Page 29 of The Reaper

A guy wedged his hand between the closing elevator door, forcing it open once again. “Sorry about that.” A family stepped inside the now-very-crowded elevator.

I ignored them, pressing the button for the eighth floor.

“Do you mind pressing six, please?” the man, who I assumed was the father, asked.

Instead of saying anything, I moved away from the control and leaned back against the mirrored walls, putting my sunglasses back on. “I do mind,” I said. I’m not your fucking bellboy.

The man shook his head, angrily pressing the sixth-floor button himself.

Six floors later, the elevator door opened and the family got out. The man glanced back at me, a look of disgust on his face.

I flipped him the bird before reaching over with my shoe to close the door.

Walking through the ornate hall of the eighth floor, I counted the number of rooms and noted the distance from the staircase and my room. Behind one of these doors was my target, and the sooner I accomplished this assignment, the less time I had to spend in this city. I went to the end of the hallway, where an arrangement of colorful fresh flowers sat in a glass vase. The water level was three-quarters of the way up. It would take four to five days before someone replaced these flowers, at the very least replenished the water. Plenty of time.

I grabbed the green dime-sized clip-on camera from my pocket and faced it toward the hallway, including the elevator. Once satisfied it was stable and hidden, I found my room. I turned The Firm-assigned phone on and opened the camera’s app. “Perfect!” All I had to do was wait.

After stripping to my boxer briefs, I opened my laptop and clicked the link leading me to the camera outside. I set it on the table, before grabbing a small bottle of purple-label whiskey from the mini bar, polishing its content and reaching for another.

Hours went by and Max Lancaster still hadn’t made an appearance. I grabbed my personal cell out of my suitcase, going straight to the video feed of Father Saint James. Jerking off was in order, and any reel with Father Saint James would suffice. But because God was funny like that, he chose the perfect time to have the man come out of room 815.

I pulled out the blank key card, exactly like the one Sebastian had given me. “Zero has this key’s code so all you have to do is give her the room number,” El Jefe had told me before I left Boston. I scrolled through my contacts, pressing Zero’s name.

“Do you have his room number?” Zero asked. She was one of the best hackers The Firm had and she could penetrate through any firewall.

“Room 815,” I said.

“Done,” she said after two minutes. I wished I knew Zero better. If there was one person who could access the list, it would be her. “Anything else?” she asked.

“Umm.” The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said, ending the call before I did something I’d regret.

Seventeen: The Priest

Istood in front of the mirror, admiring the scratches marking my neck and body, tracing every purple and red spot dotting my arms. They were graphic reminders of my encounter with Archer, evidence that there was pleasure in pain. It could be argued that one couldn’t exist without the other. How could one truly experience pleasure without going through pain? I traced each bruise, a badge I would temporarily wear until the high of last night dissipated. It had been exhilarating, awakening my senses. I felt alive.

I counted to a hundred, willing myself to crash to the ground where I’d spent a considerable amount of time. Reality began to knock me off my feet. I had a mission to perform and a flock of parishioners to lead. Last night couldn’t and shouldn’t happen again. It was a slippery slope leading me back to failure, which I couldn’t afford, no matter what the reward was.

Once sobered from the drug that was Archer, I got dressed to start my day, hoping no one could sense the sins of last night. I grabbed my phone sitting on top of the dresser before heading out of my room. I dialed Andrew’s number and, like dozens of times before, it went straight to voice mail. I ended the call and stared at my wall. “I need you, Andrew.”

My open laptop greeted me when I made it into the office. I was frustrated by the lack of progress with the USB. It had been a while since I’d received it and I was nowhere near guessing the password. Factoring in the fact that I’d yet to hear from the church about my assignment, I was starting to panic about my mission, worrying if they’d changed their minds. What would happen if they did? Where would I go? My mind was inundated with what-if scenarios. I was in a trance when I exited the house.

“Hi, Father!” Tim burst out of the church and scared me sideways. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he said, removing his baseball cap.

“I’m okay.” I waved it off. “Just didn’t get enough sleep.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d been operating on under four hours of sleep since I arrived in Boston. It’d been two weeks and I had yet to hear from the church about the details of my mission. How long did they plan to keep me here?

“We’ve all been there. New city and all. You’ll adjust soon,” he assured me.

“I hope so,” I said. “What are you up to today?”

“I’m heading to a baseball game. The Yankees are in town.” He pulled a ticket from his pocket. He wore a navy blue New York Yankees jersey on top of his jeans.

“By yourself?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yup.”

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