Four Killing Birds Read online

  "You…you trained these things?" Gin asked as she stared in shock at the birds.

  I nodded proudly. "Yup. Found the four eggs abandoned in New Guinea years ago. I was helping a tribe over there with an issue they were having with head-shrinking and they insisted I take them with me." Gin looked like she was about to ask me something, then changed her mind. I ignored it. My family often looked at me like that.

  I pointed to the first male, who was trying desperately to sit on Poppy. "That's Beowulf," I pointed out the others. "Hrothgar, Bulvai…" And settled my finger on the last one—the smallest. "That's Kevin."

  Gin looked at me with her mouth open, then started laughing. "Beowulf, Hrothgar, Bulvai, and Kevin? Really?"

  I shrugged, "That's what I thought they were telling me. The name Kevin didn't seem to fit originally, but that's what he wanted."

  My cousin doubled over with laughter. Poppy was now running in and out of the feathers of four sitting birds, trying to decide which one to settle with.

  "Anyway"—I tried to steer the subject—"I raised them from eggs. I was told they couldn't be trained, but that's wrong. You just need the right motivation." The right motivation in this case, was marshmallows—which I'm sure goes without saying.

  Gin turned to me, convinced Poppy was safe with the birds. "You still haven't answered my question of 'why me?' Is it because of my book?"

  "Well, that's part of it. But also, they don't like men. That's the other part."

  "Wait." Gin shook her head as if to clear it. "We're using these giant birds to kill the members of LEOPOLD?"

  I grinned and nodded. "Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?"

  * * *

  Poppy did not want to go back to my condo with us, and the cassowaries didn't want her to go either. I tossed them some fruit (they only get marshmallows on special occasions) while Gin snagged the pooch, and soon we were back in my kitchen with wine and the files.

  "You see"—I pointed to a particular page—"LEOPOLD meets only once a year, and for one night only. It's the one time they are all in the same room."

  "Okay," Gin said nodding. "But why those prehistoric ostriches?"

  "They're called cassowaries, and they are the most dangerous bird in the world." I pulled up a video on my laptop of a cassowary attacking a man. "They are armed with a five-inch long, razor sharp claw on the first toe of each foot. They can jump into the air and disembowel a human with one swipe, or they knock them down and slit their throats. And they're native to Australia."

  Gin's eyes lit with understanding, "And that's where, according to these files, LEOPOLD is having their annual evening of debauchery on Christmas Eve! Missi, that's brilliant!"

  "I've been waiting for a long time to use these guys on a hit." And I wasn't kidding. I'd spent years shaping these guys into, well, fat, weird-looking ninja killers. I just needed the right opportunity—an opportunity that because of our retirement from the profession—I didn't think would ever come.

  It was beyond perfect. LEOPOLD gathered one day a year in one spot, and this year they were meeting at the Queen Victoria Resort near the Daintree Rainforest in Queensland, off the northern coast of Australia. The reason for the secrecy was so folks like us wouldn't be able to take out the whole cabal. It was amazing that Mom, Aunt Carolina, and the others even got this information. We still had no names—just fuzzy photos of our targets. Daintree was also a protected reserve for cassowaries—which made it all the more fun.

  According to the file, these assholes met at a different, undisclosed resort each Christmas Eve to smoke Cuban cigars, drink the most expensive scotch they could find, eat endangered species, and have a night of debauchery complete with upscale prostitutes. Why they chose Christmas Eve was anyone's guess. Maybe they thought assassins wouldn't attack then. Perhaps they got a kick out of being perverts on a major, international holy day. Whatever the reason, they'd managed to keep this one-night-a-year creepy party going since they began, several decades ago.

  "Well," Gin said, "we have three days to get the birds there. And then we have to arrange it to go off without a hitch. How do we do that?"

  I took a sip of my wine. "We'll use the private plane, of course—with the birds safely tucked away in the cargo hold. Fly into a private hangar in Queensland. I've made arrangements for a large delivery truck to be at the hangar so we can travel with the birds unseen. And I've rented out a private home in the forest, only a ten minute trek from our target."

  Gin laughed, "You make it sound so easy! Hauling four, five-foot-seven inch tall killer birds across the world."

  I sat back on the couch and thought about it. "I guess I sort of miss the work. The organization part was always fun. Coming up with new ways to off the baddies—I miss that too."

  "So you're saying you don't like retirement?" Gin asked.

  "I guess I miss killing bad people a bit," I answered. "How about you?"

  My cousin thought about this. "I do get bored. I think it happens to all Bombays at one time or another. There were slow times—I guess there were some slow times in the '50s when they didn't have as many assignments coming in. Grandma Mary even did a stint as Liberace's beard."

  Gin got up and poured another glass of wine. "Tell me about your birds. What did you call them again? Not ostriches?"

  I held up my glass for her to refill, and we made our way to the living room.

  "Cassowaries. Not ostriches. Not emus. Distantly related I think. In their culture, males only see the females for mating. The males raise the chicks." I pointed at Poppy who was snoring on the couch. She'd abandoned her cassowary "moms" to their barn and had come in through the open patio doors to join us while we were in the kitchen. With her fat, rotund body and toothpick thin legs, she looked a bit like a fatted tick. "I believe they think Poppy's one of their chicks."

  "Cassowaries are weird," Gin said as she reached over and rubbed the dog's huge belly. Poppy farted happily then resumed snoring.

  I shrugged. "Well, Bombays always had a thing for weird. Remember the one you wrote about from Egypt who had the two pet dodo birds?"

  Gin nodded, "Cairo Bombay. Isn't he the one who bought this island?"

  "Yup. In fact, he left behind a petrified dodo egg." I swirled the wine around in my glass lazily. "I was always planning to clone a bird from that egg."

  "What is it with you and birds?" Gin laughed.

  "I like the cassowaries because I think of them as a lost link to their prehistoric ancestors. With their crazy casque, bright blue necks, and bright red wattles, they look like something I'd invent."

  Gin frowned. "I know what wattles are, but what's a casque?"

  "That big ridged boney structure on top of their heads. They demonstrate the age of the bird, and they use them in head butts."

  "That's pretty amazing," Gin said. "How will they kill the four LEOPOLD dudes?"

  "I've trained them over the years to react to different words. Cassowaries are super aggressive when there's food, and there will be a lot of it in the room. I'd hacked into their catering invoice and added even more—especially fruit. They love fruit."

  "But just to make sure they attack, I've also devised a number of word and hand signals that can set them off too."

  "So, we're just going to open the door and shoo them into the room with these guys?" Gin asked.

  I nodded. "That's the idea. The hard part is going to be getting them into the building, and then past security. I've got the floor plans for the private club room where they'll be at the resort, but LEOPOLD will undoubtedly have bodyguards of some sort."

  Gin thought about this. "I heard they're the ones who set up that thing in online forms where if you don't retype the captcha question right, you have to reenter all your data again."

  I took a sip of wine. "Those bastards! They should die for that alone." I clapped my cousin on the back. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow is your first lesson in cassowary wrangling."

  Gin rolled her eyes and drained her wine glass.
"Fantastic."

  * * *

  The next morning Gin, Poppy, and I arrived at the barn where the cassowaries lived. They came running when they saw Gin. Poppy barked happily and slipped under the fence. Kevin and Bulvai nuzzled her affectionately while Hrothgar and Beowulf tried to sit on her. It was harder than they thought.

  First, I taught Gin how to tell the difference between each bird. Beowulf was the tallest with the largest casque, so that was easy. Hrothgar had a dent in the side of his casque and his wattles were longer and a brighter red than the others. Kevin was the smallest and Bulvai had a grey streak running down the length of his black plumage. Poppy either knew the difference or didn't care. She loved being the center of the attention of the birds. Which gave me an idea.

  "Gin," I asked, "we could always use Poppy as a way to lead the birds in…"

  Gin shot me a look. "What do you mean?"

  I wasn't quite sure how to phrase this, so I just said it. "LEOPOLD hates dogs. They're the ones behind the policy to shoot them on sight in Iraq and Afghanistan." Oh sure, the military thought they came up with the policy to save soldiers' lives. Terrorists knew Americans were suckers for dogs, so they'd snipe them first, shooting in the legs so the servicemen would try to rescue them, bringing the soldiers into the snipers' line of fire. But it was actually LEOPOLD, through one of their contractors that insisted upon it. Last year they spent Christmas Eve in Thailand. Their dinner? Roast dog.

  "So you think they'd try to hurt Poppy and the birds would attack?" Gin's face was filled with horror. "That's a terrible idea!"

  I held my hands up. "Sorry! My bad. I would never want to put her in harm's way. Just thinking out loud."

  Gin frowned. "Well, it's not such a bad idea. I mean, clearly the birds wouldn't let them hurt her…but I'd rather it was a last resort instead of the main plan." She looked at me. "What keyword launches an attack anyway?"

  I leaned forward, whispering it into her ear so the birds wouldn't hear it.

  Gin smiled. "I like that." I thought it was fitting too. No one ever said the word rutabaga anymore. I thought that was unfair somehow.

  We worked all day with the birds, Gin learning the ins and outs of cassowary handling. She did okay—it was the first time I'd ever had someone else to help me with it. My twin sons, Monty and Jack tended to tease the poor things, and since cassowaries didn't like men anyway, I kept them far away from my birds.

  The hardest part was getting the birds to stop mooning over Gin and forcing them to listen to her commands. All they wanted to do was groom her. She was a celebrity to them. Poppy sat on the sidelines and barked appreciatively, encouraging us all.

  After a brief break for lunch, Gin finally grasped the idea, and in no time we mastered a sort of flanking maneuver. The four birds would stand in rows of two with me on the left, slightly in front and Gin on the right, hanging back just a smidge. By whistling softly, we were able to get them to move the way we wanted to.

  At dusk we made our way back to the apartments, and after quick showers we met up for a sunset dinner on the terrace.

  "That was super hard." Gin stretched, rubbing the muscles in her arms. "Do we practice it again tomorrow?"

  I nodded and handed her a tube of my special invention pain cream. "Early in the morning, in fact. We need to be able to maneuver them through the woods in the dark."

  "Hey," Gin said after using the muscle cream, "this works great! The pain is totally gone—and so quickly. You should sell this stuff."

  "I'd never get it past the FDA in the US," I answered. Especially if they knew what was in it. The cream worked and there were no side effects. It was odorless and colorless and totally natural. But the ingredients would concern some people, so I didn't even try. I mean, really, what's the problem with a little bat semen anyway? It's much harder to get—not as easy as you'd think either, so mass production would be a bit weird.

  Gin asked, "Why don't we just burst into the room and shoot LEOPOLD?"

  I threw my hands up in the air. "Well that's no fun! Gin, these bastards are responsible for seventy-nine percent of all mankind's suffering in the world in the past six decades! Shooting them is boring. Being eviscerated by large, creepy looking birds is perfect for them. It's poetic justice."

  Gin nodded. "I can see your point."

  "And let's not forget that this is the last Bombay assignment ever," I added. "We need a spectacular ending."

  I pulled out maps and blueprints. "We're going to hide here." I pointed at a small square on the map showing the house I'd rented. "There's a footpath that leads here, to the private club they are staying at. It's about a six hundred yard trek through dark woods."

  My cousin examined the map. "What kind of private club?"

  "An extremely exclusive one in a separate building from the main resort, with a nine-foot high fence around it and a private dining room filled with expensive hunting trophies. For all I know they even have human heads mounted in there."

  I showed her on the blueprints. "They'll be having a late dinner and drinks in this room. The prostitutes are supposed to come through this side door so no one sees them."

  "Prostitutes?" Gin asked, arching her right eyebrow.

  I grinned. "Oh, they aren't really coming. I took care of the arrangements. Instead of four extremely expensive call girls, four killing birds will come in and take these guys out."

  Gin laughed. "Four killing birds—like the Christmas song."

  I cocked my head. "Duh." That reminded me that it was almost Christmas. I walked over to the stereo and turned on my iPod to my holiday mix. Alvin and the Chipmunks started singing carols, and it made me smile.

  "This is fun!" Gin said, raising her glass for a toast. "To the last Bombay hit ever. If we get it right, we'll be famous in the family!"

  I raised my glass and clinked hers. "You got that right. I almost wish we could include Coney or Dak or Paris in this one."

  Gin's eyes lit up. "Maybe we can. We can use them to disable the guards. After all, we'll be busy with the birds…"

  "I don't know…we'd have to keep them out of sight of the cassowaries. I wouldn't want them disemboweling a Bombay."

  Gin nodded happily in the full flush of her idea. "We can do it! I'd love to have some more of the gang in on this last gig!"

  I blew out a breath of air I didn't know I'd been holding. "I don't know…"

  Gin shrugged. "Why not? It's not like we can get in trouble from the Council because they don't exist anymore. And this is a BIG target! We have to guarantee it will work because we won't get another shot at them until a year from Christmas if we screw it up. AND if we screw it up, it will be even more difficult to get the information next year, if that's even possible."

  She had a point. And I wouldn't mind a bit more help with this one. "Okay, get on the phone and invite two more Bombays. But only two! I want to keep the testosterone count low so the birds don't freak out."

  Gin was already on the phone. I was pretty sure what I'd said didn't even matter. Oh well. I did like the idea the more I thought about it. Two more pairs of hands and we could guarantee a successful hit. I kept drinking as Gin made the calls. One hour later, two of the three cousins had agreed to join us.

  * * *

  "Missi! Sis!" Dakota got off the plane and hugged Gin and then me. "This is so cool! I'm stoked!" Gin's baby brother and my cousin was a handsome blond man and dressed well in an expensive suit. He probably had hundreds of dollars' worth of hair product on. The mosquitos here would have a field day.

  Our cousin, Coney Island Bombay followed more somberly, giving us a brief smile as he hugged us. Coney, or Cy as he was known, was probably the only family member besides me to be considered weird. A Harvard grad with a PhD in philosophy, he was a professional carny—before he married Veronica that is. He looked unusually normal now in a blue silk shirt and khaki slacks, and he even had normal hair. Married life and retirement had made him, well, less weird, and that was a little sad. We had our team. Fou
r Bombays to take out the four members of LEOPOLD. Failure now was no longer an option.

  "Paris couldn't come because of the new baby," Gin explained to the guys as we led them to the main building. They'd had a long flight and wanted to change into clothes more fitting for the tropical heat. While we waited on my terrace for Cy and Dak to join us, Gin and I discussed how the practice in the dark jungle had worked out the early dark hours of the morning.

  "We'll need some sort of illumination," Gin said. "I was tripping over everything and had to grab hold of Kevin at one point to keep from twisting my ankle. And if I'm tripping here, I'll probably trip in Australia."

  I grinned at her description. "You said his name right!"

  "We could use night vision goggles…" Gin suggested.

  I shook my head. "No, the birds would freak out. They're big on face recognition. We don't want them attacking us."

  "Is there a full moon that night?" Gin asked hopefully.

  "No. Open flame torches would scare the birds and flashlights would stand out. I don't even think glow sticks would work." An idea popped into my head. "I've got something that might work though. We'll bring it with us."

  The guys joined us, and Gin poured them some sangria while I filled them in on the job.

  Cy whistled. "LEOPOLD, huh? I've always wanted to go after those guys. They were behind the shoddy inspections on carnival equipment that got people killed."

  Dak agreed. "They discontinued my hair gel!"

  We all looked at him. He shrugged.

  "I'd like to see these birds of yours," Cy said. He was an animal lover too—had a guinea pig named Sartre who traveled with him.

  "Only from a distance," I warned. "They're not fond of men. You guys are here to secure the building and take out the bodyguards. That's all." I opened the map and blueprints, and we went to work.