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Aviators man’s face remained stoic. “No. Not really.”
“Fine! Play hardball, Jonesy. I like that about you.”
“I’m not playing. I’m genuinely not interested.”
“The plane crash. The Miss Teen Dream beauty queens on the other side of the island?”
From the safety of her hiding spot, Taylor gasped and immediately put a hand to her mouth to silence herself. Aviators man’s head turned slightly in her direction and Taylor crouched lower.
“What is it?” the college kid asked.
“Nothing,” Aviators man said.
“So The Corporation was looking for those girls and the whole time they’re right here with us on the island.”
“The Corporation knows that, and they weren’t looking for them.”
An icy dread coursed through Taylor’s blood. It beat a warning in her temples.
“What do you mean?” the college kid asked.
Aviators man exhaled a plume of smoke. “We get some rescue crews here to pick up a few beauty queens, next thing you know, they’re taking a closer look at our operation. They find out about Operation Peacock. Do you know what would happen if people found out The Corporation is making an arms deal with MoMo B. ChaCha?”
Taylor knew about MoMo B. ChaCha and his country, the Republic of ChaCha. Every morning after she finished her exercises, she read the paper cover to cover so that she would be up on her current events. The judges would never catch her unawares. She knew that MoMo was a very bad customer, and no American corporation should be doing business with him.
“Yeah, I get it. Shit happens.” The college kid shrugged. “It’s just too bad they have to die. They’re totally bangable, you know?”
“Bangable,” Taylor mouthed in disgust. She wanted to show this boy another meaning for the word bang, and it involved his head against a steel door. She had to warn the others. Somehow, they had to let the world know what was really going on here.
“So I guess this is officially the end of the Miss Teen Dream Pageant, then. The ratings sucked anyway. Now we can finally program something good, like Bridal Death Match36.”
Taylor had heard enough. She emerged from the jungle like a Kurtzian goddess. Her eyes narrowed. “You. Will not. Mess. With MY pageant.”
“What the —” the college kid squeaked.
Before the agent could extinguish his cigarette and find his gun, Taylor caught his jaw in a roundhouse kick, the same one she’d perfected in countless aerobic kickboxing classes. He staggered back, his nose bloodied.
“And smoking is a terrible habit that not only eats your lungs away, it gives you those spidery lip wrinkles before your time, which Botox will not fix.” Taylor whipped around to face the Dweeb. “Would you like some of this, rudely staring man?”
The kid continued staring. “You are so hot. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Damn!” Aviators man realized he’d left his gun on his desk — a rookie mistake. This new corporate culture was making him soft. He grabbed for the beauty queen, and she deftly elbowed him in the gut.
“Flag corps,” she hissed. “Learned that move for my first Miss Purdy Boots pageant. It’s got a real nice follow-up that goes something like this!”
Taylor executed two backflips with a kick to his ribs.
“Gymnastics,” she huffed. “My dismount was the envy of stage mothers across Texas.”
“Get her, you jackass,” Aviators man gasped from the ground.
“Could I have your number?” the Dweeb asked.
But Taylor didn’t stick around to answer. “A Miss Teen Dream is a bright light in the world,” she intoned. She was team captain, and her girls needed her. Alive with purpose, she took off running. Despite his wounds, the agent poured on speed, and Taylor felt something she hadn’t experienced in years: fear. Her breath was ragged, animalistic, the opposite of pretty. Her lungs burned. She stooped to grab a coconut.
“Ready? Okay!” she said in perfect cheerleader rhythm and launched it behind her. There was a moment of satisfaction as she heard the man hiss in pain. Some girls lost their aim in times of crisis. Taylor did not. Quick thinking. It was what separated the queens from the runners-up. Taylor was not going for runner-up.
Agent Jones’s shoulder throbbed where he’d taken the full brunt of the coconut. He ran fast, but he was no match for the beauty queen’s youth and conditioning. If she made it back to the beach, she’d warn the others. The operation would be exposed. His pension and benefits would disappear. Or he’d have to kill them all. Quick thinking. It was what separated the men from the dweebs. Agent Jones was no dweeb. He might not be able to catch her, but he had something that could. Still running, he reached into his pocket for the darts.
