Once Is Never Enough Page 10

  He didn’t hire her to be a messenger girl, or a babysitter and she resented being treated that way. Belenki said he chose her for this task because of her ability to persuade. But if she couldn’t convince Belenki that Flynn was out of his mind, then perhaps her powers of persuasion could use a little work.

  Severina watched as Flynn rooted through his shoulder bag.

  “Did you forget something,” she asked.

  “No, just looking over the gadgets Q sent along.”

  “Q?”

  “He’s head of Q branch and as such is an inventor, an innovator, and a genius when it comes to hi-tech weaponry.” Severina was already sorry she asked the question, but she was soon to be sorrier as Flynn pulled out a plastic dental floss dispenser. “Look at this, for instance. What do you think this is?”

  “Mint-flavored dental floss?”

  “Yes, that’s what it appears to be, but in actuality, it’s a garrote made from the strongest, thinnest nylon monofilament in existence.” He dropped the dental floss back in the bag and pulled something else out. “Now what about this?”

  “Looks like a tube of toothpaste.”

  “Most people would think so. But if you squeezed it out around a door frame, you could blow that door right off its hinges. This tube contains a revolutionary new form of C-4 that’s ten times more powerful and even more malleable. Q calls it C-5.” He put the toothpaste tube back and pulled out a green and blue box. “Guess what these are?”

  Severina read the side of the box. “Suppositories?”

  “To the casual eye, yes, but to those in the know these are highly sophisticated, very powerful homing devices.”

  “That you put up your—”

  “But of course,” Flynn said. He put the box back and pulled out a banana.

  “What’s that?” Severina asked.

  “What’s it look like?

  “A banana.”

  “Indeed.” Flynn peeled it and took a bite. “That’s because it is a banana. Would you care for a bite?

  “No thanks,” Severina said.

  “I assume your employer will supply us with the proper firepower once we arrive.”

  “You expect him to give you a gun?”

  “More than one I would hope. If he wants me to protect him, I’ll need the means to do so.” Flynn glanced out the window and nibbled away on his banana. Even though she knew he was one taco shy of a combination plate, Severina couldn’t help but be intrigued. He had that bad boy charisma that she always fell for. Her last two boyfriends were drummers in rock and roll bands and the one before that was a professional poker player. She even recently had a flirtation with one of the ex-operators working security at Belenki’s private island. Maybe because she’d always been such a good girl, Severina had a thing for naughty boys. Men who skirted the edge of propriety and the law. Risk-takers all.

  Like Sergei Belenki.

  Some of her acquaintances, mainly men, assumed she was sleeping with her boss. But Belenki never showed the slightest bit of interest in her in that regard, which was somewhat surprising, since most men, especially rich men, seemingly couldn’t resist her. Of course, that changed quickly once they got to know her. According to her therapist, most men found her intimidating.

  Belenki wasn’t intimidated, but then again, he didn’t think about sex nineteen times a day like most men. He found his sex drive to be distracting and inconvenient. When he did make an attempt at dating, he normally went for models and movie stars, which Severina thought was strange since he rarely looked at magazines and never went to the movies. These models and movie stars had no clue what to make of Belenki since he spent most of his time working.

  They were used to men doting on them and worshipping them. At least at first. But not Belenki. He once told Severina that he wondered how much time he should allocate to dating. He needed to find a girlfriend, but he wasn’t sure how much time per week the average girlfriend required. Five hours? Ten? He’d wanted to know what the minimum was and Severina didn’t know what to tell him.

  The 737’s engines roared as the jet moved into take off position. Severina’s head gently snapped back as the aircraft accelerated down the runway. She glanced at Sancho in the seat across from her; jaw clenched, teeth gritted, knuckles white. For just a second he turned his head to look at Severina and tears filled his terrified eyes.

  Sancho tried to sleep, but even with a Xanax supplied by Dr. Nickelson he still had too much adrenaline coursing through his system. He glanced out the window as they flew above the Angeles National Forest. He watched the I-5 winding its way through the Sierra Pelona Mountains and over the Tejon Pass to the Grapevine.

  It looked peaceful from forty thousand feet. He took a big breath and slowly let it out. In and out. In and out. Nickelson wasn’t wrong. The deep breathing did seem to help. The tension headache dissipated. Maybe the Xanax had finally kicked in.

  He glanced at Flynn chatting up the flight attendant. She had no idea who he was or what he was. No idea that six months ago this hunky male model-looking motherfucker was a fat, pimple-faced dweeb with big plastic glasses and no self-esteem. No idea that he worked as a trainee at Hot Dog on a Stick and wore tight red shorts and a goofy, poofy hat. Sancho marveled at the change. Flynn was ripped and confident, and movie-star handsome. How could he possibly be the same person?

  “You seem like you’re doing better,” Dr. Nickelson said.

  “For now,” Sancho replied.

  “Are you expecting something bad to happen?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because bad shit happens.”

  “Not all the time.”

  Sancho motioned to Flynn and lowered his voice. “I like James, I do, but he is seriously deranged, and he is a danger to himself and everyone around him.”

  “I thought he saved your life.”

  “He did. More than once. But he’s also the crazy bastard who put it in danger in the first place.”

  “Yes, but last time you didn’t have me along for the ride. I can talk to him and help him make better choices.”

  “Like not steal a couple hundred grand from a Mexican drug cartel? Or fight an entire motorcycle gang by himself? Or drive a car off a fucking cliff?”

  Sancho could tell that Nickelson hadn’t heard those specific details before. The psychiatrist suddenly looked a lot less sure of himself, but before he could respond, the 737 dropped a hundred feet.

  Sancho’s stomach vaulted into his throat and sweat immediately popped up on his face. The aircraft jumped up and down in the high-desert turbulence. The voice of a female pilot crackled over the PA system. “Things are going to get a bit bumpy for a bit. So please keep your seatbelts buckled until I turn off the warning sign.” She had the same Texas twang and laconic delivery that so many middle-aged male pilots had.

  Sancho inhaled and exhaled, in and out, in and out, faster and faster, more and more frantically as the plane dipped and shook and bucked. He hyperventilated. Lightheaded and dizzy, Sancho knew what was happening. He’d studied it in psychology class. A classic panic attack. But knowing that didn’t help. It felt like he was dying. Like he couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to rip his seat belt off and run, but there was nowhere to go but down. Thousands of feet down. Images of the plane plunging to Earth popped up in his brain. His imagination ran wild with flashes of fire and bloody carnage, the plane crashing, the metal ripping him apart, the jet fuel igniting and burning him alive.

  “Sancho! Look at me.” Dr. Nickelson gently put his left hand on Sancho’s shoulder, his right hand on Sancho’s face and looked directly into his eyes. “Breathe.”

  “I can’t. I can’t breathe.”

  “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

  “You’re gonna die too!”

  “Sancho. Look at me. What you feel isn’t real. You’re not going to die.”

  Tears sprung to Sancho’s eyes. “Everybody dies!”

  “Indeed, they d
o,” Flynn replied. He unbuckled his seat belt and knelt on the floor next to the terrified orderly. He took Sancho’s sweaty left hand in his and held it tight. “Everyone dies. But not everyone lives. You can’t live fully unless you’re willing to risk it all. You must push past the fear if you ever hope to become who you were meant to be. Most people give up. Surrender to mediocrity. But that’s not you. I’ve seen what you can do. I’ve seen your courage. I’ve seen who you are. What you are. This world needs you, amigo. Alyssa needs you. I need you. So, do me a favor and buck the bloody hell up!”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder.”

  Flynn squeezed Sancho’s hand. Sancho squeezed back. Flynn’s confidence pushed away his fear, and in that moment it didn’t matter if that courage was irrational. All courage was irrational. Everyone knew they would grow old and die, but somehow people ignored that fact and kept their fear at bay and moved forward as if they were going to live forever. That was truly irrational, yet that ability to disregard reality made life possible. Once Sancho grasped that, the fear faded.

  “Your hand is quite sweaty,” Flynn said.

  “So, stop squeezing it.”

  Flynn did and Sancho wiped his sweaty paw on his shirt. The turbulence eased up and before long the plane once again flew smoothly.

  “Feeling better?” Nickelson asked.

  “No, but I’m okay with that,” Sancho said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Former San Jose Mayor, Norman Yoshio Mineta’s parents were born in Japan. As such, they were not allowed to become U.S. citizens due to the Asian Exclusion Act of 1924. During World War II, the Mineta family lived at Heart Mountain Japanese internment camp near Cody, Wyoming along with one hundred and twenty thousand other Japanese Americans who lost everything they had when the U.S. government relocated and incarcerated them in concentration camps. Back then, Norman was a big baseball fan and when he arrived at Heart Mountain, the authorities took away his bat because they told him it could be used as a weapon. Years later, after he was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives, a constituent who knew of the story gave him a bat that was once owned by Hank Aaron. Mineta was forced to return it since it violated the House ban on gifts. At the time he said, “The damn government’s taken my bat again.”

  The 737 touched down smoothly at Norman Mineta International Airport in San Jose, California and taxied to Sergei Belenki’s private hangar. The hangar sat adjacent to a ten thousand square foot private “executive” terminal built so the aristocracy of Silicon Valley wouldn’t have to mingle with the riffraff. That was just fine with Severina. Even though she spoke fluent French, collected contemporary art, and knew more about French Pinot Noir than most sommeliers, she wasn’t always so sophisticated.

  She wore her cosmopolitan persona like she did her black Dolce & Gabbana suits. She kept her modest upbringing a secret. That kind of background was frowned upon at the elite schools she attended. She grew up in Van Nuys and her father was a plumber. He inherited Angelli and Sons plumbing from his father and was disappointed he didn’t have a son to carry on the Angelli tradition. Her mother worked as a waitress at Dupars in Studio City. Neither went to college, but both were proud of Severina and surprised by her ambition.

  She worked hard to lose her Valley Girl accent and studied even harder to get herself into Pomona College. Severina won a scholarship but had to take on a hundred thousand dollars in student loan debt in order to graduate. Her law degree and MBA put her even deeper in debt, which was why she decided to take the venture capital route.

  Severina created a sophisticated persona every bit as manufactured as Flynn’s. The difference being she wasn’t delusional. She knew exactly who she was underneath the designer clothes. Flynn didn’t have that kind of self-awareness. Even so, he seemed extremely reasonable. Smart. Charming. Witty. Confident. Much more so than the usual Silicon Valley nerds who seemed so threatened by Severina’s beauty, sophistication, and easy confidence. She knew that at first glance, most people would have no idea Flynn was completely bat-shit crazy.

  Severina let Flynn exit the jet first and followed him down the ramp into the private terminal. There were no TSA agents or other security apparatus as most every person who passed through the “executive terminal” was a millionaire or billionaire. Attendants already loaded their luggage into the long black limo that waited for them at the curb.

  Dr. Nickelson had to pee. Lately, he always had to urinate. Every hour on the hour. As a young man, Nickelson’s bladder could hold untold quantities of pee. On the long drives between his parent’s home in Sierra Madre and the U of C at Berkeley, he would only have to stop once every six hours. But back then he was a twenty-year-old biology major with a young man’s prostate.

  Now he had the swollen prostate of a sixty-three-year-old man. His vim and vigor had turned into piss and vinegar. His puffy prostate blocked his urethra, the tiny tube that carried urine from the bladder into the penis. His stream used to be strong, but now it was weak and slow and often only a dribble.

  He would awaken four or five times a night, climb out of bed, and make his way in the dark to the bathroom. Since he didn’t want to disturb Marla, his wife of thirty-five years, he didn’t turn on the light and would often bang his shin or stub his toe on the way there and then she would wake up anyway, irritated as usual.

  When Nickelson finally felt his way back to his bed, he’d have trouble returning to sleep. Suffice it to say, peeing was something he spent far too much time thinking about. It didn’t help that Marla made him drink eight glasses of water every day. She said it was good for his kidneys.

  When he had to go, he had to go; there was no holding it back. So, when they arrived at San Jose International, he hurried down the ramp ahead of Flynn, rushed into the terminal, found a men’s room, fumbled with his zipper, and released the Kraken (Marla’s pet name for his penis). His stream was weak, but his need was strong. It took him forever to tinkle and that was why he was the last one in the limo.

  Nickelson sat his ass down next to Sancho, across from Flynn and Severina. The rear of this limo was just as opulent as the one in Burbank.

  “Sorry for the holdup,” Nickelson said somewhat breathlessly. Nickelson glanced through the sliding Plexiglas divider. “Are we still waiting for our driver?”

  “There is no driver,” Severina said.

  Nickelson raised a curious eyebrow. “So, who’s driving?”

  “Daisy.”

  “Daisy?”

  “Daisy, take us to 1542 Monte Vista Drive in Saratoga, California.”

  The car smoothly accelerated and headed out of the private terminal pickup and into general airport traffic. Confusion gripped Nickelson when he saw the steering wheel turn by itself. When he looked at Sancho fear radiated from both of them.

  “What the hell is happening?” Sancho blurted. “How the hell are we moving?” He lunged for the door handle, but the doors were locked.

  “The doors automatically lock once we start moving,” Severina said.

  “But we don’t have a damn driver!” Sancho shouted.

  “We don’t need one. This car is autonomous, isn’t it?” Flynn smiled at Severina.

  “Yes, it’s Electro Go’s first autonomous limo. I probably should have warned you.”

  “Autonomous!” Sancho pressed his face to the window. “You mean it’s driving by itself?”

  “Most cars already have many autonomous features.” Severina opened a bottle of Dasani water. “Cruise control. Automatic braking. But this Electro Go is the most advanced driverless vehicle that currently exists.”

  Nickelson noticed Sancho starting to lose his shit and put a hand on his knee to calm him. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.”

  “Safer than having a fallible human drive us,” Flynn pointed out.

  “Google, Uber, Tesla, and Electro Go are all competing to capture the autonomous car market,” Severina explained. “This prototype uses radar, sonar, and seventy-seven laser
beams combined with hundreds of sensors and cameras all governed by the most advanced artificial intelligence ever developed.”

  Sancho’s eyes widened with fear as the limo effortlessly threaded through traffic and exited the airport. “So, the government’s okay with this shit?”

  “The California DMV has granted permits to quite a few companies operating driverless vehicles,” Severina replied.

  “The safety features are very impressive,” Flynn added. “Automatic emergency braking, forward collision prevention, pedestrian detection, and lane-centering assistance.”

  “You’re well informed, Mr. Flynn.”

  “I read Popular Mechanics.”

  “Shouldn’t somebody be in the driver’s seat in case something goes wrong?”

  “Not necessary. Q branch perfected driverless cars years ago, so this is really nothing new, amigo. Sit back and relax. Will we be in Saratoga before you know it.”

  As they exited the airport and merged south onto the Bayshore Freeway, Nickelson watched as Flynn turned his charm on Severina. She was resistant, but Flynn was persistent. He had only ever met two women totally immune to Flynn’s charms. Nurse Durkin and his secretary, Miss Honeywell.

  “Beautiful name, Severina.” Flynn leaned towards her and their shoulders touched. “I once knew a Severine. Beautiful as well. But unfortunately, she came to a very sad end.”

  “Severina was my great grandmother’s name. She was from Amalfi.”

  “But you were born here?”

  “Southern California. As was my grandfather.”

  “You seem quite fit. Are you a runner?”

  “I am. Every morning. Three miles a day.”

  “But you were a dancer once, weren’t you?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Your posture. The way you move. Ballet?”

  “When I was a girl.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I practice Krav Maga.”

  “Krav Maga?” Flynn was impressed.

  “What’s that?” Sancho asked.