That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

“Wolfgang! Dammit, it’s good to see you. Hell of a job last night. Hell of a job!”

The warmth in Edric’s tone was more than Wolfgang had ever heard him express. As the captain called for them to fasten their seatbelts, he took a seat across the aisle from Kevin, feeling the bigger man’s eyes on him the entire time. As the seatbelt clicked, he glanced at Kevin and saw him look away.

There was a shadow in his eyes—a little shame, or a little sadness.

The plane’s engines whined, then the aircraft shot down the runway, lifting into the air like a bird.

As soon as the seatbelt light went off, Wolfgang turned to Edric. “Hell of a thing with those Russians.”

“What do you mean?”

Wolfgang shrugged. “If Kevin hadn’t seen them walking in and come to warn me, they probably would’ve got the jump on us.”

Edric’s eyes narrowed, and Kevin sat up. They both stared at Wolfgang. Lyle and Megan were watching him, also.

“He came to warn you?” Edric asked quietly.

Wolfgang nodded. “My earpiece was giving me trouble all night. Guess he couldn’t get through. Right, Kev?”

Kevin’s cheeks flushed, and he looked down. But he nodded. “Yeah . . . that’s right.”

Wolfgang could tell Edric wasn’t fooled, but he said nothing. He stared at Wolfgang for a long moment, then grunted and slapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Good job, Kevin. Lyle, let’s take a look at those earpieces.”

Wolfgang walked to the tail of the plane, stopping at the minibar next to Lyle. He poured himself a water and sipped it, shooting Lyle a sideways glance.

The computer wiz smirked then whispered, “There’s nothing wrong with those earpieces if you charge them.”

“Roll with me?” Wolfgang said.

“I guess I owe you one.”

“Owe me one?”

Lyle’s cheeks flushed red, and he turned back to the computer.

“Owe me for what?”

Lyle sniffed, and a grin tugged at his lips. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that . . . the bomb was disabled after the second wire.”

“What?”

Megan turned in her seat, and Wolfgang was suddenly aware that the entire plane was listening again.

He growled. “The second wire? What about the purple wire? You told me to pull the purple wire!”

“Sure,” Lyle said. “That just disabled the clock.”

Wolfgang slammed the glass down. “My god, man. I was about to have a heart attack!”

A ripple of laugher echoed through the plane, and Lyle broke into a grin. “Welcome to Charlie Team, Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang Returns in…

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That Time in Cairo

A Wolfgang Pierce Novella

September, 2011

Even in late summer, Buffalo was cool. Sharp wind drifted off Lake Erie and tore through the city like the revenging hand of God, searching for anybody who may be guilty of being comfortable. Only weeks from now, the snow would start, and a month after that, it would clog Buffalo, piled high against every building. For now, standing outside was still bearable, but the shortening days and sharpening wind were an omen of what lay ahead.

Wolfgang stood thirty yards from the building with his hands jammed into the pockets of a light windbreaker. From his vantage point on the sidewalk, he could see through the smeared windows and into the dingy interior of Jordan Fletcher Home for Children. Harried workers ran back and forth, dressed in scrubs featuring safari animals, while children played in any number of small rooms with colorful walls.

These were the outcasts—the orphans and the lonely—children who were between foster homes or awaiting an impending adoption mired in red tape. Wolfgang knew their stories because he was one of them, and so was Collins.

Through the third story of the shabby building, Wolfgang could see her room. It was small, with a mechanical bed lifted into a seat. Collins’s room was more akin to a hospital room than a child’s bedroom. Sure, the same bright paints adorned the walls, and the same toys littered the floor, but Collins didn’t run and play like the other children. She didn’t laugh as loud or walk as fast.

And she never would.

Wolfgang found a park bench that faced the facility. The wooden slats of the bench creaked under his weight, but it felt good to sit. He watched the little room on the third floor. From this angle, he could just make out the top of the bed and the small, curly-haired head that rested against a pillow. Eyes shut. Cheeks pale.

Another blast of lake wind tore down the street, crashing around Wolfgang’s windbreaker like water over rock, but he didn’t move. He didn’t even shudder. Wolfgang just watched the room, thinking of Collins, and for the dozenth time that year, he told himself to get up and go inside. Go to her room . . . sweep her up in a hug. Tell his baby sister that he loved her.

But he couldn’t.

He closed his eyes and heard the crash of glass against hardwood. He heard the yell of a drunken man out for blood. The scream of a panicked woman shielding her children. The broken sob of a little girl, her breaths ragged and filled with pain.

“Throw that runt out!” the man had screamed. “No child of mine is defective!”

More glass shattered. More household items flew like artillery shells, exploding against marred drywall, already battered by a hundred such engagements.

And so it went, two, sometimes three nights a week—as often as the man found the bottle, and the bottle found the floor, and the little girl cried and sheltered behind her bruised mother while her older brother cowered in the shadows . . . and did nothing.

Wolfgang opened his eyes. They stung with cold tears as the wind intensified. He couldn’t see Collins’s head now, but he imagined he could. He imagined he could hear her breaths, each one filled with pain as the ravages of her disease clutched her body.

He stood up, leaning into the wind and hurrying across the street, then stopped in front of the smudged glass entrance and stared at the handle. Wolfgang turned to the right and approached the donation slot next to the door. He dug