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Special Delivery

A top secret manuscript is being delivered to an editor across the city. Will it arrive safely, or be intercepted by fans or foes hoping to get first peek at the pages?

 

The city traffic flowed like blood from a wound. A fatal one.

A ceaseless stream of cars entered the crush, from left, right. Surging, merging. A relentless forward motion that was smooth, seamless. Predictable.

Except for my white compact—lurching across lanes, without indication, squeezing into gaps uninvited, unwelcome.

And the Red SUV, four rows back, following me.

I glanced at the thick white envelope on the back seat. I’d flung it there thinking no-one would really try to take it from me. My bosses had just watched too many James Bond films. But when I surged two lanes across and took a sudden turn, Red followed. And I knew…it was on.

The traffic, which had been crawling along like a Sunday drive with Grandpa, sped up a tad. I saw drivers half a dozen rows ahead breaking free. The good news took a few minutes to trickle back to my row, but I was ready. Gunning forward, I butted into the left lane, forcing the driver behind to brake and blast his horn. A glance in the rear-vision mirror revealed Red unable to follow for those first crucial minutes. I seized my freedom, cruising along Pittwater Road towards the northern beaches of Sydney.

As soon as I was out of Red’s eyeline, I muscled further left and took a sharp turn down a side road. A few more turns and I headed into the car park of a sprawling shopping centre. I looked back. No sign of Red anywhere. Punching the air, I began climbing to the 4^th level.

I cut the engine. Allowed myself a moment to breathe. And smile. “Bond, Jessica Bond!” I said to the mirror.

Luckily, we’d planned for this. My employer, Pirate Publishing, had another vehicle parked here—a blue SUV. I swapped one for the other, donned a blonde wig, then headed out in the blue.

I bet no other 23-year-old Publishing Assistant has ever had such an unconventional assignment.

I’d laughed when, two months before, a few of us were given afternoons off to learn martial arts and evasive driving skills for a “special assignment”. What kind of book company needed trained spies as employees?

Turned out a few did, for times like this when certain in-demand manuscripts passed from writer to publisher/editor. What with all the online hacking and people prepared to pay top dollar for unauthorized glimpses of popular books, the book industry had become like the Wild West at times.

I never really thought I’d get to use what I’d learnt “in the field”. Or, rather, on Sydney’s streets. But here I was. Delivering the first draft of John S.S. Maroney’s final instalment in his acclaimed fantasy series to his editor. Maroney had broken all publishing records with his previous five books. But the last book had taken ten years to write—partly due to writer’s block and partly to excessive celebrating over the success of the first five.

But if the final book was great, all would be forgiven. Hollywood actors were already in gyms and body-sculpting clinics, preparings for parts in the TV series based on the book.

There’d been so much clamoring for story details that Maroney, a quirky old-fashioned man, decided to type the story on a Smith Corona typewriter. No hacker—Russian or local—could worm their way into his system and steal his blood-and-sweat stained words. Today I was delivering the first draft to his editor Pattie Liniker who worked from home in Sydney’s northern beach suburbs.

“No-one’s really going to try to run me off the road, are they?” I asked my boss, Billy Pradesh.

“Hopefully not,” Billy said. “But fortune favours the prepared, as they say.”

“Who said that?” Billy was a fountain of literary references. I tried to match him quote for quote.

“Shakespeare probably said it at some point,” he said. “But I’m thinking of an animation, The Incredibles.”

“Who do you think might be coming after the book?”

“MI6, CIA!” He grinned. “Someone from the dark web who thinks they can ask a fortune in ransom.”

The dark web? Not good.

“Don’t worry,” said Billy. “It’s a worst-case scenario.”

Pirate Publishing had sent two other couriers out with fake manuscripts as decoys, in case anyone was watching.

I had the real thing.

“Don’t lose it, will you?” said Billy.

 

I relaxed as I re-entered the throng of traffic in Blue, feeling confident I’d complete the mission without event.

But just to be sure—and to demonstrate my new driving skills—I swerved left once more. And there it was—a small white car a few rows back.

Perhaps it was coincidence? I might just be paranoid. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get you! Joseph Heller, Catch 22.

I surged right once. Twice.

So did Whitey.

What the—?

They were definitely following me. But how was it possible? I’d changed cars. Were they using satellites to surveil me? Me?

I put my foot down. So did Whitey.

I’d never really driven this fast or recklessly, through traffic. Weaving, surging, roaring forward. Whitey didn’t seem to be gaining on me, which was something.

But I needed to lose them before I circled back to the editor’s house.

And then a wall of cars appeared in front of me. Stationery. I jammed on the brakes and crawled to a stop in a 3-lane traffic jam.

Could it be roadworks? I kept the engine running as I wondered what to do, hoping things would move in a minute. I couldn’t see Whitey in the cars behind. But they’d be there, I knew.

A horn blared beside me, making me jump—an impatient driver letting off steam.

I glanced at the envelope on the passenger seat. Is it worth all this trouble?

When I heard car doors slamming and saw people getting out of their vehicles, my throat clenched with fear.

I looked back. And spotted a white car one row over and five back. Was it the white car? What would they do to me if they caught me? Knock me down and snatch the manuscript? Or stab me and take it.

I cut the engine, got out of the car and glanced back. My eyes met those of a long-haired older man getting out of the white.

I looked around. What could I do?

I can’t get over it. I can’t move around it. I’ll have to go under it. Words from We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. Not exactly literature but….

When a guy walking by blocked the long-haired man’s view of me, I ducked and rolled under my car.

It’s so gross here. It was then I remembered, I had a fear of tight spaces. And, anyway, this will be the first place he’ll look. I glanced over at the car to my right, peeked my head out. And rolled under that one.

What if the traffic starts moving?

I lay there, every muscle taut, listening for the purr of the engine or footsteps.

And there they were. Deliberate, slow. He wore ankle-high boots, made of some kind of animal skin. Crocodile, maybe? Or snakeskin.

The guy squatted down, joints creaking, long hair dragging on the road, but thankfully, he only looked under my car…not the one beside it.

“She’s gone. And so is the manuscript.” His voice was like gravel crunching beneath car wheels as he spoke to someone across the cars.

“She can’t have gone far!” a shout came back.

O

M

G

I am fearless. And therefore powerful!

I tried to believe the quote that popped into my head from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Clutching the manuscript so tight my knuckles blanched, I wondered how many there were out there looking for me.

A stream of fast feet passed by. Car doors slammed, biting on my nerves. I peeked out, then crept out, staying low. Peering through windows, I found an empty car with its back door unlocked. I climbed in and lay on the seat.

Even if the guys found me, they couldn’t shoot or stab me, in public. People would see it and video it. But, what good will that do me if I’m dead?

I needed to think.

I lay there for long minutes, listening to horns, sirens, shouts. Eventually, the car door opened and someone got in the front. “You’ll have to tell them I’ll be late.” A man was talking to someone on the phone. “There’s an almighty jam here. Some problem with the traffic lights.”

Problem with traffic lights? Sounded like a system hack to me. Was it all for me? Everything inside me twisted into a double helix.

What’s my next move?

Just think happy thoughts and you’ll fly! Not helpful now, Mr Barrie, author of Peter Pan!

I sat up.

“What the Hell!” the guy said, turning around.

“Sorry, wrong car!” I got out.

As I slammed the door, three pairs of eyes snapped my way, one of them the Snakeskin man. In unison, they headed my way.

I squatted and ran, keeping low, weaving through the lines of cars. When one of the men emerged from behind a van and made a grab for me, I hurled myself over the hood of the nearest car to avoid him, then scuttled two rows across, squeezing between two vehicles.

Snakeskin went by, with a Terminator gait.

When he’d passed, I opened the nearest car door and climbed in. He turned at the sound, as if suspecting something. His dead-eyed gaze scanned people inside the vehicles.

Beside me, a good-looking guy behind the wheel smirked. “You lost?”

I leaned over and kissed him. I reasoned Snakeskin man would not recognize the back of my head and wouldn’t be expecting this. The guy tensed at first, but just went with it. I lingered a bit…just to be safe.

“Thanks,” he said, dreamily. “See you round!”

I got out and continued through the cars, hoping to break away, head to a side street and call an Uber.

Behind me, I vaguely registered a whirring of bike wheels. I leaned back against the car as a fast-food delivery guy skimmed by.

And whipped the manuscript out of my hands!

“Wait!” I said.

I chased the bike rider for a time, until he pulled ahead and I gave up.

And then the traffic began to move.

Snakeskin guy gave me a cheeky salute before he got into his car. Of course, the biker was with them. Mission accomplished!

But it wasn’t over yet. I had an idea where he was headed.

I’d been confused at first, but then I remembered a quote from Sherlock Holmes.

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I set my navigator and moved off.

Ten minutes later, I nodded to the fast-food guy who had emerged from a suburban house. John SS Maroney stood in the doorway, in a silk dressing gown.

“Can I help you?” he asked as I walked through the front gate.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said.

Over his shoulder, I saw the envelope with the manuscript sitting on the hallway bookcase.

“Bit of writer’s block, have you, sir?”

“It’s gone beyond that,” he said, “more like a steel barricade.”

While I’d been lying in the back seat of that car, I hadn’t been able to resist taking a peek at the great man’s words. What I’d found…surprised me.

“You pretended to have finished the book, then got someone to steal it before anyone saw that the manuscript pages were all blank.”

“I don’t want to let anyone down.” He sighed. “I just need more time.”

“We may be able to help. Someone can work through things with you. Spark an idea.” Or we could chain him to the desk, with no pretty girls or booze, until he’s finished?

He was the King of fantasy. He’d have to do whatever it took to keep that title.

Because, in the publishing world’s game of thrones, you win or you die!