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Jones shielded his eyes from the dawn,
reached for his goggles and squinted at the shoreline. "...Man.
If that ain't Normandy, France, I'm in biiiig trouble ..."
Jones gobbled another caffeine pill --
the only solid food left. There was plenty of gas, bullets, booze,
and a million dollars plus... but the food had run out on day two.
At six-foot-five, 228 pounds, it seemed to be working out all right.
He was retaining muscle tone, although he was viciously famished.
But at least he was AWAKE and alert enough not to plow the boat
into a sandbar in the middle of nowhere...
He grabbed a cigarette and took a deep,
immensely satisfying drag to get his mind off the drilling gnaw
in his abdomen. And then he heard the radio.
"... somebody help ...please ...s'il
vous plait ..." A woman's voice. Sultry, smoldering, inviting.
"...help ... somebody... please ... s'il vous pl... "
Jones stared, willing the transmission
into clarity.
The voice trembled, cloaked in sheets of
static. "...help ...s'il vous..."
Jones wiped seawater from his brow. He
snatched the microphone. Then the radio became still.
He steamed the cigarette, blew smoke rings
into the sky. Water lapped at the boat as it maintained its snarling
idle. Dimensionless static filled the cockpit with a scrim of noise.
"....nobody's supposed to know I'm
here ..." Jones grumbled to the seagulls. "Nobody..."
It had all been sweet, until now -- the
smart, slick cash transfer completely free of the banks and their
mountains of forms and electronic red tape. A million plus, and
he was the only one to know all the details. If he could just pull
off the rest.
Jones picked up the GPS. He dialed in P-A-R-I-S...
and then all the radios lit up.
"M'AIDEZ! SOMEONE HELP ME!! I AM IN
DANGER!! HELP ME!"
Scowling, Jones grabbed a microphone.
"This is Rocket Sled out of New York,
over." Tongue swollen, he stumbled on. "State emergency
and position, over."
The reply was clean. "C'est Marie
Claire, Cherbourg, France...."
"France!!" He keyed the mike.
"Marie Claire... State position ...I
repeat ... Marie Claire; ...Rocket Sled ready to assist..."
Jones turned Rocket Sled, eased the throttles
forward. The boat surged through the water, engines howling, like
a jet torpedo.
He saw a silver white dot in the distance;
the flag of France snapped and fluttered in the sea breeze. A tiny
figure stood, waved.
His subconscious mind shouted: "Don't
hit the Frenchwoman, fathead!!"
Jones bought the boat to a rumbling, barking,
crawl, opened the boarding ladder.
"Ahoy, Marie Claire!" Jones tossed
a line toward the 18-foot motorized dinghy, and Marie Claire's captain
caught it with ease.
Shameless, slack-jawed, Joe Jones stared.
She was more luxuriantly beautiful than
the dawn. Hypnotic blue eyes grinned. And lush blonde curls oozed
over freckled shoulders, draping themselves across Jones' trembling
forearm.
Joe Jones lifted her and her wicker picnic
basket, swung her to Rocket Sled's floor. Feeling her dewy softness,
inhaling the captivating essence of Chanel No. 5, he felt like a
deer trapped in someone's headlights.
"Ahoy, Marie Claire." His mind
scrambled for something more witty to say. She leaned against him,
azure eyes sparkling.
"Ahoy, Rocket Sled. Merci, Monsieur.
Marie Claire, Cherbourg, thanks you..."
Jones stood still, silent as a post. The
captain, in her white bikini, taut midriff exposed, rendered him
mute. Men went to war and annihilated millions over a woman like
this.
"Anastasia Bardot." She extended
a smooth hand. "I thank you for roaring in over the ocean to
rescue me."
She was so superb that he was afraid to
touch her, lest she dissolve into the ether. "Joe Louis Jones.
And you're welcome."
He looked down. He forced himself to grab
another cigarette. Suddenly it hit him. "Rescue you from what,
lady?"
"Mystery, monsieur. Now, permit me,
yes? I have beautiful France to share with you on this exquisite,
Normandy morning."
Suddenly rigid, Joe Jones sat on the rail
before he embarrassed himself. He gulped as he caught sight of the
glinting automatic pistol, flare gun, money-belt, in the mess strewn
all over the cockpit... 'Man! Here's the Mystery Temptress, I don't
know even her story, and the cockpit looks like I flunked Survivor
round one...'
Anastasia's gaze roamed the disarray. Her
eyebrows went vertical as she lingered over the holstered pistol.
"Tres Americain, monsieur" she giggled. Anastasia held
up soggy rice cakes. "Monsieur Joe Jones! You have human food
on ze Rocket Sled, no?"
"...uhhh... I..."
She made a sucking noise, shook the sodden
bag. "Joe Jones, zis is brutal! Such a man. I am surprised
at you!"
She moved like a dancer, carried her picnic
basket to the stairs. Under the red and white checkered cloth, champagne
winked at Jones. She bustled about, creating a cozy restaurant,
complete with glassware, and cloth napkins, in Rocket Sled's cramped
cockpit. Still in complete command, she slid the heavy pistol from
its holster, flicked the safety on, put it into a compartment, and
slammed it shut with a 'click!,' smiling at Jones.
She seemed mighty competent with a loaded
handgun...
"All work and no play drive you mad,
Joe Jones. Even le tough guy, le John Shaft, must eat, Monsieur!"
She set a plate before him.
He'd ask about it later... Now he grinned
as he inhaled four lush courses, the delectable sauces alone making
him giddy and flush. Anastasia Bardot marveled as he liquidated
the food.
"Your idea is to starve, no, Joe Jones?"
He laughed. "Well, see it's the first
time I've done this. Really, first time I've tried."
"Tried to poison yourself with cuisine
for ze rabbits, Monsieur?"
Anastasia laughed, poured champagne. "Excusez-moi,
Monsieur Joe Jones, le tough guy, brawny man of the rugged sea,"
she teased. Then, with the speed of a lioness she wrapped her arms
around his head and kissed him on the mouth. She took a deep breath.
"Bravo, Monsieur." She kissed
him again. His palms tingled. His lips trembled. His toes curled
straight through the deck, right into the thrumming cabin floor.
Joe Jones opened his eyes. Mademoiselle
Anastasia handed him a fresh bottle of champagne.
Jones howled, then blurted out, "I'm
going to Paris... made a bet with myself that I could... and if
I drink any more now, see... uh, s'il vous plait..."
Anastasia smoothed droplets of salt water
off his chiseled face. "Oui, Joe Jones? Paris? Oui?"
Jones swallowed, shivered. "Paris...
You see, I don't know how to sail from here to the Seine River...
and if I keep drinking this stuff, and I like it, believe me I like
it... the only thing I'll do is drive this boat into the beach."
"Please open the bottle, Joe Jones.
Oui. Ce n'est pas difficile, Joe."
Jones popped the cork and stared as she
filled their glasses, smiling.
"I myself show you Paris, Joe. Drink
slowly. We sail into Paris with the glorious sun. Salut!" She
dialed the GPS. "Steer course 089, Joe. Keep ze Rocket Sled
steady, 40 knots, two hours, we are in Paris."
Anastasia squeezed his arm as Rocket Sled
thundered into the unknown, its wake an arrow of flame into the
city of light.
Continue to Part 2: Argent
Sauvage
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