04-04-2019, 04:10 PM
"Mon Général," Maisson said. I did all that I could for La Contessa at the time, recognized that my skill was insufficient, and sent her on to people more expert than myself; these people. And now they are going to send her on to the men who know more and they will help La Contessa."
Ramirez looked up at the man and secured La Contessa's purse inside his uniform jacket.
"And if they cannot help, her, Maisson? If they do not have the skill?"
The Ultimado stood at attention.
"Then Le Général shall find the names of the men who DO have the skill to help La Contessa! He will GIVE them to Le Ultimados, and WE will kick in their doors and drag them SCREAMING to her bedside, Mon Général!"
The Tenente saluted. The Generalissimo rose and returned it. The doors opened, and the emergency room team took over, lifting La Contessa onto a gurney.
Ramirez carried the bloody bundle of jacket and purse into the hospital, and stayed with the gurney until they told him he couldn't. As the first responder and having La Contessa's full medical history, they needed Maisson to stay with them, and he promised he'd tell the Generalissimo as soon as he knew anything.
The swinging doors closed, Ramirez realized that he was still wearing his cover and sunglasses indoors and removed them, then looked for the elevator. While he rode down to the cafeteria level, a text came in and he reached for it from his shirt pocket, and felt it there too. The blood had soaked through his jacket and there were wet, red patches on the front of his shirt. The text was from his wife. Wanting to know the same things his last forty-five missed calls and thirty-six awaiting texts did. He noticed that everyone in the elevator was looking at him and put the phone back. He'd reply soon. He needed a moment.
Hernando entered the cafeteria to no one's notice. All eyes were focused on the televisions in the corners, showing images and videos from tourist cameras. Pictures of him and Maisson kneeling in the pool of blood that surrounded her. Him lifting her onto a stretcher and Maisson maintaining pressure on the wounds. An angry look on Velazquez's face right before she kicked the tourist in the testicles for trying to get video of Maisson's ripping La Contessa's blouse open to clear it from the wounds. The Generalissimo made a mental note to give that woman his harshest, most severe three-day-pass when they returned to base.
The footage changed to his image again, loading La Contessa into the helicopter, his jacket fully red in front. Ramirez's footsteps then sounded somehow louder to him. Louder than the televisions or the cooking sounds in the kitchen. By the time he reached the coffee machine, he realized that they hadn't gotten louder, but that all the other sound had stopped. When the noise of his selection of American black coffee filled the room, he looked around. The televisions had been muted, the kitchen staff had come out front. All eyes were upon him. And the stains on his shirt.
Hernando picked up his coffee, walked to the cashier, and paid for it. The cash register ringing up his purchase seemed much louder amongst the silence in the room, and its noise was followed by his shoes again as he walked over to a table with an ash tray and sat down with his coffee and his bloody bundle.
Not a word was said as he gave his coffee an experimental sip, then reached into La Contessa's purse and saw the item he'd spotted earlier when he put the pendant in it: a pack of her cigarettes. He opened it. Only three gone. She must have opened it before the meeting. Something about the meeting floated across his mind for something to connect with. Then he realized it must be that it was a shorter meeting than it had seemed to him if she'd only smoked three.
With that many left, she'd be ok with him borrowing one. She wasn't going to need them for a while, anyway. He'd buy her a carton for it later, that's what she would do if the situation were reversed. He found her lighter and lit it.
The room remained silent, watching him smoke his cigarette and drink his coffee. He reflected upon something she'd said at the warehouse last night. It was her cigarette that he was borrowing and would pay back, therefore, in a way, she was sharing it with him.
He gave a wry smile as he thought on how right she was. They were sharing a cigarette, and once again, lives were on the line.
Ramirez looked up at the man and secured La Contessa's purse inside his uniform jacket.
"And if they cannot help, her, Maisson? If they do not have the skill?"
The Ultimado stood at attention.
"Then Le Général shall find the names of the men who DO have the skill to help La Contessa! He will GIVE them to Le Ultimados, and WE will kick in their doors and drag them SCREAMING to her bedside, Mon Général!"
The Tenente saluted. The Generalissimo rose and returned it. The doors opened, and the emergency room team took over, lifting La Contessa onto a gurney.
Ramirez carried the bloody bundle of jacket and purse into the hospital, and stayed with the gurney until they told him he couldn't. As the first responder and having La Contessa's full medical history, they needed Maisson to stay with them, and he promised he'd tell the Generalissimo as soon as he knew anything.
The swinging doors closed, Ramirez realized that he was still wearing his cover and sunglasses indoors and removed them, then looked for the elevator. While he rode down to the cafeteria level, a text came in and he reached for it from his shirt pocket, and felt it there too. The blood had soaked through his jacket and there were wet, red patches on the front of his shirt. The text was from his wife. Wanting to know the same things his last forty-five missed calls and thirty-six awaiting texts did. He noticed that everyone in the elevator was looking at him and put the phone back. He'd reply soon. He needed a moment.
Hernando entered the cafeteria to no one's notice. All eyes were focused on the televisions in the corners, showing images and videos from tourist cameras. Pictures of him and Maisson kneeling in the pool of blood that surrounded her. Him lifting her onto a stretcher and Maisson maintaining pressure on the wounds. An angry look on Velazquez's face right before she kicked the tourist in the testicles for trying to get video of Maisson's ripping La Contessa's blouse open to clear it from the wounds. The Generalissimo made a mental note to give that woman his harshest, most severe three-day-pass when they returned to base.
The footage changed to his image again, loading La Contessa into the helicopter, his jacket fully red in front. Ramirez's footsteps then sounded somehow louder to him. Louder than the televisions or the cooking sounds in the kitchen. By the time he reached the coffee machine, he realized that they hadn't gotten louder, but that all the other sound had stopped. When the noise of his selection of American black coffee filled the room, he looked around. The televisions had been muted, the kitchen staff had come out front. All eyes were upon him. And the stains on his shirt.
Hernando picked up his coffee, walked to the cashier, and paid for it. The cash register ringing up his purchase seemed much louder amongst the silence in the room, and its noise was followed by his shoes again as he walked over to a table with an ash tray and sat down with his coffee and his bloody bundle.
Not a word was said as he gave his coffee an experimental sip, then reached into La Contessa's purse and saw the item he'd spotted earlier when he put the pendant in it: a pack of her cigarettes. He opened it. Only three gone. She must have opened it before the meeting. Something about the meeting floated across his mind for something to connect with. Then he realized it must be that it was a shorter meeting than it had seemed to him if she'd only smoked three.
With that many left, she'd be ok with him borrowing one. She wasn't going to need them for a while, anyway. He'd buy her a carton for it later, that's what she would do if the situation were reversed. He found her lighter and lit it.
The room remained silent, watching him smoke his cigarette and drink his coffee. He reflected upon something she'd said at the warehouse last night. It was her cigarette that he was borrowing and would pay back, therefore, in a way, she was sharing it with him.
He gave a wry smile as he thought on how right she was. They were sharing a cigarette, and once again, lives were on the line.
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