The Twain Maxim Read Online Free
Author: Clem Chambers
That was his goal. But by the time he was able to go home, Jane was back on duty and had vanished into the ether …
2
The sergeant wanted to whistle at the babe in the black leathers but that would have been a very bad idea. Whistling at Colonel Jane Brown would have been like pinching the butt of a Tigron.
She pulled the dusty cover off her motorbike, stuffed it into the space where her helmet had been stowed, saddled up and switched on the Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14. It snarled into life. Good to be riding home, she thought, as she arced out of the hangar. At 160 m.p.h., she could be down this ten-mile straight in four minutes, but just as she hit the zone of perfect speed, she saw a police car pull on to the road behind her, blue lights flashing. She could have lost it, of course, but she throttled right back.
Damn, she thought. Busted.
The police car stopped shrinking in the wing mirror and began to grow.
“Pull over,” came a voice from the bullhorns on its roof, and she steered to the edge of the tarmacked road, stopped and dismounted.
The officer on the passenger side got out as she lifted off her helmet, but as he approached her, the car let out a sudden ‘Woot, woot.’ The officer stopped and turned. ‘Woot’ from the squad car meant that something was up. Heambled back to the driver and looked in at the computer terminal his partner had twisted around for him. “Colonel J. Brown,” it read. The gal in the leathers made a pretty strange colonel. His eyes went to “Gender”. “F,” it said. He gave his partner a look; his partner returned it. He glanced down at “Notes”.
DIA.
He straightened, walked round the front of the car and got back into the passenger seat. His partner pulled out and, as they passed her, waved.
Jane put her helmet back on. Cool, she thought, starting her engine. Good to be back in ole Virginia.
Jim looked at the mess that ran down the right of his torso, then rubbed some ointment on to his wounds. It burned. Bastard bacteria, he thought. He took three large strips of plaster and covered them. The abscesses were slowly closing, but after six months, progress seemed glacial. His body had lost its previously honed outline, the result of dedicated running, and he suspected his fitness had gone with it.
He walked out of the bathroom into his bedroom. Jane was coming at the weekend and it was in worse shape than he was. Must do a tidy, he thought. He didn’t make much of a mess, rattling around in his palatial London Docklands flat all on his own, but the agency cleaner didn’t seem to do much. She came one morning a week and shuffled about, with her iPod on, to little effect.
He sat on the end of the bed to pull his socks on, trying not to yank at his injuries. For now, the grenade had put an end to his ability to stand on one leg and hop into a sock. It was a small loss to suffer from such a bad trade.
He pulled on his boxers, picked up his mobile and called Davas.
“Jim, how are you?”
“Great,” he said, perking up at the sound of the old man’s voice.
“You never ring, you never email. Have I upset you?”
“No, no,” said Jim, “I know how busy you are. Don’t want to trouble you.”
“I was starting to worry.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Jim. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“So what is new?”
“Nothing,” said Jim. “It’s just I need some advice.”
“Fire away.”
“It’s sort of like I’m in a vacuum. It’s stupid but I miss having to get up and go to work. It was great at the bank, being on the trading floor with the guys. There was always something kicking off to make money out of. I miss the buzz. I miss working with you,” he laughed sadly, “not that I want to have to save the fucking world again or anything. It’s just I’ve got no day job, nothing to do, but also no one to do the little stuff I need either.”
“Bored?”
“Yes – and, well, kind of like …” He trailed
2
The sergeant wanted to whistle at the babe in the black leathers but that would have been a very bad idea. Whistling at Colonel Jane Brown would have been like pinching the butt of a Tigron.
She pulled the dusty cover off her motorbike, stuffed it into the space where her helmet had been stowed, saddled up and switched on the Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14. It snarled into life. Good to be riding home, she thought, as she arced out of the hangar. At 160 m.p.h., she could be down this ten-mile straight in four minutes, but just as she hit the zone of perfect speed, she saw a police car pull on to the road behind her, blue lights flashing. She could have lost it, of course, but she throttled right back.
Damn, she thought. Busted.
The police car stopped shrinking in the wing mirror and began to grow.
“Pull over,” came a voice from the bullhorns on its roof, and she steered to the edge of the tarmacked road, stopped and dismounted.
The officer on the passenger side got out as she lifted off her helmet, but as he approached her, the car let out a sudden ‘Woot, woot.’ The officer stopped and turned. ‘Woot’ from the squad car meant that something was up. Heambled back to the driver and looked in at the computer terminal his partner had twisted around for him. “Colonel J. Brown,” it read. The gal in the leathers made a pretty strange colonel. His eyes went to “Gender”. “F,” it said. He gave his partner a look; his partner returned it. He glanced down at “Notes”.
DIA.
He straightened, walked round the front of the car and got back into the passenger seat. His partner pulled out and, as they passed her, waved.
Jane put her helmet back on. Cool, she thought, starting her engine. Good to be back in ole Virginia.
Jim looked at the mess that ran down the right of his torso, then rubbed some ointment on to his wounds. It burned. Bastard bacteria, he thought. He took three large strips of plaster and covered them. The abscesses were slowly closing, but after six months, progress seemed glacial. His body had lost its previously honed outline, the result of dedicated running, and he suspected his fitness had gone with it.
He walked out of the bathroom into his bedroom. Jane was coming at the weekend and it was in worse shape than he was. Must do a tidy, he thought. He didn’t make much of a mess, rattling around in his palatial London Docklands flat all on his own, but the agency cleaner didn’t seem to do much. She came one morning a week and shuffled about, with her iPod on, to little effect.
He sat on the end of the bed to pull his socks on, trying not to yank at his injuries. For now, the grenade had put an end to his ability to stand on one leg and hop into a sock. It was a small loss to suffer from such a bad trade.
He pulled on his boxers, picked up his mobile and called Davas.
“Jim, how are you?”
“Great,” he said, perking up at the sound of the old man’s voice.
“You never ring, you never email. Have I upset you?”
“No, no,” said Jim, “I know how busy you are. Don’t want to trouble you.”
“I was starting to worry.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Jim. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“So what is new?”
“Nothing,” said Jim. “It’s just I need some advice.”
“Fire away.”
“It’s sort of like I’m in a vacuum. It’s stupid but I miss having to get up and go to work. It was great at the bank, being on the trading floor with the guys. There was always something kicking off to make money out of. I miss the buzz. I miss working with you,” he laughed sadly, “not that I want to have to save the fucking world again or anything. It’s just I’ve got no day job, nothing to do, but also no one to do the little stuff I need either.”
“Bored?”
“Yes – and, well, kind of like …” He trailed
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