Not Really Friends

By L. A. Arceo

Agent Rand once said the holiday season brings people together like the crowds of merry New Yorkers seventy floors below. While my FBI partner might not have worried about forging willy-nilly attachments, I was content keeping to myself. Otherwise, I might’ve been easily manipulated in situations like this atop the Rockefeller Center.

“If you refuse to relinquish the skeleton key, I’ll shoot your unlucky partner again.” The ridiculously mustached hacker leveled my Glock at Rand who rolled his eyes like a child who hadn’t just been shot. His splattered blood on the observation deck twinkled like the thousands of lights strung up across New York.

I could almost hear my childish partner say, I prefer a real gun—the Colt 1911.

The hacker waved my gun in Rand’s direction once again. “Give me the skeleton key, Agent Neal, or else. I can’t allow the world to think the Gr1nch would capitulate to the establishment!”

“And allow you to wreak havoc upon the US economy?” Though the skeleton key in my pocket proved my mission’s success… Too distracted removing his digital reign over the internet, I’d miscalculated. And now—the Glock’s hammer clicked…

How to regain control? If I stay near the railing, he won’t shoot—can’t have his key falling with me.

“Don’t test me, fed. I’ll kill your friend faster than I hacked the Pentagon on Christmas Eve.”

I raised my empty hands, wishing I had another weapon on me like gun-enthusiast Rand might. Without an alternative tactic, I responded, “Well, we aren’t really friends.”

Rand looked askance at me. “Why would you qualify that now?”

“I mean, we barely know each other.” Shrugging, I took a side-step alongside the railing and nearer Rand, hoping he understood my intentions and kept stalling. “We’re coworkers at best.”

“Come on, man. I took you to my cousin’s bat mitzvah!”

“I was your eighth choice.”

“Sixth!”

“Hate to interrupt, but I believe I was in the processes of murdering you and taking my skeleton key.” The hacker’s gun drifted a bit to motion at me but swung back in Rand’s general direction. His scowl twisted between amusement and anger.

On the tiles, Rand sat up fully, angling his bad arm toward the target. “Sorry man, you can kill me in just a sec.” He turned his head back to me as his good arm reached into his jacket. “Really, did my Hanukkah gift to you mean nothing?”

“I’m not a fan of Star Wars, so no.” I took a step to the side, keeping Rand between me and Mustache.

“You watched the whole series with me!” His voice rose dramatically as his hand stilled under his jacket.

“When I lose a bet, I fulfill my end.” I began to crouch as I shook my head. Not yet.

“Bet—shmet, I know you teared up when Solo came back for them!” He nodded vehemently.

“I am merely allergic to your dogs.” I shook my head again. We had to wait for the hacker’s attention to shift fully. This was why I’d tried to refuse Agent Kowalski’s assignment. Rand and I couldn’t work well as partners; he was too hotheaded. No patience. “I barely even recall what happened.”

“I know you’re allergic to R2 and D2!” Rand growled. Was it at my order to wait, or was he growling at my words? I thought he understood this was all just a bit of stalling. The Gr1nch’s gun wavered farther in exasperation, and now it pointed fully at the tiles. The perfect moment. “And since we’re friends, I’d vacuumed and set up the air purifier before you arrived!”

My eyes fell from the hacker to my partner. “You did?”

“Of course, buddy. Otherwise, you’d be sneezing up a storm during the best parts.”

He’d noticed my negative reaction to dogs? Huh.

Now that I reconsidered it, Han Solo returning to save his friends in The Empire Strikes Back was a truly moving act.

The impatient Rand waggled his brows. “Well?” His tucked-away hand tensed implicitly.

The mustached man echoed him. “Yes, well?” His gun still uselessly pointed at the tiles.

I nodded and lowered my hand. “We truly have grown close since being forced to work together.”

A slide of metal against the deck went unnoticed as Mr. Mustache exposited, “And therefore, you’d be remiss to watch your friend die here today?” Rand’s back blocked the hacker’s view of my catching hand. The sleek handle cooled my palm.

“I suppose I would…” With wry wonder, I raised Rand’s 1911 to eye level with our distracted enemy. “Now drop your weapon.” Perhaps this partner assignment was not all bad.

The hacker gaped, his glare darting between Rand who still sat injured on the deck and me—with Rand’s gun aimed at his head.

My Glock clattered to the deck.

“That’s how we do it!” Rand whooped with a bloody fist thrown into the air before groaning and curling inward to protect the hole in his bad shoulder. “Pain, so much pain.”

I ordered the hacker to the tiles as I kicked my weapon away from him and pulled out my handcuffs. “You’d do well not to move your arm more than necessary, Rand. You’re lucky he missed anything vital.”

I cinched the metal cuff a little more than absolutely necessary, and the Gr1nch hissed.

Rand rolled onto his feet, keeping pressure on his arm. “You mean you’re lucky since your ‘friend’ didn’t bleed out before you could save him.”

Leaving the disheartened criminal cuffed on the ground, I neared my unsteady partner—close enough to catch my friend if he falls. But instead of affirming or denying anything, I offer, “Holiday leave is coming up, and we still haven’t watched the newest Star Wars films VII through IX…”

A smile overtook the pain on his face. Impressive. “Oh buddy, I’d never force those movies on a friend.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L. A. Arceo’s love for storytelling began with reading Narnia as a child. Ever since, she’s told stories through any medium, whether words, music, or paint. L. A. has written articles for Myra Leana and edited stories for Pensacola Christian College. Besides writing, she can be found knee-deep in acrylics, violin, illustration, heavy novels, martial arts, and ASL practice. She lives in “Sin City” Las Vegas—a half-hour away from the chaos.

---

More Stories