Journey To Fortune

They all called in to Slade.

“Affirmative. Let’s get these trucks to the hanger and get the fuck home,” he said and then smiled at Rome.

Suddenly, shots broke through the windshield, hitting Rome in the chest.

Slade jerked the wheel.

“What the fuck? Rome is hit,” he said into his receiver.

He reached over.

“Rome.”

“Just keep fucking driving,” Rome yelled at him.

Slade’s adrenaline was pumping. Who was taking shots at them now? Was it the same person who stole millions of dollars’ worth of art and jewels from their clients? How would they know they came here to steal the shit back to get into their client’s better graces? What the hell was going on? Slade was pissed and as the four trucks pulled into the hanger, there were multiple men there ready to load the aircraft.

He shoved it into park and barked orders out the window. He got out, ran around to Rome’s side, and helped him down.

“How fucking bad is it, Rome?”

“Bad,” he whispered as Pilot ran over and helped him get Rome onto the plane. Slade ran back outside, leaving his brother in good hands with fellow security on the team.

“We need to move quickly,” he yelled out. A set of jeeps pulled up from the distance.

“We got company!” Facto, one of the guards, yelled and then ran around the trucks and pulled out a missile launcher. Slade ran over to grab the other one.

“Let’s take them out. You guys keep loading. We need to move,” he yelled and then Facto shot the first missile, destroying the jeep. Slade took out the second jeep and it wound up hitting the third jeep and taking them both out.

“We got the shit in. Let’s move. Pilot said there’s more vehicles coming in the distance! Radio chatter indicates Russians!” his brother Rylan yelled from where the guys were loading the last crates into the back of the cargo plane. Slade could see the blood on his shirt. It had to be from Rome. They all ran toward the plane, closing up the doors, making sure everything was sealed.

“All in?” he asked and then looked around the cabin at all the men, including the three working on Rome.

“All in,” Rylan said, walking toward Rome.

“Let’s go,” he yelled and they held onto the seats, hoping that they would take off with no problem and that the enemy didn’t have any land to air missiles or missile launchers of their own.

Fifteen minutes later he was next to Rome and Falco, who was helping Rome, swallowing hard and hoping his brother would make it. He looked bad.

“Get a call in to Mercury and have Niall Mondave at the airport waiting for us to arrive. Let him know how bad it is,” he said to his brother Rylan.

Rylan looked super concerned like the rest of them. This situation really pissed Slade off and Mercury and his other brothers were going to have to figure out who was after their company and trying to sabotage their business quickly, and why were Russian soldiers there in Dubai?

* * * *

Rose Ruthers stared out toward the flea market. It was a good distance from the pier, where she sat with her easel, canvas, and paints and continued to work on her panting. She was concentrating on getting the colors just right when she looked away from the canvas and toward the people and all the different vendors. The colors could be so much more vibrant than what it actually looked like. She added a little white to the green and finally found the shade she wanted.

Night was moving in quickly and she wanted to remember the sight, the way the colors darkened. The many strings of lights that illuminated the small flea market would soon be turning off as people went home and vendors packed their things to end the day.

People walked by every so often. Not so much now that night was moving in, and whispered a compliment or mumbled words, but it no longer fazed her. When she was painting nothing else mattered. Not her failures, her mistakes, or that lonely need burning inside of her. She brushed it off as a desire to achieve great things. To be someone of importance. An artist who touched people’s lives by merely mimicking a scene of life through painting and capturing its beauty.

She had spent the day here. Hours just sitting, painting, trying to capture the scene that grabbed her attention days before. It was going to be a long walk back to her small apartment, but looking at the painting, seeing the final touches begin to dry, she knew it had been worth it. She felt a quick second of accomplishment before the dreadful feeling of being a failure hit her core. She had hundreds of gorgeous paintings in storage. Loads in her small apartment. Dozens in the basement, or in the back closets of local studios yet to have reached the walls of their galleries. Why do I bother to keep painting?