Conflict on the Rise

A Scene from Blood Red Deceit

Angel’s silence resonated in me compared to her usual chattiness. She engaged in no meaningful conversation from the time we left the hospital, despite my several attempts. Her silence steered my mind off course. I was sitting next to a woman I intended to marry and yet memories of my former girlfriend, Suzette London, flitted across my mind every time I closed my eyes.

I cradled her bandaged hand and held the seat belt buckle while she inserted the latch plate. The click broke the silent atmosphere in the Gulfstream G550. I welcomed the stillness after the crowded 14-hour flight on the wide-body Boeing 747-8 from Beijing to JFK in New York City.

“Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me.” Angel’s words gave off a contrived tone. She spoke with not even a glance in my direction. Perhaps the pain and loss of two fingers induced her antipathy.

“What is your pain level?”

“Ten.”

“Where are your meds?”

Angel shook out a folded blanket and tucked it to her chin. “Trashed.”

“I will write one for you after we get home.”

“Don’t bother.” Angel reached into a bag and pulled out the bottle of orange juice I picked up for her at a small fixed-base operator (FBO) at the airport. She wedged an Everclear 190 proof bottle between her knees, uncapped it, and poured the liquor into the OJ.

I put my hand on hers. “Please, Angel. Neurotoxins lead to nerve damage.”

Angel nudged my hand away. “I’ve heard.” She shook the bottle. Guzzled its contents. Reclined her seatback. Closed her eyes.

The Gulfstream’s engines shrieked. The G-forces on my body eased after takeoff. At 2,500 feet, I moved to a seat behind and across the aisle. I had three-and-a-half hours to sleep, or think. Thoughts prevailed. Nothing shoved aside the memories. I saw warmth in Suzette’s smile. Tasted the softness of her lips. Smelled the aromatic effluence of her body’s chemistry. Heard pleasantness in her voice.

The memories persisted after I opened my eyes. Angel remained unmoved. I pulled out my phone and sent a text message to a number given to me at the end of my training at the CIA’s Camp Peary, not the FBI Academy in Quantico, as Angel was led to believe.

“Something amiss with Angel.”

The reply stated, “Charlie briefed me. I will have someone at the FBO to take her home. Stay on the plane. You are needed in Denver.”

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