Page 12 of The Reaper

I stared at the screen and entered passwords I’d used in the past, but none of them worked. After three failed attempts and the fear of being denied access altogether, I pulled the thumb drive out. My mind raced at a million miles per hour. Stress was building in the muscles of my shoulders and neck, and that was my mark to stop. I massaged the back of my neck to release the building tension. Since there was no going back to sleep, I headed back to my room, put on sweats, and headed out for a run.

The sun was an hour from rising and the crispness in the spring air shrouded the city in a thick mist. I stood for a moment, adjusting to the chill. There, again—a person appeared on the road ahead of me. A man. He was wearing a baseball cap, which cast shadows over his features, making it impossible for me to make out his face. With his stillness and the graying fog surrounding us, he looked like the outline of an unfinished painting.

One of the streetlamps flickered, catching my attention. When I returned my gaze, he was gone. “Hello?” I ventured, tentative at first but then again, louder. Nothing.

It wasn’t the first time I’d felt a presence watching over me, and sometimes I questioned my sanity. I shook my head and brought my hands to my mouth, blowing warm air onto them. My feet took the lead from my brain and I set off, unaware of where I was heading. I didn’t mind. I was consumed by two thoughts: What was in the file, and who was the man?

Two men broke through the fog, heading in my direction. They were whispering, but I couldn’t make out their conversation. I checked the street name to figure out where I was and groaned. I’d been so deep in my head I hadn’t realized that I’d stumbled into the sketchiest part of town. I pivoted away from the men but it was too late. They ran to stand in front of me.

“Excuse me,” I said, trying to move past them.

“What’s the rush?” One of the men grabbed my elbow. “Empty your pockets,” he said. His grip tightened, his face inches away from mine. His breath smelled like alcohol and the worst case of halitosis imaginable.

“Look, I’m just passing by,” I said, my eyes bouncing between them. They were filthy. Their hair was clumped by what I could only assume was dirt. Their faces were covered with dust, while their clothes were soiled. Foul odor permeated from them.

“I said empty”—hiccup—“your pockets,” the man slurred.

“I don’t have any money,” I said.

“How ’bout your phone?” the other man asked.

“I don’t have my phone with me,” I said. It occurred to me these men might be armed.

The man holding my elbow twisted my arm behind my back while the other aggressively searched my pockets.

“I told you, I don’t have anything.” I winced as my arm was twisted higher.

“What’s this?” A hand withdrew from my pocket—he’d found the USB drive. I’d forgotten I had it. The man waved it in my face. His bloodshot eyes were glassy. These men were not just drunk. They were under the influence.

I squirmed. “They’re just files. I don’t want to get anyone hurt. Let me go.”

Unsatisfied with my answer, he grabbed the collar of my sweatshirt, firm despite his inebriation. “Give us your money or—”

He wasn’t able to complete his threat. A man in a black hoodie yanked him back and swung his fist into his face, and the thug landed cold on the ground.

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy holding my arm asked. He thrust his free hand, which was now holding a knife, toward the hooded man. “Get the fuck outta here,” he screeched, waving his weapon. “Go!”

The hooded guy grabbed his knife-holding hand and bent it with force. A blood-curdling scream followed the sickening snap.

I jumped away when he released me.

“My hand!” he wailed, falling to his knees.

The other guy stirred, consciousness slowly returning. He sat up when he saw his buddy’s busted wrist. “The fuck?”

“I’d run if I were you.” The hooded guy’s voice was deep and familiar. Oh. How could I forget? He was the subject of the very sinful dream I’d not long ago woken up to.

The thug didn’t have to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the fog in a heartbeat. Some friend. The wailing man stumbled as he got up, staggered back, and took off after him.

The hooded man stood in front of me. Without uttering a word, he examined my hand. His touch was surprisingly tender and caused chaos in my already messed-up state. He caressed my wrist; the sensation was so strange and unfamiliar I pulled it back.

“I’m okay,” I whispered. “But I don’t think he is,” I added, cocking my head in the direction of the assailants. That wrist was definitely broken, with torn tendons to match.

“They’re lucky I held back,” he said, turning away. The instance of our first meeting flooded my brain. This man knows how to kill.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

To my dismay, he didn’t answer. He continued walking away, in time for the first ray of sunrise.

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