For the latest Terribleminds challenge, “Death Is On The Table“.

If it weren’t a funeral, it’d probably be the social event of the season. Everybody was there. Little Tommy Scattergun, Nicky the Nose, Harry ‘Houdini’ Lockland, pretty much every cousin or uncle or niece the old Godfather had kept close…

…and the woman in the back, half-hidden under her black wide-brimmed hat.

The priest was launching into perhaps the most interminable portion of the funeral. Long stretches of Latin punctuated by people standing, sitting, saying ‘Amen’, possibly signing up for a time-share. The woman didn’t vocalize, merely standing and sitting when required. She could feel the mournful atmosphere but her emotions didn’t contribute to it. Mostly, she just felt numb.

As it went on she questioned the sanity of even being here. It came to a head when the Godfather’s wife, made up and dressed to look like a dolorous Thanksgiving Day parade float, got up behind the pulpit to blurt out memories of her beloved husband between wet, snotty sobs. The woman in the back picked up her purse, kept her head down a bit to avoid eye contact, and slipped out of her pew to step outside.

She was aware of him as she passed through the main doors. He leaned against the stonework, contemplating the lit end of his cigarette. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and despite the tailored cut of his tuxedo, it still looked rumpled on him. A pair of white gloves was tucked into his belt.

“Stuffy as hell in there, huh ma’am?”

“Yes.” She adjusted her hat slightly, studying the traffic. “Especially with so many people inside.”

“No kidding. I think the old man would’ve liked it. He was big on good relations with just about everybody, which is surprising given his profession.”

“You don’t think good relations are important?”

“I do, but as he got older he went on more and more about a return to ‘the good old days’ and whatnot. He let nostalgia blind him to how people might take advantage of his better nature. I respect him, don’t get me wrong, but Dad’s time had come and gone long before the cancer got the best of him.”

She nodded. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss.”

He flicked ash from the end of his smoke as he looked at her. “Didn’t you work for him?”

“Once or twice.” She paused. “I should really be going.”

“Will you be coming by the house later, pay your respects to my big brother?”

“I don’t think so. I’m mostly freelance.”

He narrowed green eyes through the smoke caught in the sunlight. “We may be seeing more of you, then. Frankie’s probably going to try and make a name for himself or something once our old man’s in the ground. He’s got even less regard for Dad’s sort of politeness and respect. He’s all about the action.”

“I did get that impression.” A little voice in her head was telling her to back away from the boy, to make some form of escape. His hand slipped into his jacket, and she nearly grabbed the small semi-automatic in her purse.

“Why would a freelancer show up for my father’s funeral? You couldn’t have known him that well. And as much as I appreciate the respect, lots of other guns for hire respect him but I haven’t seen them at so much as a picnic, let alone something like this.”

She bit her lip, fingers lingering over the handbag. “I’m sorry, Mike. The money was too good. It’s been hard for me lately. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I’d gone without a job from your father for almost two years and I was nearly broke.”

“Who was it?”

“Giordano.”

He scowled. “I know it. Little Tommy Scattergun. Son of a bitch.”

They stood there, staring at each other, for a long moment in the sunlight on the steps of the church. Michael eased down first.

“I don’t make it a policy to blame a gun for what its shooter does. And you were just a gun in his sweaty little hands.”

She closed her handbag. “I don’t necessarily follow, Michael. Frank would have shot me by now.”

“I’m not Frank. He’s a little trigger-happy. He wouldn’t consider all the angles.”

“Like…?”

“For one, since nobody else knows you’re here let alone what you’ve done, you’re good at what you do. For another, you did a job for Tommy, which means you can get close to him. And finally, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve got killer stems.”

“Well… thank you, Mike.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m about to be a pretty wealthy guy, and I could use your services.”

“For Tommy?”

“Certainly, but I’m worried about Frank, too. He’s going to piss off a lot of people. At least, I think he will.” He dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe. “If we can’t get him to think before he starts pulling triggers, it’s going to get messy. And another thing my brother and I differ on is how we clean up messes. I’m always picking up after him.”

She nodded. Her hand slipped into her handbag. Slowly, lacquered nails emerged with a business card, which she gave to him.

“Here’s my business number. We can work out a deal if you’re really interested.”

He took the card, turned it over, felt the texture of the paper and font. “Okay. I want to give him a chance. But if he fucks up the way he’s done his whole life, well…”

“You’ll bury him, too?”

He shrugged. “We’re talking about my brother, here. It’d be the least I could do.”

She smiled slightly and touched her hat respectfully. Then, as much as her instincts were screaming at her to do otherwise, she turned her back on him and walked away, stiletto heels clicking on stonework. The bullet she was expecting between her shoulders never came.

Politeness and respect aren’t just good manners. They’re good for business, too.

For “A Terrible Lie” over at Terribleminds…

He saw the tension of the day wash from her face when he greeted her at the door.

“I’m glad you’re home.” She kissed him lightly as she shed her coat. “Get out of the office early?”

“Yeah. I got everything together in plenty of time.”

“That makes one of us.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe the nerve of some people, holding out on things until the very last minute…”

“Did you make it clear you needed what they were working on?” He hung up her coat as she rubbed her neck.

“Several times! I swear, sometimes it’s like we’re speaking different languages.”

“I know the feeling. I’m sorry you had a rough day.” He rubbed her shoulders gently. “Do you feel up for going out?”

She sighed softly. “I’d love to, honey, but I’m on call tonight. Some foreign accounts are still open.”

“Of course.”

She pursed her lips for a second. “You know what? They’ll wait. Give me a few minutes to freshen up.” She headed for the bedroom and the half-bath tucked away past their bed. “Where were you thinking of going?”

He followed her as far as the bedroom, looking at the framed pictures around the vanity. Photos taken on vacations and at parties, with the central feature being the glossy 8×10 of their wedding. It wasn’t a static photo of them at the altar, however. They were dancing. He was dipping her low, a confident smirk on his face. She was laughing, the white of her dress contrasted with the black of his tuxedo, rose petals all over the dance floor. A perfect moment of bliss, frozen in time.

“Some place nice. I know the guy that owns that fancy French place. He can get us a table.”

“Are you kidding me? That place always requires a reservation!”

“Trust me. I’ll handle it.”

“If you say so…”

He retrieved his phone from the nightstand and walked back out to their living room. She’d left her purse by the door. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he reached for the Coach bag he’d bought her for their second anniversary.

“Honey?”

Her voice from the bathroom froze him. He didn’t move other than to speak.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think my dark red lipstick is in my coat pocket. Could you check for me?”

“Sure.” He shook off the moment of panic he’d felt and went to the closet. Sure enough, her lipstick was there. He walked back into the bedroom and set it on the vanity.

“It’s here next to your blush.”

“Thanks. You’re a peach.”

He went right back to the living room and, before he could stop himself again, dove into her purse. Her phone had sunk to the bottom under her wallet, various types of casual makeup and other accessories. He tapped in her access code and found her call records. She’d been careful to scrub it of any major messages, but getting into her backup feature brought up the numbers she’d erased for outgoing calls. He recognized three. Purging her phone and returning it to her purse, he pulled out his own and relayed the numbers via text to his office.

“You’re not going to wear that shirt, are you?”

He looked down in response to her question. The shirt was one of his older ones, a light minty green button-down.

“You don’t like the green?”

“I do, but I’m going to be wearing dark red. It’s a bit early for Christmas.”

“Good point.” He went to the closet as she sat at the vanity, applying makeup. She’d shed her work clothes and sat in a fluffy white house coat, not looking away from the powder she brushed into her cheeks.

“Which tie, then, wine or burgundy?” He held them up for her to see in the mirror. She glanced at them for a moment.

“Wine.”

“Done.” He put on a crisp, freshly-ironed white shirt and tied on the wine tie. His phone vibrated in the pocket of his pin-stripe slacks and he stepped back to the living room to check it.

They’d sent him photos of her in a park. A man met with her. A package exchanged hands. He shook his head. Why not use a dead drop? Why in person?

He got his peacoat out of the closet, then reached past the outerwear for the false panel and slid it away. The special holster rig’s clip slid behind his belt, magnets snapping shut. It let him carry his .45 at the small of his back, with a suppressor above it in its own sleeve.

He checked to make sure the gun was loaded, holstered it, and secured the suppressor before slipping the coat on.

“I’m ready.”

He looked up. She stood in the door to the bedroom, a dark red dress of silks and velvet clinging to her curves. She’d put her hair up in a vaguely Grecian style, small ringlets of black framing her face and the playful smile on her dark lips.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She walked over, slightly taller in her stilettos, and kissed his cheek softly. “Did you call your friend?”

“I’ll do it on the way over.” He reached into the closet, sliding the panel shut as he pulled out her favorite coat. She turned and looked over her shoulder as he put it on her, her bare shoulders and the curvature of her spine disappearing under the leather.

“So, are you ready to take me out?”

She posed the question as she turned to face him. He looked into her eyes, knowing what she’d been doing and for whom, remembering the clarity with which his orders had been given. But instead of duty, he felt doubt.

“I’m not sure.”

Her brows furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. Not sure if I have Claude’s right number. Anyway… yes, to your question.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her hands wrapped around his forearm, and they stepped out into the night.

Greek Tomb or Treasury 2011 by Mylissa @ Captive Eye, on Flickr

This week, Chuck Wendig gave us the title and nothing else.

Grace inhaled sharply as her booted foot caught on a loose rock on the floor of the cavern. The four of them had been keeping relatively quiet as they made their way through the darkness. The only one who seemed to notice was her professor, Dr. Murphy, who looked over his shoulder at her. The light of their torches reflected in his monocle.

“Grace, are you all right?”

“Perfectly. Just need to watch my step.”

The other man, a dour gent Grace knew only as Mister Stephens, brushed rock dust from his coal-black hair and sideburns as he walked.

“I’m still not certain bringing the ladies was the best of ideas, Professor.”

“Nonsense, old chap! Grace is one of the finest students I’ve ever had the pleasure of training, and Violet is an invaluable research assistant. I couldn’t imagine embarking upon this expedition without them!”

Grace glanced at Violet and fought down a surge of anger. Violet was picking her way carefully through obstacles in shoes completely unsuited for such an endeavor. She also had one hand occupied with keeping her skirts lifted as the other held her torch. The bag she carried, full of books, scrolls, and writing implements, kept slipping down her arm as she picked her way through the rocks.

You would have thought she was going to a lecture at university, not plumbing ancient Greek tombs.

What they were after, Grace knew, was not in fact a tomb. It was an ancient temple, one written about by Ptolemy in one of his lesser-known works. It was said to mark the place Prometheus descended from Mount Olympus with the fire of the gods. Their guide, Christos, was far behind them, having stayed at the entrance to the cavern. The fear in the man’s eyes as they’d lit their torches stayed with Grace as they closed in on their destination.

“Still, I’m concerned for their safety.”

“You weren’t so concerned when we were looking for the secret vault of Suleiman, Mister Stephens.”

“That’s true, Grace, but we were under Constantinople at the time. A touch more civilized than a cave in the middle of nowhere.”

“The legends say this temple was so remote so it would discourage – ow – all but the most determined of pilgrims.” Violet was still struggling to keep up.

“Nonsense. It was remote to keep the common man away from the finest treasures.”

“Why, Mister Stephens! Surely you don’t believe there’s no power in myth whatsoever?”

“It’s 1926, Professor. The twentieth century has no place for invisible men doling out judgement from some remote location.”

Grace shook her head. “But you can’t deny that those who do believe will do things like build a temple far from their city-state.”

“It’s superstitious nonsense to placate the idiot masses.”

“She does have a point, Mister Stephens.”

“Professor, you are a man of letters and learning. You shouldn’t let a woman’s opinion sway you from the facts.”

Grace wanted nothing more than to set Stephens’ coattails on fire. But she bit her lip and kept pace with the men. When they had, in fact, found Suleiman’s hidden vault, she’d been the one to disarm his traps to allow them entry. Many mementos of his wives and children, little of real value, had been discovered, but they were now on display at the British Museum, minus a few pieces Stephens kept for himself as partial recompense for funding their discoveries.

There was something about Stephens that had always bothered her. He claimed to be in the newspaper business, which explained his overall worldliness. But there was a distance in his eyes, dark green flecked with gold, she’d never been able to categorize. At least her Professor and Violet were easy to figure out; Grace still wished the Professor had left his “research assistant” in their rooms at the hotel in Corinth.

At last, the cavern opened around them. Their torches reflected off of the faces of the gods carved into the rock. The wall before them was unnaturally flat and smooth. The stone door was flanked by Corinthian columns, each topped with a representation of a large eagle, and various inscriptions. They unnerved Grace even as Doctor Murphy surged forward.

“This is astounding! I never thought the entryway to a back door would be so finely detailed!”

“Are we sure this is a back door? It could be the entire temple was underground to begin with.”

“None of my research suggests that.” Violet walked up to stand next to Murphy. “It did speak of a locking mechanism, though. Something advanced.”

“Ah, yes! There’s a globe, here, in the middle of the door. Now…”

Grace raised her torch, looking across the ancient letters. They began to form words, and as she translated them, the words became a warning.

“‘A Titan stole fire from the gods, and an eagle eats his liver every day. If a mortal…'”

“Read to yourself, please.” Stephens was watching the pair at the door. “The Professor is working.”

Grace almost didn’t hear him. Her blue eyes went wide as she took in the words.

“Get away from the door!”

The Professor and Violet glanced back at her. Both were touching the globe in the middle of the door. Their hands slipped and the cavern echoed with an unearthly mechanical sound. The globe slid open, revealing a glowing amber crystal.

“It’s beautiful…” Violet reached to to touch it.

Grace dove behind a stalagmite. The next moment, a flash of blinding light and incredible heat filled the cavern. As she sat squeezing her eyes shut, she felt a presence, a towering being close by that looked down at her. It spoke, and her head translated the words.

“LEAVE THIS PLACE.”

The light and heat were gone. She took a moment to catch her breath before standing and raising her torch.

Two burnt human skeletons lay before the door, still smoking. The globe in the center of the door was still open, but the crystal was gone.

And so was Stephens.

Chuck’s “The Business End”, from Flickr

Chuck Wendig chose my words – Beast, cape, dinosaur, finger, gate, insult, justice, paradise, research, university.

They were three by the time the reached the gate. Two of Johnson’s partners had backed out of the actual trip, saying they’d be satisfied with evidence. Daniels was the only one crazy enough to volunteer to leave the lab after all the calculations and research were finished. And Peters had always been something of a lone wolf, ever since the disaster at Cape of Good Hope. It couldn’t have been easy, seeing one’s entire squad wiped out due to bad intelligence and the resulting political backlash driving him out of the service.

“I still think you two should be carrying more than just pistols,” Peters said as they stood in front of the gate.

“We’ll be fine. The target isn’t dangerous unless you get very close.” Daniels was calibrating his equipment. Peters shook his head.

“You draw down on something back there with just that 10-mil, you might as well hurl insults. Those might be more effective.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Johnson approached, sporting khaki shorts and sturdy boots as he slipped into a utility vest. Predictions were for a hot, tropical environment with uneven terrain. “It is not as if we are planning to stay there. We are as prepared as we will ever be, and further dawdling may cause us to lose our window.”

Peters shrugged. “I just don’t want to have to drag you two back through, screaming for your mothers.”

Daniels rolled his eyes, finishing the final calibrations at the gate. He checked his watch and synchronized it with the one in the lab. “We’re set. We have three hours, twenty-one minutes. After that another alignment won’t happen for seventy-four hours, sixteen minutes.”

“I don’t want to be stuck there three days. Let’s do this.” Peters cocked his rhino gun. “After you, Professor.”

“I never went to a university doctorate program, but I appreciate the sentiment!” Daniels turned to the gate, which was now filled with a cloying darkness. He took a deep breath and stepped into it.

There was a feeling of vertigo, one similar to the feeling he’d had during the zero-gravity training they’d had. He’d been prepared for the nausea, but not the sudden and complete disorientation. It passed almost immediately, replaced by oppressive humidity and a cacophony of noises made by the sorts of insects and beasts that dwelt in dense jungle areas, but it took the scientist a moment to regather his senses and keep his breakfast down.

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Johnson was the oldest member of the trio by at least two decades, but he’d also served in the military and had been keeping himself in shape. It was the only reason Peters had allowed him to join in. Daniels’ citations of Johnson’s monetary contributions, and those of the other moguls, meant little to Peters. His mind was entirely practical and procedural. Daniels often wondered what it was like to live with such an apparent dearth of imagination, but when Peters stepped through the distorted space in the narrow space between trees, Daniels was glad he was there.

“Exhilarating.” Johnson took a deep breath and patted his chest, his mustache crinkling with an earnest smile. “Makes one feel good to be alive, eh?”

“Yeah. Great.” Peters had the butt of his weapon to his shoulder, aiming down the sights as he turned slowly in place. “Daniels, track down the target. I’ll plant our marker.”

Daniels nodded, reaching into his satchel for the thermohemogauge he’d created for this trip. While the directional sensor was a touch crude for his tastes, he was more than a little proud of a ten-meter temperature sensor that could pick up variations in air that indicated when a warm-blooded creature was occupying nearby space. He turned in place for a few moments as Peters activated their low-frequency location beacon and shoved it into the ground near the distortion that indicated their way home.

“Found one.” Daniels looks up and pointed. “That way, about eight meters through this thicket. The ambient temperature’s a bit high for a precise read on what it is, but there’s too much localized differential for it to be anything smaller than…”

“Okay, we get it.” Peters stepped into the brush. “I’m on point. Daniels, you’re behind me. Mister Johnson, watch our tails.”

“I shall. Do be careful not to disturb the surroundings overmuch, gentlemen. We are, after all, serpents in paradise.”

“What do you mean?” Daniels was adjusting the knobs on his device, not looking up as he walked between the other men.

“This is land untouched by human hands, my boy. No pollution, no war, no diseases spread with malicious or underhanded intent.”

“Oh.”

“Some of my colleagues would surely like to exploit what resources they can from here, but I simply wanted to see this place for myself. Such purity seems like something from a dream…”

“Quiet.” Peters held up a fist. Both Daniels and Johnson kept quiet as Peters watched the underbrush. He raised two fingers and indicated the others should back up. As they did, a large trunklike leg descended and hit the ground. The noise that followed was a splintering and tearing as the long neck of the dinosaur reached up to allow it access to tastier leaves.

Peters raised his weapon. Daniels touched the shotgun lightly.

“It’s a herbivore, Peters.” The scientist’s voice was barely above a whisper. “No threat to us as long as we don’t get underfoot.”

“We came here to shoot a dinosaur, though. Didn’t we?”

“That we did, my man.” Johnson’s words were filled with awe. “But I do noflcit know if we can do this great creature justice.”

“Only one way to find out.” Daniels swapped his temperature device for another, ensuring it was loaded. He checked his aim, readied his finger, and took a deep breath.

“Nobody make a sound.”

For a moment, it was almost as if the jungle itself was holding its breath along with the three interloping humans.

Then Daniels took the photograph.