Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,22
our process.
“Protocol prevents me from letting you leave,” Samara calmy states from inside the booth.
“We need to leave,” I forcefully counter, leaning to the side for her to see my irked expression. “Now.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Rothwell, but protocol requires all personnel on-site to remain on site until Chartreuse status is reestablished.”
Under his breath, Bronx asks, “What the fuck is chartreuse?”
“A green-yellow or yellow-green shade depending on which is spoken first with it. Named after French liqueur from the 1700s.”
He cuts me an equally impressed and amused glance. “Is there anything you don’t know, Doctor Rothwell?”
“Blake.”
He takes the time to present me with a genuinely apologetic nod. “Blake.”
It’s unfathomable not to smile sweetly at the innocent gesture. “You know what I don’t know, Bronx?” I once more lean forward to be seen by the blonde who is still refusing to open the gate. “The point in having a special badge if I can’t fucking leave when I need to!”
“Protocol states-”
“Say protocol to me one more time,” the threat sneaks out in a harsh snip. “Say that shit to me one more time and see what happens.”
Fear flutters into her wide-eyed gaze.
“See if you don’t end up being voluntold to be a test subject for a smoke bomb bra or hair extension piece that doubles as a choke cord or-”
“Pick up your phone and call your supervisor,” Bronx intervenes to cease her panic from spreading. “When he answers, let me speak to him.”
She releases a heavy sigh, grabs the nearby device, and follows his request.
The instant he has the object pressed to his ear, my bodyguard states, “Foxtrot Oscar Uniform Romeo 231255227.”
Post his spoken code he returns the object to Samara. It’s barely back in her hands as the gate opens, granting us the freedom we require. Bronx offers her a polite nod and presses on the accelerator, clearly anxious to put space between us and whoever is trapped at the facility site.
He pulls onto the private pathway that’ll take us to the main road creating the perfect segue for me to inquire where we’re heading; however, I find myself more curious about something else. “You spelled Four. As in Number Four my brother’s title in the company. Typical NATO Phonetic Alphabet shit, but the numbers you rambled off afterward-”
“They were spoken coherently.”
“-they weren’t numbers that matched letters. That collection wouldn’t have spelled an actual word – BCABEBBG – but perhaps an acronym? Then again an acro – most of the time – is shorter than that considering one of the main points of an acro is to save time and create efficiency-”
“Can you please stop saying acro?”
“Therefore,” I remove a stick of gum and begin to unwrap it, “those numbers were probably actual numbers that reflect the importance of something or several things. The question is what did they represent?” It’s shoved into my mouth around the theory I’m concocting. “Brandon is Four, so they must be tied to him, which means in order to decipher why they were chosen I need to exam how he declares something of value in his spectrum of existence.”
“You’re not gonna stop until you’ve cracked it, are you?”
“He’s unapologetically narcissistic. Perhaps those numbers rotate around his most treasured achievements. The first time he had sex. The first time he completed a task for the company. The first million dollars he made on his own. There are so many to choose from that if I had even the slightest bit of additional information, I could better deduce the combination.”
“Has it occurred to you that maybe you are the additional information?”
His question manages to cut through the rapid racing of my mind.
“What if the numbers aren’t about him but about you?”
There’s no stopping my eyebrows from scrunching together.
“Four is your brother. Maybe the numbers actually revolve around you?”
Silence momentarily spreads throughout the vehicle during our transition onto the main road. He slows his speed and makes what I want to deem as unnecessary turns yet can’t since I’m uncertain of where exactly we’re going. His driving technique in which he randomly pulls into a parking space to determine if we’re being watched or followed fades into the background like a white noise used to increase concentration. I repeat the numbers to myself over and over again, silently and verbally, sorting through them like data that needs categorizing until they finally begin to click in place.
The numbers do revolve around me.
My birth month.
What hour I was born.
Graduation dates.
My employment with the company.
Our get out of hell free card