Page 13 of The Reaper

“Thank you,” I called, but I doubted he heard me. I looked down and touched the part of my hand where we’d connected.

Eight: The Reaper

Islid a wooden hanger a quarter of an inch to the right to match its distance from the rest of my hanging clothes. Keeping things tidy and in place was peace for me. And with the chaos and darkness seeping through many facets of my life, I found peace however and wherever I could.

I combed my closet full of black clothes for something to wear—unnecessarily, I knew—before settling on a black hoodie, black jeans, and black leather jacket. Selecting was easier when you had one color palette to choose from. I tucked my gun into my waistband before heading out to meet El Jefe for my new assignment.

I preferred riding my bike, but it had been raining steadily for the past few hours so I opted to drive my Jaguar F-Type coupe—black, of course. The windshield wipers worked overtime to keep up with the torrential rain. I turned on the satellite radio and tuned in to my go-to news station. “This just in,” the female broadcaster announced. “An explosion in Havana was reported this afternoon, and a Cuban news outlet has confirmed one fatality. We reached out to local authorities for comment, and here is what the Chief of Havana Police said to the press.”

What the fuck? Using the control on the steering wheel, I raised the volume. “Todavía estamos investigando el evento y le haremos saber a todos ustedes una vez tengamos una respuesta concreta,” the chief said.

I paid close attention, my very limited Spanish being put to the test, glancing between the road and the console. I hoped they’d translate what the chief said.

That’s it? Who fucking died?

The announcer continued. “According to police, they are still investigating the bombing and don’t yet have any concrete information to share.”

I switched stations in search of a more thorough report, but aside from football and scheduled programming, there was nothing about the Havana explosion. “Damn,” I whispered.

Dread took up residence in my head, the gloom outside matching my frame of mind.

All eyes were on me when the elevator opened to the thirteenth floor of our office. Nobody knew this floor existed outside of The Firm. There was no button for this floor and it could only be accessed using an electronic keypad programmed to stop on the unluckiest number of them all. Stares followed my every move until I made it to the bulletproof glass door.

One of the men sitting behind the gray marble counter picked up a receiver, still staring. He spoke quietly, but I lip-read him saying “He’s here” to the person on the other end. He ended the call and typed something into a tablet. Seconds later, the locks clicked and disengaged.

I made my way inside El Jefe’s dark and dreary office, plunking my ass wordlessly on one of the seats in front of his desk. A dim floor lamp behind him provided the only light.

I tapped my phone screen and brought up the photo of Father Saint James. He’d occupied my mind since I stepped out of his confession booth, to the point of heading back to his house for another glimpse of his face. I was glad I did. He could’ve been seriously hurt if I hadn’t been around. The notion made my blood boil. I looked down at his smiling face to keep my rage at bay. The things I wanted to do with those lips of his, wondering how my name would sound in his mouth when he screamed as he came, after I’d taken him over the edge time and time again. There was no place for my wild thoughts about him, but here we were. How could someone so holy be so sinful? If there was any doubt I’d end up in hell, I had just punched myself a one-way ticket to sinner’s land.

A thud brought me out of the insane fantasy. El Jefe had dropped a thick folder on the oak desk. “Your next assignment,” he said, pointing to the file. He stood and moved to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his suit jacket. The red and orange sky in front of him was slowly fading to blue and black.

“What is it?” I asked, watching him flick the metal lighter.

He was quiet and that was something coming from him. He always had something to say, even if our conversations were one-sided.

I shoved the folder into my bulletproof backpack and studied him. “Who was it this time?” I asked, knowing that the only time he got this silent was when one of our men’s assignments failed. Which for us meant death.

“One of our operatives was killed in Havana today. It wasn’t during an assignment either,” he said, staring at the city below. The stuffy room filled with tobacco smoke.

“The bombing?” I asked.

He nodded. “You heard about it?”

“On the news on my way here. Who was it?” Knots formed in my stomach. Billowing anxiety threatened to swallow me whole. The dread I felt when I heard the news on the radio was back, only this time with a vengeance.

He took another drag of his cigarette. “The Surgeon was ambushed on his way to the hotel.”

No! It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of icy water on me. My whole body tensed, and I balled my hands. “William?” I whispered.

El Jefe blew out a breath. “Yes.” His back was still to me.

What the fuck? Was it the same fucker who’d sent those clowns after me? I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe. Forcing myself to take steady breaths, I schooled my expression. Life was a game of poker I’d mastered early on. Never show anyone what you were dealt. Not what’s in your hands, never on your face, and definitely not in your actions. That was a lesson I’d learned the hard way.

“How well did you know him?” he asked, turning to face me. “The Surgeon.” He moved to his desk and flicked glowing ash from the tip of his cigarette into the round crystal tray on its edge. The moonlight cast shadows on his face, hardened by the lives we lived. He watched me for a while, awaiting my response. “So? How well did you know him?” he repeated when I didn’t answer.

“Well enough to fuck him,” I answered, hoping that my agitation was masked by my indifference. We never fucked. We’d been tempted, but realized we were better off as friends. We were the closest both of us had to family. I stood, suddenly needing to get the hell out. I couldn’t let El Jefe see how The Surgeon’s death had affected me. Fuck! It would be the last time I’d let myself care for anyone.

The automatic door of his office clicked as I was about to turn the knob. “Let me go,” I grumbled when the door didn’t open. “I said let me go!” I turned to face him. Surprisingly, none of his minions rushed into the room. What a shame; in this mood, I wanted to bust some faces and break some jaws.

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