Page 11 of The Reaper

I spotted him right away. The man was sitting on a bench, facing the water, unmoving. The sun was setting and a small crowd had gathered at Pier 67 to watch the sun disappear behind the city, leaving a burst of red, orange, and blue saturating the sky. I’d been watching him from afar, monitoring the perimeter, making sure he was by himself, and after the dark sky had settled and the crowd thinned into a handful of people, I walked toward him, glancing around to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Paranoia had been wreaking havoc on my calculated life and I despised it.

I sat on the opposite side of the bench, facing the city. We were side by side and neither of us looked at each other. Silence lingered for a brief moment before he spoke. “The view is better down here than where you were,” he said. “You didn’t have to keep me waiting.”

“I don’t trust you,” I said. It was nothing personal, but I didn’t trust anyone with what I was doing. Especially when I wasn’t sure myself.

“Then why am I here?” He shifted on the bench and my hand immediately traveled to the weapon at my waist.

“Relax,” he whispered. “I’m on your side. You know that, right?”

I chuckled. There was only one person on my side. Me. And some days, even I doubted that. “What did you find?” I asked.

Tobias—otherwise known as The Savior—glanced at me, his gaze lingering for a while.

“What?” I asked through gritted teeth, meeting his stare. He was a handsome man, in a rugged kind of way. Older than I was, maybe late thirties or early forties. His light brown hair was buzzed close to his scalp. I couldn’t see his eyes; he was wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sun. A little clichéd but whatever.

Tobias must’ve read my mind. He took his shades off and rested them on his near-bald head. His light brown eyes studied me with intensity. He was the first to break eye contact, pulling a white envelope from his coat pocket, leaving it on the space he vacated when he stood. “I’ll contact you when I know more,” he said before walking away. He stopped after five steps. “Be careful out there,” he added without looking back. He placed his sunglasses back on before disappearing into the shadows.

I stood and grabbed the packed-to-the-brim envelope, clear tape keeping the contents from falling out. What the hell was in this thing? I couldn’t risk opening it in public. Not with everything that had been happening lately. After tucking them in the waistband of my pants, right next to the gun, I pulled my hoodie back over my head and walked three blocks to my bike.

I rode to an abandoned warehouse ten miles north of Boston, squeezing my way through a slit of an opening in the wire fence, leading to a maze of empty shipping containers stacked in fours. I probed around the perimeter before my feet led me all the way back to a nondescript rusted container.

The padlock popped open when I slid my key in the lock. Once inside, I ripped the envelope open. It was a stack of images, taken from a distance judging by the pixelation and granularity. Even with the somewhat poor quality, I was able to make out some of the faces. Senator John Evans was in every frame, and according to the time stamp on the images, these photos were taken before he was assassinated on his way to a press conference eight months ago.

I flipped through the photos. Every still image moved like a reel as I went through them one by one, searching for any signs of The Firm’s blueprint. The Firm never claimed the hit, but my instinct was telling me otherwise. Not even El Jefe could deny nor confirm his assassination.

My eyes started to hurt, my head felt about ready to split in half from pain. “Fuck!” I threw the photos against the iron wall in frustration. What am I missing?

Seven: The Priest

The sound of knocking coming from the front door woke me from one of the best sleeps I’d had since arriving in Boston. Still immersed in my vivid dream, it took a second for my foggy brain to register where I was and that the encounter I was having was, in fact, just a dream. I reached for my phone on the nightstand to check the time and whined. The screen turned black, allowing me to see my reflection. My forehead was soaked with sweat, while wet hair formed locks on the sides of my head. My whole body was damp.

I looked down at the tent of fabric caused by my erection, evidence of the wild dream I’d had about the unnamed man in the confession booth yesterday. He was all over me, kissing and nipping at my neck, his hands under my robe, pulling my underwear down in one swift move. He pushed my abdomen until my back was against the wall. His mouth neared the head of my shaft, but I was woken before I felt the warmth of his lips enveloping me.

It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about a man pleasuring me.

My pulse raced with recollection. My younger years had validated my attraction to men. I even went as far as dipping my toes in the water, having sex with guys when I was in college. But that was in the past. Any thoughts of intimacy had to be eradicated from my mind to be worthy of my calling. Being a priest was first and foremost in my life. Anything else would have to take a back seat, or be forgotten altogether, if I was to succeed. And now that I’d made it here, failure was not an option. Not again. I’d deprived myself of pleasure for so long, I’d all but forgotten how it felt. Even my dreams made sure I’d never experience it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A succession of three softer knocks drew me out of my thoughts. Who was here at five in the morning? Jessica never mentioned an early appointment, and I wasn’t expecting anyone. It couldn’t be the cleaners, since they came in yesterday while I was out. Or at least I thought they had—why else would the furniture and framed photograph be out of place? I’d always been a morning person, but five o’clock was way too early.

Another knock, louder this time, wiped the last remnants of sleep from my head and I scurried to grab my house coat. The smooth fabric snagged on my fully erect cock. I stood still, summoning the least sensual image I could imagine in hopes of getting my erection under control. It failed, so I gave up trying. “Coming,” I said, shivering as my bare feet crossed the chilled floor. I turned the living room lights on, and when I did, the rapping stopped.

No one was outside the door when I opened it. Only silence and the cold morning air welcomed me. I looked left and right; I momentarily questioned if the knocking had actually happened or if I was in the middle of another dream.

“Hello?” My call went unanswered. As I stepped out the door to get a better view of the street, I trod on something slippery. What on earth? I tightened the belt on my robe before bending over to reach beneath my foot. It was an envelope. I glanced around one last time before heading inside.

I was all out of sorts. I slapped my cheeks to urge my brain to wake up and catch up to what was happening. The envelope was sealed, blank and surprisingly warm. I flipped it over to find two words: The Bishop.

I ripped open the envelope and a small thumb drive fell into my hand. It was also warm, as though it was just pulled out of a port. My curiosity growing, I headed to my office and fired up my laptop. It would take a while for the welcome screen to appear, as it had been a good minute since the last time I’d used it. Four days, to be exact, when I’d left Albuquerque.

Coffee. I needed coffee. I shuffled to the kitchen to brew a pot. Movement at the window caught my attention. I spun, and the pot fell from my hand, clamoring loudly in the sink. A person was there, peering inside. Goosebumps covered my body, an unsettling feeling taking residence in my mind. I grabbed a knife from the magnetic strip on the backsplash and ran to the front door, walking around the house to check the perimeter. But, just like before, no one was there.

“Now I really need coffee,” I murmured.

Feeling somewhat awake after two full cups and the rush of adrenaline, I slid the drive into my laptop’s USB port.

A pop-up notification appeared on the screen, prompting for a password. I reached over and fished the discarded envelope from the wastepaper basket. “What’s the password?” I whispered. I ripped it open to check if there was a clue inside. Nothing.

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