You Only Live Once

  Copyright © 2018, 2020 by Haris Orkin. All Rights Reserved.

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Published by Imajin Books at Smashwords

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  www.harisorkin.com

  SECOND EDITION eBook

  February 24, 2020

  Imajin Books: www.imajinbooks.com

  ISBN: : 978-1-77223-378-0

  Cover designed by Juan Padrón: www.juanjpadron.com

  Praise for YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE

  “A brilliant homage to everyone’s favorite super-spy, and a hilarious, action-packed, made-for-the-movies thriller about a man suavely dancing along both sides of the thin line between heroism and madness.” —Matt Forbeck, New York Times bestselling author of Halo: New Blood

  “Pacey and unrepentant fun, Haris Orkin’s You Only Live Once takes the James Bond mythos, gives it a swift kick in the backside and steals its wallet.” —James Swallow, New York Times bestselling author of Nomad

  “Fill shaker with ice. Add equal parts Ian Fleming and Quentin Tarantino. Shake (do not stir). Garnish with Douglas Adams, and you get You Only Live Once, a delicious martini as dry as the dusty California desert.” —Dan Jolley, USA Today bestselling author of the Gray Widow Trilogy

  “Orkin skillfully manages to create a story that is genuinely amusing, tenderly moving, and decidedly thoughtful. A manically funny farce that is both delightfully absurd and strangely plausible.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “An intelligent parody with sharp, witty writing and rip-roaring tale of derring-do!” —Readers’ Favorite Silver Award Winner

  “Orkin's twist on the spy narrative is fast-paced and exciting, packed with thrilling action and close calls.” —Book Life by Publishers Weekly

  “Haris Orkins’ You Only Live Once is a tour de force, brilliant, hilarious, and moving. Written with stunning style, it’s James Bond meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, with a generous dollop of Don Quixote thrown in. All captured in prose that scintillates and pops, the book exploding in an extraordinary climax that is wildly funny and deeply moving.” —David Scott Milton, award-winning author of Paradise Road

  “If you’re looking—and who isn’t?—for a sexy, slapstick, razzle-dazzle, rock’em-sock’em re-imagining of Don Quixote as James Bond emerging from deep cover in a mental hospital to save the world, Haris Orkin’s hilarious yet touching You Only Live Once is the book for you.” —Charles Harper Webb, award-winning author of Brain Candy

  “You Only Live Once makes for an engrossing read offering many satisfying twists and turns. Fans of thrillers will be delighted by the various nuances Haris Orkin brings to the table as he introduces a quasi-hero who ultimately faces success despite himself. A healthy dose of humor and irony is added to create a story about a misfit in search of a mission.” —D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

  For Kim.

  Thank you for believing in me even as I tilted away at windmills.

  Acknowledgements

  The world can be a very unforgiving place, so I’ve always loved those who can laugh and joke and find the humor in everything and anything. So first I want to thank all those who brought me laughter and showed me the power of comedy; from Miguel Cervantes to Mark Twain to Monty Python to all my many funny friends. You know who you are. I’ve learned something from each and every one of you.

  My mom loved to read and laugh and loved physical comedy, whether it was Lucille Ball or one of her kids taking a header. She was always my biggest fan and her unflagging belief in me actually made me believe in myself.

  My father, a master of comedy, who taught me everything I know; from how to write a joke to how to be a father. He is the silliest man I know and he has been my biggest inspiration.

  My siblings are the best and life is much easier knowing they are always there for me.

  My wife, Kim and my son, Jakob, patiently read much of what I write, including this book in all its many forms. They are my sounding boards and my proofreaders and I greatly appreciate their patience and love because at times I know I must drive them crazy.

  Thanks to the mentors and professors who guided me on my path; David Scott Milton, Tom McBride, Bill Goyen, Bink Noll, and Ben Masselink.

  And thanks to all the brilliant authors who were kind enough to review my book in advance.

  Finally, I want to thank Cheryl Kaye Tardif and her team at Imajin Books for all they’ve done to make this happen.

  Chapter One

  The waxing moon gave off a cold white light that Flynn avoided by staying in the shadows. He heard the faint harmony of dogs howling with a distant siren as he knelt below a Tree of Heaven. It was flowering and the blossoms produced a slightly acrid scent similar to semen. The odor was so strong it nearly overpowered the cigarette smoke that alerted Flynn to the security guard not thirty feet away. The guard wore dark slacks and a black polyester jacket. A Taser hung high on his hip next to a holster with a walkie-talkie. Flynn watched as the guard yawned and stubbed out his butt. He knew the guard was nearly finished with his shift and would be at his least vigilant.

  Flynn emerged from the shadows, his face cautious and watchful. As a young man, he’d been a little too pretty, but now that he was firmly in his forties, life had left its mark. Tall and lean, he wore faded black jeans and a black cotton turtleneck. In one smooth motion, he slid a black ski mask over his face. The holes were askew, however, and his aquiline nose poked through the one meant for his left eye. He adjusted it so he could see into the gloom and then crept forward, moving with stealth, senses sharp.

  The guard stood in the doorway to the building as he lit another cigarette. Flynn used that distraction to move. He stayed low, crouched and silent, using the shrubs for cover. Turning a corner, he came upon two more guards and ducked back. Flynn hid behind the edge of the building, calculating what to do if they stumbled upon him. He’d have to take them out—quietly—otherwise they’d sound a general alarm, putting both Flynn and the mission at risk. Luckily, they were too tired to even look up as they trudged past.

  Once their footsteps receded, Flynn climbed a trellis attached to the building, grabbed a rain gutter, and clambered onto the roof. He plucked a toy dart from his fanny pack. The pink tip of his tongue emerged from the mouth hole of the ski mask and licked the inside of the suction cup. He then attached it to the window pane and used a glass cutter to etch a perfect circle, which he carefully removed. Reaching through the hole, he unlatched the lock, eased it open, and climbed inside, dropping softly to the floor.

  The room was dark and silent. He approached the door, easing it open just a crack to see a large man, dressed all in white, dozing in a folding chair at the far end of the hall. Flynn too
k a tentative step back. A floorboard creaked. The man in white opened his eyes just as Flynn closed the door. The guard’s approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor. Flynn hopped on a counter top, pushed up a ceiling panel, and pulled himself into the crawlspace above. The panel settled just as the door opened wide, flooding the room with light.

  Flynn peered through a seam and watched as the man in white approached the open window. The breeze from outside rustled what was left of his hair and blew the door shut behind him. He struggled to close the window. That’s when he saw the perfect circle cut into the glass.

  In the darkness above the ceiling tiles, Flynn stayed quiet and still. After what felt like an eternity, the room below went dark as the man left the room and shut the door.

  Flynn pulled a tiny flashlight from his fanny pack and cautiously crawled forward over pipes and conduit, careful not to make a sound as he counted every ceiling panel he passed. At number seventeen, he stopped and waited and listened. He removed the panel and peered over the edge to see someone fifteen feet down, sound asleep on a cot. His penlight revealed the luminous face of a pretty blonde in her late twenties.

  She awakened with a start, surprised by the light shining in her eyes. Flynn dropped down, landing with a thump next to her in bed, his hand over her mouth before she could scream. The terror in her eyes turned into delight when Flynn pulled off his ski mask. He removed his hand from her mouth to reveal a giddy smile.

  “James…”

  “Thought I’d drop in. You don’t mind, do you darling?” His voice was deep and his accent British, with a touch of Scottish burr.

  “What if they catch you?”

  “What if they don’t?” Flynn smiled mischievously.

  The blonde smiled back at him, clearly aroused by all the intrigue. Her accent wasn’t British but American, from Minnesota. He caressed her face so tenderly it seemed she might swoon.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Of course you can…”

  Flynn brushed his lips against her neck and she closed her eyes and moaned. “This is wrong. Very wrong.”

  “Which is exactly what makes it so absolutely right.”

  He gently pulled back the covers and softly kissed her throat and the tops of her lightly freckled breasts. As he tried to slide the comforter down further, she put her hand on his.

  “Please, no…”

  “You want me to stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  Flynn pulled the comforter back up to her neck and smoothed a few strands of hair off her forehead. “Another time perhaps.”

  Before he could put both his feet on the floor, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him close. Flynn looked into her wide hazel eyes and kissed the corner of her mouth. The blonde sighed and shuddered.

  “James…Oh, James…”

  The door flew open and a cold fluorescent light blinked on, flooding the room with a clinical brightness. The blonde peered past James Flynn to see a terrifying sight. Standing in the doorway, filling the entire frame, loomed a very large nurse. She stood almost six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. Her hair was pulled back in a tight red bun and she didn’t look like she ever had any fun. She was furious and formidable, and the blonde was petrified. Flynn offered the large nurse a welcoming smile.

  “Nurse Durkin,” Flynn said, “What a pleasant surprise.” She glowered and took a step forward, causing the girl behind Flynn to shrink back. Flynn, however, maintained his composure. “Would you care to drop your frock and join us?”

  Flynn sat on the edge of a desk in an anteroom, smiling down at an unsmiling African-American woman in her fifties. The busty, big boned woman did her best to ignore him as she typed away on a computer keyboard.

  “It’s a complete fabrication, Miss Honeywell. A total exaggeration.” Honeywell looked at Flynn with amused skepticism and took a bite from her Ding-Dong. “You know very well that I only have eyes for you.”

  Honeywell smirked. “It’s not your eyes we’re talking about.”

  Before Flynn could offer a retort, a door opened and the pretty blonde nurse whose bed he’d invaded walked out in tears. Her eyes glistened as she looked at Flynn with longing.

  “James.” She stepped closer, wanting so badly to touch him. “Maybe now that I’m no longer on staff, maybe I could visit you and then, when you get out, maybe we could—”

  A distinguished older man put his hand on her shoulder. “Miss Grouper, please.”

  Her shoulders sagged under the older man’s hand. “I just wanted to say good-bye to James.”

  “Yes, and now you have, and now it’s time to go.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she bolted from the room. The older man sighed and looked at Honeywell, who simply shook her head.

  “Good morning, N,” Flynn said.

  The older man nodded, “Good morning, Mr. Flynn.” He beckoned him into his office. James offered Honeywell a rakish grin and followed the old man inside. N abruptly closed the door and motioned to a lumpy looking couch. Flynn took a seat as N sat behind a cluttered desk, piled high with file folders and paperwork.

  Various diplomas filled the wall behind the old man’s head. Dr. Robert B. Nickelson had a B.S. in Chemistry from Stanford, an M.A. in Psychology from Antioch, and a Ph.D. in Psychiatric Medicine from UCLA. He was sixty-two years old, but he looked ten years older—hair gray and thinning, face careworn. His eyes were kind.

  “James, we’ve talked about this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s the third one this year.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “The third poor girl I’ve had to let go.”

  “I’m truly sorry, sir.”

  “I don’t think you are, James. I think you’re doing this deliberately. Do you want me to send you somewhere else? Is that what you want?”

  “Of course it’s what I want. I need a mission. I need a purpose. Why do you think I pull these puerile pranks?”

  “James…”

  “I’ve been trapped here at headquarters for far too long. I’m rested. I’m ready. I’ve never been more fit. Surely, there’s still danger in the world. Master criminals. Terrorists. Rogue governments. Someone could be plotting to steal a nuclear submarine. Or rob Fort Knox. Or build a killer satellite to level New York City. I’m a double-O. I need to be out there. That’s what I’m trained for. To do whatever is necessary.”

  Nickelson smiled sympathetically. “I understand how you feel, but for now I need you here.”

  “And when will I be getting an assignment?”

  “When we are given one that matches your…extraordinary talents.”

  Flynn was clearly disappointed. “But sir—”

  “In the meantime, why not focus your energies on helping others here at…headquarters. Just not the nurses.”

  “Are we finished?”

  Nickelson looked at James with affection and barely concealed sadness. “For now.”

  Flynn nodded and left Nickelson’s office. His mood lightened a little when he caught sight of Miss Honeywell working away on her computer.

  “Miss Honeywell?”

  She reluctantly raised her gaze, her voice edged with irritation. “Yes?”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Insist on looking so luscious?” Miss Honeywell rolled her eyes and continued typing as James sat on the edge of her desk. “We really must run away together.”

  “You’re sitting on my Ding-Dong.”

  James stood up to see that he had indeed smashed her snack pastry. “Sorry, darling.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Next time you’ll have to sit on my Ding-Dong.”

  “You don’t get your ass outta here, I’m gonna kick you in your damn Ding-Dong.”

  Chapter Two

  The social area reverberated with laughter and conversation, more like the commons at a state college than the activity room at a state ment
al hospital. Some of the patients could have been mistaken for students, but others were in their thirties or late forties. A few were upwards of sixty and seventy. It was like a large, dysfunctional family gathering with weird uncles, eccentric aunts, depressed older sisters, unhinged brothers, nutty mothers, and catatonic grandfathers all co-existing in one place.

  Affection, tension, awkwardness and boredom commingled as they watched Bugs Bunny cartoons on TV and played Parcheesi and Chinese checkers. Some engaged in light banter while others argued, whispered or mumbled to themselves as they milled about. The furniture was worn and ugly and institutional. There were Glen Plaid couches and brown folding chairs on linoleum floors, fluorescent lights and bare white walls dotted with bright colorful posters with happy, empowering slogans:

  Life is 10% what you make it and 90% how you take it.

  If it’s to be, it’s up to me.

  Keep an Attitude of Gratitude.

  James Flynn wore a faded navy-blue serge suit and sat at a card table, playing Uno. He studied the cards in his hands, his gaze intense and shrewd. His partners included a rotund nineteen-year-old black kid named Ty, a beautiful, fragile-looking twenty-two-year-old named Dulcie, and Q, a skinny, wild-eyed seventy-seven-year-old with a scraggly white beard.

  Q reached for the draw pile and Ty’s eyes grew wide. “Hey! What you doin’?”

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?” Q asked.

  “It’s my motherfuckin’ turn.”

  “You just took your turn.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did too.”

  “Did not, you stupid shit.”

  “Did! Did! Did!”

  Flynn interjected himself into the argument. “Now just calm down, Q.”

  “Old man’s going senile!”

  “On the contrary, Ty, I believe Q possesses one of the most brilliant minds on the planet. Q, tell Ty about some of your inventions.”

  Q smiled at the young black man and said, “The silicon microchip. The zipper. The corn dog.”

  “No way.” Ty wasn’t buying it.

  “I created it for the Los Angeles County Fair in 1962.”