Chapter 19: SHOT OF REALITY
Tom babied McBridle’s spoiled sedan on route to his instructed location. In that quiet drive time, he pondered Alvin’s quantum gravity discovery and that military anchor design positioned on the scientist’s hand in an unusual locality. The artless hook was inked on the friendly doctor’s right hand but he distinctively remembered the corpse from the mountain saying to search for the man with the anchor on his left hand. How could that deader be so dead wrong?
A signpost indicated HILLSIDE NEXT RIGHT, and Tom followed the direction markers that led to Seattle’s wealthiest and most exclusive neighbourhood. It was a private development where the properties were excessively rich in character and enclosed by brick or iron security walls with designer gates that warned to KEEP OUT - GUARD DOGS AND PATROL SURVEILLANCE.
A veil of mist rolled in from the pacific waters and covered everything with a dense ridge of fog. He reduced his speed while keeping a watchful eye for that special address.
The architecture at nineteen forty-three was gothic in style and recessed from the roadway; a clear view of the property’s high steep roves was obstructed by century-old cedars that populated the surrounding grounds and protected by a well-maintained brick-and-iron fence that stood about ten feet in height. Tom parked in front of the gate with the arched lettering REBEL KINGS.
There was an intercom system accessible to visitors on the driver’s side. He pressed the glowing red button and waited for a reply. The outside security lighting was illuminated and flooded the wide landscaped entrance.
A man with an obnoxious tone of voice enquired “What is it you want?”
“I’m here to pick up a package,” Tom replied to the speaker box.
“You got the wrong place. There’s no package here,” the man retorted and closed the channel.
Whose chain is this jerk trying to yank?--Tom thought as he grinded his teeth, fully pissed off. He pulled the printout from his pocket and viewed it for a password. There were those four words and the series of numbers printed on the paper. He jabbed the alarm button hard and waited.
“Now, what do you want?” the man said with an even more obnoxious tone.
“Shut up and listen. Cradle, Octo, Landlock, Finch,” Tom read from the list.
There was a brief moment of silence. The man’s tone of voice seemingly changed. “Do you have the number key?”
“6, 4, 8, 5 -- 1,” Tom stopped abruptly.
“Where’s the rest of the code?”
“Open up and I’ll give you the axed-off bit.”
The heavy, reinforced gate electrically swung open. Tom drove up to the house and parked alongside a little black Italian sports model. He peered into his rear-view mirror and watched the barred gate clang shut before getting out of his vehicle. “I must have cement mix in my head for coming here,” Tom whimpered as he expected the worst.
He followed the stone walkway that led to the huge stone entrance. He carelessly stepped in a bed of freshly turned soil and was ankle deep in cow shit. “Damn place,” he muttered; “it’s gonna give me a damn coronary before I get to the damn door.”
The man with the obnoxious voice scowled distrustfully at Tom from the doorway. He stood an enormous six-feet five with poppy muscles like a steroid-abused cartoon character. He had a do-it-yourself tattoo on his thick neck. It was a woman’s name--OLGA. “Come in and wait,” he said in a deep unwelcoming tone. “Have a seat;” he gestured toward a chair.
“No thanks. I’m here to pick up something; then I’m out of here so I don’t want to get too comfortable,” Tom admitted.
“Then stay put and don’t touch anything, and I mean anything,” he said with a muscular voice. The big man proceeded down the long cavernous hallway to the end and knocked on a door before entering.
Tom didn’t want to stray too far from the vestibule, but he could hear a young woman’s voice. She was humming notes from some classical composure; it floated from the upper level like an angelic song. That alluring tranquillity stirred an immense curiosity within him as to whom lived in this wonderful kingdom estate, yet he didn’t care to study the owner’s concealed identity. He went against his judgment and explored the antechamber and the interior chamber, which was designed like a private museum with headless statues and familiar-looking priceless masterpieces, all strategically arranged among the grand princely furnishing scheme. Standing upright in the middle of the abounding area was a glassed-in show cabinet filled with ancient weapons of a grouping of rusty spiked-balls and chains, battle swords of all shapes and sizes, dented metal helmets, and bits and pieces of body armour used in warfare during the medieval times. “This guy must be a nut,” Tom said, and ducked back to the porch.
The big man returned from the backroom. “Do you have the gun Ivadot gave you?”
“What gun?”
The big man didn’t smile. “The one Rosky gave you for protection.” He held out his meaty palm.
Tom immediately surrendered it to him. “I want it back before I leave, my friend.”
The big man nodded, “Follow me, please.” He escorted Tom to the door at the end of the hallway, tapped once; and they entered.
A distinguished-looking gentleman was seated behind a mahogany desk; he was absolutely delighted to see the visitor. “Rosky has spoken very highly of you,” he said, and clamped his fingers around a stout cigar that was burning in the ashtray; his fingers were obviously arthritic and tar-stained. His other crippled hand was positioned below the desktop as if his finger were attached to the trigger of a loaded gun.
Tom studied the rich man’s physical characteristics. His face was aged like a weather-beaten shoe, and he looked years older than his golden age, which Tom estimated to be around seventy-five yet the old man’s attire was that of a youthful playboy because he wore a fancy rose-colour smoking jacket and a white chemise with a high collar that was buttoned tightly around his neck.
“Mr. Bronze, have a seat.”
Tom glanced around; he selected a leather armchair.
“I see you are interested in my kingly collection,” he said with a raspy voice.
“I assume you’re referring to me when I was in the front lobby of your mansion,” Tom said respectfully, and gazed about the spacious quarters. It was endowed with a lot of unique things, which, he assumed, were gathered from unique corners of the globe.
“Collecting things is just a sliver of my business empire,” the man admitted.
“What makes up the other parts of your pie chart?” Tom asked as if he didn’t give a shit about making a positive first impression.
“Specializing in keeping our country alive and free from the inhumane abominations of global terrorism,” the man replied, without changing his tone of voice.
Tom relaxed, just a tad.
“As you can see, I am extremely wealthy. I search, find, and acquire these things of extravagant grandeur,” he said as his cigar hand introduced the office as proof of his commitment to hoarding things of great value. “Although, I feel you are not of an extraordinary nature, I am now forced to purchase your life.”
“I’m here to pick up a package so don’t get the wrong impression about me; I’m not for sale.”
“On the contrary, we are all for sale; we just do not realize it.” He placed a weapon on his desk.
Tom’s keen sense of visual observation was correct. The man was holding a gun. It was a model similar to the one Rosky had given him for self-protection.
“You have already met Ckecko. There is nothing that cannot be said between us that Ckecko cannot hear. My name is Voyid.”
Tom interrupted, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Voyid; now if you’d not mind, I’ll sign for the package and get going.”
“In due time my friend,” Voyid continued and puffed on the cigar. “I am an international security broker who provides a unique service to many known and some so-called, invisible charities.” His eyes narrowed profoundly. “It is unusual for the KCB to utilize an
inexperienced individual for such an important mission.” Voyid’s voice was a little edgy and caused Tom to become suspicious of Ckecko standing behind him.
“Enough about your money and folklore; just give me the package, and I’m out of here,” Tom said, and got to his feet. “I don’t have all night to talk about my employment qualifications.”
“You will be on your way soon enough,” Voyid admitted as he continued to puff on the cigar. He exhausted expensive smoke rings into the silent air. “According to Ivadot Rosky, you found a grave site on Marsh’s Peak.” His elderly tone of voice had turned more raspy. “We believe they were killed by infiltrators of Carravecky’s industrial empire, but I guess you already discovered that.”
“What’s that got to do with my delivering a package?” Tom replied.
“Everything; we could not find those bodies so it makes us wonder how you did.”
“What is it you want from me?” Tom looked up at Ckecko who towered over his shoulder, and walked toward Voyid, “Tell me or I walk out the door and forget about your stupid package.”
Voyid stared objectively at Tom. He swallowed another breath from the cigar. “That tiny piece of paper that Rosky gave you has the load code for a special device so I instructed Ckecko to let no one enter our house this evening unless that person had the other half of the data key... if you please,” Voyid extended his smoking hand and retrieved the code from Tom. “I must input your ten digits to verify its authenticity and activate the mission device.” He opened a desk drawer and punched the number sequence into the coder.
Voyid’s voice had become noticeably painful. “Splendid! The system is armed and ready for a back-mountain dogfight.” He removed a device from the concealed machine; and handed the little piece of paper back to his visitor. “Keep it; don’t lose it; you’ll need it,” he warned.
“What is that device-thing?” Tom asked as he stuffed the code paper into his pocket and sat.
Voyid placed the module interface into a kid’s-size shoebox. “It is a specially designed instrument used to abort a sky-weapon hijacking incident,” he admitted. “Ckecko,” he said politely, “be careful; it is fragile; seal it up for our guest and bring us our drinks.”
“Whiskey, no ice,” Tom ordered over his shoulder as Ckecko closed the office door. “He’s a very charming fella, talks with brawling on his barbell-addicted tongue, and makes me feel like I’m the super-bad guy while, in fact, I’m just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I apologize for his protective behaviour. He is a very determined and loyal servant who is sworn to protect his fatherly master so do not take offence to his unsociable demeanour.”
Tom sat back. “How did a rich man like you get such a strange name like Voyid?”
Voyid rose from his high-back leather chair, and walked toward a small glassed-in display of ancient tools. “It is a long painful story.” He slid open the glass and removed a piece of forged steel and examined the undulled shaft. “It was many years ago. I was much younger and much weaker,” he replied as he turned to his houseguest. “I am not talking about physical expectations; I am talking about mental fortitude,” Voyid admitted with years of unresolved vengeance in his voice. “I have always believed I was solely responsible for creating Remmie Take.”
“No. Men like him are born, not created,” Tom said.
He paused in thought and returned the ancient blade to the showcase. “I cannot have this man’s terroristic actions on my conscience any longer. It is like living a nightmare; just thinking about what Remmie has done in the past makes me unwell.” His hand was trembling (like an uncontrollable effect of a degenerative nerve disease) as he placed the cigar to his mouth and puffed. “You asked me how I got such an empty name. I could not stomach the by-product of producing innocent casualties anymore, and I assumed my new cognomen after I gave up that ugly way of life. My life up to that point was a void so the name stuck.” His hand topped the ash from his cigar. “At that point in my life,” (he walked toward his fond collection of art that hung on the wall) “I discovered a meaningful purpose to exist and formed this secret organization now known as the KCB; what happened next is undisclosed history.”
“I’m confused as to what you want me to do,” Tom said. “I was told the mission was simple. Now it seems like there’s a technology installation glitch involved in the deliverance of this surprise package.” He was interrupted by the big man, who had returned with two drinks.
Ckecko passed one to Tom and set the other on Voyid’s desk; then he quietly left the area.
The aged aroma of expensive whiskey filtered up through Tom’s clear nostril passages as he held the crystal shot glass to his needy lips. He gulped the generous ounce in one tasteful mouthful.
Voyid watched Tom with an increased curiosity, “Our vast world is a constantly changing battleground. We must quickly adapt to hostile changes and keep one step ahead of our evil masterminding oppressors. You asked me about the delivery of this package. I will not lie; it does involve a substantial degree of danger.”
“So, I’m the disposable crew member who goes out and never returns?”
“We are all disposable in this ruthless industry. The mission success is the only real importance to those who pay the agent’s wet fees.” Then he pointed to three paintings on the wall and began to explain the importance of each. “I fully understand your valid concerns. As a matter of fact, as an example, I imported these two beautiful works of art into the country about thirty-years ago. It was a very demanding job, and I injured myself;” he said as he aimed his cigar at the insanely colourful and abstract pieces. “I informed the client that the paintings were destroyed. I made up some believable story. I am sure the insurance company paid the claim after a few years so nothing really matters except the mission. Finally,” he pointed to a third artwork, “this is the only art piece that makes me get up and live each day with renewed vigour for life and revenge.” It wasn’t a priceless work of art; to Voyid, it was beyond priceless. It was that of a delicate Asian lady, who sat composed with a lovely smile. She had long, straight, shiny brown hair, and Tom guessed her age would be no younger than twenty-one.
“We met on the Island Country of Singapore,” Voyid said in an emotionally sunken tone.
The alcohol had affected Tom’s eyesight. He focused hard to stay fully alert.
“It was the year of the heat. I vividly recall that summer day as if it were this morning,” his hand gently caressed the canvas as he remembered the past. It was that moment when Tom noticed the wording above the second knuckle of the rich man’s left thumb.
Tom was surprised and caught off guard. The worn-out tattoo was ANNE KERR. He could feel the mind-crash; a dark, lifeless force snatched his sight. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled all over. Voyid’s voice slipped away, but Tom heard him cry “She was my beautiful wife.”
Tom’s mind was dropped into an unknown place where he stood in the eye of a sweaty discotheque surrounded by the rapid movement of cute Asian ladies. The music had a bouncy beat, which was synced with droves of colourful lights and spinning strobes overhead and a trendy sign that hung over the bar that flashed white to red WELCOME TO SINGAPORE--ENJOY TIGER CLAW BEER & PLAY LIKE A CAT.
Tom approached the bartender, who looked at him and asked in an Australian accent “What’s ye pleasure, mate?”
“Where am I?”
“Can’t read, mate, or sipped too many drinks to know?”
“Singapore?” Tom pointed toward the neon advertisement light fixture while wearing a dumb facial expression.
“That’s right, mate.” The Aussie leaned over a rack of dripping wet glasses. “You feeling bonafide, mate?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling sick as a dog so don’t stand too close,” he grunted like a tormented soldier as he rounded the corner of the bar and made his way to where several rough-looking characters were coming and going from a tight opening. Tom slipped into the private enclosure where the lights were dim, and
the cigarette smoke was cancerously thick.
The betting confinement contained a dozen or so card tables, which seated about four or five players each. Tom stood and watched the intense gambling and the feverish exchanges of dirty currency. Coming from the rear of the enclave, he heard a familiar voice but couldn’t quite place its owner.
Tom approached the last table where five loud men were playing and drinking wildly and shouting obscene language at every Singaporean brave enough to wager into their hostile territory. He observed the gang of wild men; one soldier had a sizeable tattoo of a fiery American flag draped across his lumpy forearm. Every time he flexed his muscles, it appeared to be in fluttering motion. The second soldier was young and athletically muscular with a freshly shaved head and his swarthy skin matched the smouldering cigar stuck in his teethe mouth. The third soldier was all shoulders and chest and mean-looking and was referred to by the others as Clip. He appeared hungry enough to eat the cards he was dealt; or, for that matter, eat the table at which he was seated.
The two other men looked very familiar to Tom. The first he easily identified as Remmie Take. The other man was about fifty-plus years of age with slick, black hair and a thin moustache. Tom guessed that soldier was Voyid, who was being referred to as Commander Cam. Voyid’s untainted bride stood behind him; she was even more radiant than the canvas portrayed. Now Tom could fully understand why Voyid was so emotionally destroyed when he talked about her.
Tom remained at a distance and allowed the game to continue. Each player was betting heavy currency. The cards were tossed around in a circle with five-card stud being the favourite, and all weapons of choice were placed in front of the players to discourage cheating. Soon there were just two men holding betting rights--Remmie and Voyid--and a significant pile of money in the middle of the table.
“Well now, sir, it’s down to you and me,” Remmie bullied his voice. “Are you ready to fold, or must I embarrass you?”
Voyid snapped the lighter’s neck with a flick of the wrist; then he lit a fresh cigar. “What is your rush?” He let the elite soldier wait.
Remmie was growing tired studying his commander’s sly persona and being careful not to fall into the master’s lethal trap.
All eyes were on the two active players. Each arranged their five cards for the last time.
Voyid’s wife rested her petit hands on her husband’s shoulders and offered her loving support.
“Well, I’m waiting, sir; but if you want to quit now, you’ll be ahead of the game; I won’t mock your integrity,” Remmie taunted and ordered another bottle for the table.
“I will see that ridiculous, little bet and raise you everything you got.”
“So,” Remmie said and looked his commander square in the eye, “you want to lose all your money. Well that’s fine with me,” as he tossed in a messy bundle of local currency.
“Remmie, take a long, hard look at these fancy boys, and do not let anyone see you cry,” Voyid said, and guzzled a huge mouthful of gin; then he spread four kings across the money-littered table.
Remmie’s card hand dropped just enough for Tom to spy at the four deuces and the king of spades.
Tom sensed trouble brewing in the young soldier’s mind.
“Your gaming tactics stink like an army shitter, but you play like a professional combatant,” Remmie stated and calmly retired his cards on top of the deck. He sat back in the chair with a look of betrayal building in his burning eyes.
Voyid scooped the mountain of winnings across the green felt and was organizing the money into tidy piles. “You were never one for holding a bluff,” Voyid said. “You are unlucky in poker and unlucky in love.”
“What do you mean by unlucky in love?” Remmie snapped. His eyes shifted toward his pistol.
“You think because you are a young, brave-looking, baby-faced lover, you got all the right moves,” Voyid said seemingly pissy and drunk. “Well, you got shit for questions and stink for answers.”
Remmie smiled once in his military career, and this was that one time. “You speak like an untouchable man yet you walk with feeble legs.”
“You are a young, disloyal shit;” (Voyid slung another insult and motioned for his weapon.) “You are getting on my inflamed nerves.”
The other soldiers looked on with militant concern.
“Enough, old man, your disrespect is wearing thin on my boots,’ Remmie barked with a ton of pent-up animosity. “You’re so drunk you can’t think straight,”
“I will show you who can think straight,” Voyid slurred and motioned for his gun. His gun hand froze up like a seventy’s mainframe that was hit by a bolt of lightning once he realized he was drugged. “You, backstabbing, double-crossing weasel,” he bellowed while attempting to examine the liquor bottle and its cloudy contents.
“I’ve had enough of your unprofessional nonsense,” Remmie belted out, then executed his custom-made weapon and fired twice. The first bullet went wildly astray and dropped Voyid’s Asian beauty; the second bullet hit Voyid in the side of the neck as he fumbled off a single round into the ceiling rafters while civilians scattered to safety.
Voyid slumped bleeding with dying agony to the floor. Staring up at Remmie with a contorted expression, Voyid spit a mouthful of blood. “You will pay someday for your actions. I promise.”
Remmie holstered the silver-plated weapon in his belt. He showed no remorse for his unruly behaviour. “That’s for getting my friend Crow-Foot killed; the other life, well, someone bumped my elbow and altered my aim, but you must ultimately pay the price with her rueful departure. Your ruling hand of authority has come to an abrupt end,” Remmie revealed, as he commanded his soldiers to leave the area through a back exit.
The entire slaughter happened so fast, Tom couldn’t rescue Voyid or his wife; he tried to help, but the vortex cast him forward into the present day. The fatal vision gave Tom a clear insight into the sheer complexity of Voyid’s mind and the event, which activated the terrorist within Remmie Take.
Voyid noticed the blank expression on Tom’s face and said. “Mr. Bronze, tonight you will need to be sharp.”
“Sorry, my mind must have stalled,” he replied, and shook the dream from his eyes. “You were staying?”
“I was saying that I have very little confidence in your abilities, and I am worried about you.”
“Don’t worry. I’m dead no matter what I do so, just chill out and send me on my way.”
“If that is how you feel about this task, then we must do everything we can to protect you from yourself.”
“If you’re saying, you don’t need me, fine; I’ll be out of here.”
“I am saying you will need assistance,” Voyid said clearly.
The special disk was packed and wrapped in brown paper. The package sat on the corner of Voyid’s desk.
“We are waiting for another agent to arrive, but I suspect your wait will not be much longer,” Voyid indicated as he relaxed in his chair and flicked the cigar ash into a tray.
There was a womanish tap on the office door; in walked a young female with an Asian glow. She was about twenty-five and stood about five-seven with a well-proportioned body. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that seemed to amplify the roundness of her beautiful face.
“Mr. Bronze, this is my cherished daughter, Keylu,” Voyid said warmly.
She ignored the visitor yet stood behind Tom as if she were going to stomp him into the floor at any moment.
“Keylu, there is no need to provoke unwarranted hostilities. He is our new friend, and he must be trusted. He will be accompanying you tonight,” Voyid said.
Tom looked at her; all he saw was an insecure little girl.
“He looks like a bean counter that should be wearing a nerd pack and black-rimmed frames,” she notes in a rude tone.
“Be ladylike, my love,” Voyid said calmly. “He is marginally qualified for this mission so you must assist him every step of the way.”
To
m couldn’t care less what she thought and shrugged off her bitchy lack of confidence. He observed her quick stride toward the desk. She wore a stretchy, black body suit with a black leather vest, which could barely support her chesty cup size.
She picked up the package and examined it to ensure that it was properly sealed. Once she was satisfied, she placed it back on the desk and, again, stood behind Tom. She gave no advance warning of a sneak attack and pounced on him like a starved hyena. Her hands ripped into his neck as if she were trying to chew off his head. “Get out of this hold, and you can give me a kiss,” she said with her arms locked around his neck. “Do you surrender or do you want more?” Keylu growled.
The disguised Nukyi Salient could have easily defused Keylu’s aggression with just one little finger. Tom sandwiched his knuckled fist into the side of her cheek and rendered her semiconscious. He caught her before she hit the rug, and he set her down on the round settee. He looked at Voyid. “Don’t worry; she’ll be okay; a little lightheaded.”
Voyid seemed exceptionally impressed with Tom’s remarkable abilities. He bent down to his daughter. “Tom, you have a very special gift. I have not seen such gentle might.”
“It’s a curse brought on by an abnormal indigestion,” Tom replied while stroking the back of her hand.
“Now, I fully understand why you have been selected for this mission; you are an extremely talented individual who is fully capable of taking care of our business.”
“It was a lucky shot. Beginners luck. Believe me, I’m nothing special,” he attempted to convince the old guy.
“I sense greatness from you.”
Tom looked hard at the weather-beaten soldier-of-fortune.
“I do not say this often, but it is an honour and a serious obligation if you would consider becoming one of us and work for me if you are interested. I could hurry the initiation.”
“Ask me tomorrow. If I’m alive, I’ll give you an answer; if not, I’ll pass on your employment offer.”
Voyid smiled and directed his attention toward his awaked princess.
“What happened?” Keylu asked as she held her confused crown. “How did you do that?” she wondered and wobbled to her weakened feet.
Tom wasn’t fully certain and just shrugged.
“Now that the introductions are out of the way,” Voyid said. “Keylu, I do not want anymore of this type of child’s play; is that understood?”
“Yes father,” she replied almost fully recuperated.
“It’s getting near my bedtime so where do you want this package delivered?” Tom asked as he looked at the box.
Voyid glanced up at the discoloured grandfather clock. “This will be our only chance. It is tonight or never. Keylu will take you to the location. Tom, I want you to watch out for her and Keylu the same. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Things could get dangerous if you do not work smartly together.”
Tom snapped up the papered bundle from the mahogany desk.
“I’ll handle that for now if you don’t mind, Bronze,” she said and clamped her combat trained hands around the package and stowed it under her arm.
“Mr. Bronze, this device is simple,” Voyid said. “Once you hold it, you will know exactly what to do; but in the event that you are not successful, we will not be able to offer you any further support.”
“Why’s that?” Tom inquired.
“Because I suspect you will have been defeated.”
“Thanks for the words of encouragement,” Tom replied.
“You must be aware of what disgraced human obstacles you are up against; but you are young and fit so I do not expect this mission will end on a negative note. I have a strong vibe about you; and since Keylu has been on missions many times more complex than this one, I know you will make a strong combination,” he admitted.
“I see one good thing about our crafty accountant,” Keylu commented, (her temporary condition seemed fully recovered.)
“What’s that?” Tom questioned her.
She looked at him. “You’re wearing the appropriate footwear.”
Tom glanced down at his hiking boots.
“We’ll be heading into rough terrain; no wimps are allowed.” Then she flung open the door and marched into the hallway like a veteran of covert warfare.
Tom followed her to the front foyer where Ckecko was blocking the house exit as if he wanted to squeeze the deliveryman into a meatball and roll him down the driveway.
“Be good,” Keylu whispered into Ckecko’s ear, and kissed him on the cheek. She handed Tom the box while she fully zipped up her vest.
“Be careful,” Ckecko said, and stared at Tom.
“I’m always careful,” she replied. “Bronze, are you ready to go or what?”
Tom nodded. “Ckecko, I’ll need my shooter.”
“Bronze, some last words of wisdom,” he said, and handled the gun back to the accountant.
“Yeah, what are they?”
“Put the piece in the ankle of your boot,” Ckecko said, “that way a foul-brain asshole like you won’t accidentally shoot himself in the balls.”
“Very funny big man,” Tom replied without cracking a smile.
He seized Tom’s round shoulder with his big round hand. “If anything happens to Keylu; I mean anything, you deal with me.”
“Look here, Chucky Blockhead, I don’t wish anyone to get killed, especially me; but if anything does happen, I’ll be dead, ready and waiting in hell, if you still want my dance card,” Tom replied sarcastically and forced his way past the overblown ego.