Page 62 of The Reaper

No one else noticed him. Maybe because they overestimated his desire to live. I hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But The Reaper didn’t get his name by playing it safe. Realizing that I was staring, I turned my attention to the gravel driveway, and prayed that he wouldn’t get involved right now.

Another black SUV stopped in front of the house. Three men in white hazmat suits exited the vehicle, nodding in our direction as they passed. I risked a glance back at Archer.

I shook my head slightly, hoping he would pick up on my signal, until someone placed a black cloth bag over my head and shoved me inside the van. My head hit something hard and plastic, and I groaned. Another person yanked on my shirt to keep me upright. Something warm dripped from my forehead to my cheek and then down to my lips. I stuck my tongue out and tasted blood. We drove off, and I prayed to God Archer didn’t follow us. There was a bigger pursuit than saving me. I was beyond saving.

After what seemed like forever on the road, the SUV slowed to a stop. The sound of a window rolling down was followed by buzzing. “It’s us,” someone said.

A second later, a metal gate rattled as it swung open, and we drove on.

The men pulled me out of the van with zero finesse. “We got it from here,” someone said, jabbing me with what I could only assume was the barrel of a gun.

“I can’t believe this guy is The Cardinal’s brother,” another voice said. Andrew was The Cardinal, one of the best of our kind. “Move,” he urged with another jab. I was nothing like my brother. Andrew was a great assassin. One of the best Priests the Church had ever produced.

Being pushed and tugged, I blindly tripped down hundreds of steps. Even with the bag over my head, I could feel the chill in the air. The men’s voices bounced around, our footsteps and heavy breathing echoed. Stale air laced with the decay that always accompanied death penetrated the cloth.

The bag was pulled over my head and my eyes took a minute to adjust. We were standing in a dark narrow hallway, with cells on both sides. I knew this kind of place. We were deep underground, in an old cave that had been retrofitted to lock away those awaiting torture. I figured no one would hear my screams, if I lived long enough to be tortured. The walls are roughly carved from stone and were covered with mold and dried bodily fluids I didn’t want to think about. Across from the cells was an open space with a single torch lodged in the wall that illuminated thick manacles hanging from the ceiling and old rusted tools arranged on a table. This was a barbaric place where crimes against humanity thrived.

A man I didn’t recognize cut the zip ties, freeing my hands. The tight plastic left deep impressions in my skin. He pulled the keys hanging from his belt and opened the cell. The men dragged me inside then bound both of my wrists with rusty chains.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Hell,” he uttered before walking away, locking me inside.

***

A slap woke me. I blinked my eyes, trying to focus on the people inside my cell. It was a lot brighter now; someone was holding a torch over me. A man pulled an old crank, and the chain attached to the thick rusted manacles clamped around my wrists tightened and screeched. The metal against metal noise made me wince. As the crank moved, my arms were pulled into the air, the rest of my body lifting off the ground. While I dangled helplessly, my legs were placed in similar restraints.

I looked at each face, hoping to see someone I recognized. Maybe some empathy. Archbishop Lloyd materialized from the shadows. His slit eyes and scrunched nose showed his distaste. Distaste in me. He clasped his hands just above his stomach as he walked around my suspended body, the gold chain around his neck with the palm-sized crucifix catching the torch light.

When he was in front of me again, I stared at the gold Jesus. “Forgive me, Father, for I have si—”

He slapped my face with the back of his hand. “You are pathetic,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“You lied to me,” I barked.

The archbishop slapped me again, one of his sharp rings cutting my cheek this time. “Who asked you to speak? Look at you,” he said, spitting to his side. “I’d hoped that a relative of The Cardinal would be a force to be reckoned with. Yet not once, but three times, you’ve failed a mission.” He pulled a white handkerchief from an inner pocket of his white robe then used it to wipe my blood off his gaudy ring. “What a waste. The Reaper. He is one of The Firm’s best assets with his natural talent for killing. But you should have been better.” A humorless laugh escaped his mouth. “But he stuck his nose in something that didn’t belong.” He stopped pacing and brought his attention to me. “And I’m not talking about you.” Another slap. “I didn’t know you’re a faggot until I saw those pictures of you and him. I should’ve suspected it based on your pathetic performance. Your family would be ashamed of you.”

“Leave them out of this. This is between you and me.”

Archbishop Lloyd ignored me and continued with his tirade. “Real men tackle the mission head-on. Your brother was great at that. He was a Priest through and through. He’d go on an assignment and deal with his target without hesitation.” He walked to the corner of the cell block and grabbed something hanging on the wall. “Take his shirt off,” he ordered.

Within seconds, someone scurried toward me and ripped my shirt in half, letting the fabric hang off my arms.

When he turned toward me, I saw the flogger bouncing in his hand as he tested its weight. This was going to hurt.

“Being a Priest is a privilege.” The archbishop closed the gap between us, the black leather flogger with a serrated end contrasting with his clean white robes. “We are committed to cleansing humanity of their sins.” He walked behind me. “Why else do we go through the hoops of sending you through seminary to become an ordained assassin?”

Then he lashed my back.

I howled, my voice echoing against the stone walls.

“Because the success of our missions lies in our ability to blend in. Unlike your little boyfriend. Archer, is it?” Another snap of his wrist, and leather ripped across my back.

The pain was excruciating. Sweat trickled down my face and saliva dripped down my chin.

“Anyone can do what The Reaper does. But us …” He walked around and faced me. “We are ordained by God the Almighty.” He lashed my chest twice; splatters of blood landed on my face after the second time.

“No one can do what The Reaper can,” I barked. That was the truth: he was one of a kind.

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