in the corner, the place was an homage to beige.  She dropped her luggage at the foot of the furthest queen-sized bed then ran her fingers through her short, black hair. “What is it with you and Embassy Suites?”
         Don crossed the threshold and dropped all but his leather laptop case on the other bed. The door made an audible click as it closed behind him.  “We’ve had this discussion before and the answer hasn’t changed.”
         “I am NOT spoiled.”  She crouched and reached into the front pocket of a dark red, nylon purse and removed a small, black box.  “Regardless of the amenities … or lack thereof,” she headed to one of the armchairs “if the bed’s comfortable, I’m happy.”  She crossed her legs and drew a cigarette from the pack, scanning the round table. “You did get us a smoking room, right?”
         “Considering the fit you threw in Fresno, I wouldn’t dream otherwise.”  He removed the laptop from its case, picking the ashtray off the veneered dresser as he made his way to the other chair.
         “That wasn’t a fit. It was just a … disagreement.”
         He slid the ashtray across the table before setting up his computer. “You stuck a loaded shotgun under the woman’s jaw and dared her to call the police!”
         “Hey, we lost one that day, it was at LEAST 112 degrees in the shade, and I was wearing a trench coat.” She tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. “Light?”
         He sighed and fished a gold Zippo from the inside pocket of his black Armani blazer before draping it over the back of the chair.
         “The last thing I needed was some patronizing cow thanking me for my second-hand smoke.”  She accepted the offered lighter, examining the engraved Papal Seal before lighting her cigarette.  “Why are you holding on to this thing, anyway?”
         He shifted position in the other chair, accepting the discomfort, and booted his laptop. “Because I’m sentimental.  Don’t change the subject.  You lost control.”
         Yuri took a long drag from the cigarette. “Yeah, it was a bad day and I fucked up.  How many times do I have to apologize?” She tapped the ash off as a pensive look spread across her boyish face and held the Zippo up; though scratched and worn, the gold case still glinted in the room’s dull fluorescents. “But sometimes, it’s worth it to put the fear of God into people.”
         Don watched the Kubunto logo flash across the screen, then entered his password. He looked into Yuri’s deep-brown, almond-shaped eyes, then flashed her a wicked smile. “I won’t argue with you on that one.”
         She chuckled at the insinuation as he passed the computer across the table. “Is this the objective du jour?”
         “Yes, it is.  Memorize-”
         “Yeah, yeah.” Yuri perused the file. “Memorize the docket, procure local resources, reconnoiter the objective’s environment, ascertain potential opposition, and …” She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “… how did you get photos?”
         Don stroked his thick, graying goatee. “I … know a few people here.”  He stood and stretched, fingertips grazing the ceiling, then turned and walked away.  “I’m going to take a shower.” 
         The bathroom door closed behind him as she raised her right fist and flipped him off.  Selfish prick always finds a way to shower first.
         She returned her attention to the image viewer, scanning the photos. “Ella Atkins …” she whispered as she settled into the armchair for a long day “… at least you’re cute.”
         Don exited the bathroom seventeen minutes after he had entered, drying his short, grey hair with a hotel towel.  She enjoyed seeing him like this; messy hair, boxer-briefs, and a t-shirt.  It made him appear accessible, almost normal, and completely unlike the fearsome instructor he used to be.
         “Hey there, sexy!  Did you leave any hot water for me?” she teased.
         His brow furrowed. “Cute.  Any ideas on how you want to tackle this one?”  He headed back into the bathroom, returning a moment later with his slacks and button down shirt.
         She turned her attention back to the computer.  “I don’t think the washing instructions on those suggest steam cleaning.”
         He hung his clothes in the closet opposite the bathroom.  “And how would you know?”  He crossed the room to the nearest bed and sat on the edge.  “I’ve never even seen you separate your colors or fabrics.” He leaned back and stretched. “And then you toss it all in the dryer on high heat.”
         “Christ, Don, did you leave your sense of humor in the tub?”
         He sat up “No, I think I left it in Fresno.”
         She spun to face him, eyes narrowed “You sent me into that mess blind and the fact that we’re still alive and having this quaint discussion is due to MY having to make hard choices when YOU decide to disappear!”
         “Look, I’m -”
         “An ungrateful asshole?  Yeah, I know, I’m used to it.”  She stood and stormed towards the door.
         “Where are you -” His voice was weak.
         “Anywhere but here!” she growled as she left the room.

Chapter 1, Verse 2

         The bright cheer of the hotel’s restaurant disturbed Yuri.  Pockets of smiling business men and women sat at their tables and discussed matters of vital urgency over plates of hot wings and quesadillas.  She sat at the empty bar, starring at the shot of Glenfiddich in front of her.
         Why can’t I just walk away?
         She picked the shot glass off the mahogany bar top and held it at eye level, examining the amber single malt and the room refracted through it.
         Turn around, start my life over, and never look back.
         She brought the shot glass to her open mouth and drained it, the whiskey warming as it worked its way to her stomach.
         Because I owe that bastard too much.
         Her eyes narrowed as and a frown crept across her face.  She returned the shot glass to its former place on the bar, then took a long pull from the frosted beer mug in her right hand.
         God, I fucking hate him.
         The bartender approached from her left “’Nother?”
         She smiled weakly “Please.” 
         She studied him as he retrieved the green whiskey bottle and refilled her shot; pale blue, button down and black Dockers, wedding band, goatee, and a Harley Davidson keychain poking out his pants pocket.  She chuckled.
         “Somethin’ funny?”  He returned the bottle to the shelf behind him.
         “I just realized who you look like.”
         “Oh?”
         “Yeah,” she gulped the whiskey “a working class clone of George Lucas.”
         He smiled broadly and refilled her drink as she chased the last one with another swallow of beer.  “This one’s on me.”
         She returned the smile with a wink. “Thanks.”
         He looked at his watch. “Ah, shit!  I gotta run for a minute and make sure my barback’s got the right hoses connected to the right kegs.  Think you can handle self service fer about 15 minutes?”
         “You’re just going to trust me with a $250 bottle of booze?”
         He stood straight and crossed his arms. “Somebody who walks in here with an anti-tank gun under their arm’s either a crook or a cop.  You haven’ stuck it in my face yet, so I’m just gonna guess yer a cop.”
         Yuri raised an eyebrow. “And if you’re wrong?”
         “Well, then you wouldn’ be the kinda crook that I’m interested in fucking with, would ya?”
         She laughed. “I can’t argue with your logic.”
         “Glad to hear it.”  He turned and trotted towards a swinging door. “Be back in 15!”
         Still smiling, she shook her head, downed her third shot, and followed it with another swig of beer.  Feeling a little self conscious about the bartender’s comment on her exposed artillery, Yuri pulled the zipper up on her rose colored wind breaker a few inches, then remembered the cigarettes in the left, bottom pocket.  She reached for them and discovered a foreign object next to the pack.  She ran her fingers across its cool, metal details and knew exactly what it was before she placed it on the bar top; Rodriguez’ Zippo.
         She poured herself another drink and downed it, then inspected the engraved lighter.  Faith shall light the path of Obedience … the first words I remember … the first words any of us remember.  And the last words out of your mouth.  Yuri drained the last of her beer and slammed the empty mug down; she was beginning to feel the alcohol’s effect.  She squinted and focused intensely on the lighter in her left hand.
         You stupid fuck, Rául.  Why’d you make me kill you?

Chapter 1, Verse 3

         The old building had probably been boarded up for years and had seen more than its share of vandalism in that time.  Faded graffiti overlapped holes in the walls and heaps of rotting garbage covered the floors.  Doors had been kicked through and ceiling lights ripped down.  The oppressive heat amplified the smells of shit, old smoke, piss, and layers of dust; they filled my sinuses and nearly made me gag.
         Focus!
         There were too many footprints in the stairwell, making it impossible to tell who made them or when.  But, if I were taking the shot, I would’ve been facing south from the middle of the third floor.  I raised the Benelli 12 gauge and crept from the second floor landing.  Sweat rolled down my face, cutting swaths through the dust that had settled there.  My heart raced as I checked every stair for trip wires.  As I reached the third floor, I tensed and gave the hallway leading west a quick glance.
         Nothing.
         I drew my telescoping mirror from the trench coat’s inside pocket, extended it, and peeked around the corner, up the hallway leading north.
         Nothing.
         I took a deep breath as I crouched, collapsed the mirror, and put it away.  I gave the connection between my headset and Blackberry a cursory inspection, and then thumbed the volume button until I heard the telltale beep that it was at max.  Silence in the earpiece, silence on the third floor.
         Where the fuck did you go, Don?
         I had to do this alone.  I stood again, shotgun leveled, collapsible stock placed firmly into my shoulder, and crept up the remaining stairs.  I twisted right and double checked the northern wing.  Then I turned left and made my way west.  Most of the doors in this building were either missing or badly damaged.  Of the dozen or so doors that were intact, only one was closed; halfway down the hall in front of me.
         You never could stand to leave a door open, could you, Rául?
         I moved as quickly as my sense of caution allowed.  My fear of the unknown dissipated as I approached the door.  My breathing and heart rate slowed.  Still as the dead, I listened at the door and watched the weak light shift underneath it.  I took a step back, then kicked.
         The familiar retort of a 30-06 muted the cracking of wood as the door frame splintered.  The figure lying prone on the floor began to load another round into the bolt action rifle.  The short, dark haired man standing to the right dropped his binoculars and spun, raising a submachine gun.
         BAM!
         I fired a round of titanium buck, striking him in the right forearm.  The MP5 flew across the room as the impromptu amputation of his hand splattered me with blood.  He continued to twist before tripping and falling to the right.  The shooter dropped his weapon and began to roll left as I stepped forward and turned the muzzle toward him.
         BAM!
         I fired the second round into his chest, shredding his tactical vest as he reached for a handgun at his waist.  He continued to roll as I took another step into the room and retrained the Benelli on my first target.  He stumbled on his knees into the open room on the right.
         BAM!
         The third round tore into his lower back and sent him sprawling forward.  As I spun left toward the shooter, I saw that the last casing hadn’t cleared the breach.  I tossed the jammed shotgun at him as he clawed feebly at the holstered weapon on his waist.  He swung his left arm in a wide arc to block as I drew my long slide .45.
         BAM!
         I walked towards him, shooting, emptying the entire magazine into his chest, neck, and head.  I returned the wide frame pistol to its holster under my right arm, then crouched and retrieved the shotgun.  As I walked across the ruined studio apartment, I cleared the jammed casing from the breach and loaded the next round.  My first target had managed to turn over and was clutching something in his left hand.
         “I … I can’t feel my legs,” he gasped.
         “Sorry about that, Rául.”
         He looked at the weapon in my hands.  His expression hardened. “Do it. Just fucking do it!”
         I leveled the 12 gauge at his face as he began to mutter, rubbing the small, golden box in his left hand.
         “Faith shall light the path of obedience …”
         BAM!

Chapter 1, Verse 4

         “And you just stood there and shot the poor bastard?”
         Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Yup … blew mos’ ah the top oviz head … off.”  She raised the mug to her lips and drank.  Cold beer sloshed over the rim and down her face; it dripped off her chin and found its way between her breasts.  “That is … SO cold!”  She clumsily set the mug down on the bar top and giggled when it toppled over.
         “You don’t want another one, do ya?”  His tone and expression conveyed concern.
         She tried to sit up. “Nope … I think ahm done.  No more Glenfich …” Her face contorted. “Glenfish … booze for me.”
         He removed the shot glass and mug, placing them underneath the counter, then returned the bottle of whiskey to its place on the shelf.  She watched, fascinated.
         “YOU … have … the graze of a tiger, Mr. Lugaz … and a tiger iza wonderfall thing!”  She paused, her face twisting into the same contortion of intense concentration.  “When er you gonna re-do … that fish thing … JAWS?”
         The bartender spread his arms and leaned on the edge of the counter, chuckling.  “’Jaws’ was a Spielberg flick.  Not Lucas.  Which I’m not.”  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rolled his head.  “I took the wife and kids to smoggy, southern California two years ago.  We did all the big tourist spots, including the studio tours.”  He took another deep breath.  “And lemme tell ya, that shark looks twice as fake up close ‘n’ personal.  THAT’S what needs to be fixed.  And don’t even get me started on Knott’s Berry Farm; THAT was a fucking nightmare.”
         Yuri watched him shake his head as a blank expression crept across her face.  “Really?  I was there … two years ago … in June … I think.”
          “No shit?  When that girl was butchered and they had to evacuate the whole damn park?”
         She wobbled on her stool.  “Yup … that was Pola.  She was good … REALLY good.  That one got mezzy … knives are ALWAYS mezzy.”  The last half of her sentence faded as she tried to steady herself.  “I don’ FEEL zo good, Mr. Lugaz.”
         The color drained from the bartender’s face. He stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest.  “How did you …?”
         “I think I need ta fine … the lil’ gurlz tha’ look … like lil’ boyz room.”  Yuri slurred as she slid off the barstool.  She staggered and wobbled for a few moments before finding her balance.  She raised an index finger to the bartender.  “Ahm Ogay, Mr. Lugaz … I juz need ta …” was all she managed before she began to vomit.  The sticky, acrid liquid ran down her chin, under her jacket, and over her jeans.  She bent for the second volley, which splattered her worn Doc Marten’s.  She lost her balance and fell to her hands and knees for the third wave, covering her arms with regurgitated beer and whiskey.  Staring at the pool of sic she was wading in, she wheezed between short breaths. “Sorry …”, then collapsed.