Page 14 of The Reaper

His hand was under his desk, where I knew the control for his door was, keeping me hostage. “Not until you tell me what happened in Havana,” he demanded. His bleak features seemed more drastic, deep lines carved in his forehead, dark circles around his eyes. It was subtle, but his voice broke when he spoke. He cared for his men, but, like me, he’d been an expert at hiding his feelings away—like a wise and seasoned poker player. I learned from the best. “Who’s hunting our operatives? What’s in Havana?” he asked.

“I told you. I don’t know.” I turned my back on him once again. “Open the door.”

“Everyone who gets close to you ends up dead.”

His statement would’ve stung, but my heart was hollow and emotions were a sign of weakness. Also, what he said was true.

“Archer!” he called. He was one of the very few people who knew my real name and I liked to keep it that way.

I looked back and met his stare. “I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie. I didn’t know who was hunting us. Havana was the place William and I would go to escape our crazy lives, even if it was temporary. It was our secret hideaway. Not so secret after all.

He studied me for a while before pressing the control. The lock disengaged. “After this assignment”—he pointed to my backpack—“find out who’s hunting our men. And trust no one.”

With my hands firmly in my jacket pockets, I stormed out of El Jefe’s office. My vision tunneled to the swanky elevators with glossy wooden finish, passing through the sterile lobby posing as an interior design firm. It was a coverup to hide the gruesome truth behind the glass and metal doors.

The men and women manning the desks were skilled mercenaries hoping for their chance to be part of the operatives hired to ‘right the wrongs’ and serve justice to those citizens influential and wealthy enough to pay themselves out of crimes they committed. They might have dodged the system unscathed, but one way or the other, justice had to be served. That was where we came in. We were a group of trained assassins with history tracing back to the beginning of World War II. It was a privilege passed down through generations; or maybe it was a curse, some days I wasn’t sure. We kept the balance. We were told from the beginning. But lately, I wasn’t sure anymore.

The elevator door opened, the mirrored walls hiding dozens of cameras mounted with precision to capture vantage points of everyone within its confinement. I had no doubt El Jefe was watching me through their lenses. I remained collected, pressing the L button twice to close the door so I could get the fuck out of this place. Once outside, I flipped my collar up and marched to my car.

“William,” I whispered, sliding the window open for a dose of fresh air. Spatters of rain dropped on my face. Who did this to you? It was true what they said about people like us. We lived in the shadows, surrounded by death and devoid of hope.

I reached over and pulled the glove box open, riffling through leaves of papers until I found it: an old photograph of The Surgeon. He was grinning, something he did a lot. I used to find it odd how he was able to find a reason to smile. He was serene in this sea of utmost despair. William didn’t belong to our world because he was nothing like us. Whoever killed him had to be good. William was meticulous. His actions were calculated. He moved with accuracy and precision, just like a surgeon.

I grabbed the golden lighter resting on the console of my car, flicking it to life. The amber flame danced in the breeze, pulling William’s image like a magnet. I held the photograph over the flame, thinking about his voice and his memory until every surface of his smiling face turned to ash. “I’ll miss you, my friend,” I said, tossing the charred photo into the air, drifting away with the rain as it faded to nothingness. A fitting end for us. Because we were no one. “There will be no one to mourn us when we die. No family. No friends,” William once told me.

Well, friend, I will mourn you. “You’re at peace now. Till we meet again.”

I settled into the seat of my car. Rage brewed within me. Your death will not be in vain. I will find who did this to you. They will pay. After allowing myself a brief moment to feel, I pushed start and the car roared to life.

Speeding through the streets of Boston, I blasted the stereo. The beat of the bass matched the one in my chest. I needed a distraction, and I knew where to find it. My car took me to a familiar place. I wasn’t there to pray, nor to confess my sins. I was there to fulfill a growing appetite. My craving for the forbidden. Someone I shouldn’t have. But with the shit I’d just gone through tonight, forbidden was exactly what I needed.

Nine: The Priest

Three Years Ago

Layers of unsettling emotions multiplied within me as we neared the door. The glee of having my brother, Andrew, around was being replaced by a pining melancholy, knowing it would probably be years before we saw each other again. Life was unpredictable that way. We were inseparable when we were younger and never thought we’d spend most of our adult lives thousands of miles apart. I’d missed him.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” I asked him on our way to the car that was waiting to take him to the airport. His visit had been a surprise and I was elated when he showed up on my doorstep that morning. Thankful that it was midweek and I didn’t have to deliver a mass, we spent most of the day together. It’d been a while since we’d seen each other, and I needed him now more than ever: his guidance, his support, his love.

A tight smile graced his face before he shook his head. Andrew was ten years older than me, but he looked a lot older than thirty-seven. The sides of his head showed specks of gray, and new wrinkles appeared on his forehead and around his eyes. They weren’t there when I saw him two years ago after graduating from the seminary. “I wish I could, Heath, but my flight leaves at five,” he said.

I glanced at my watch, willing the hands to stop turning, for time to stand still so I could have more moments with my brother. I had so many questions only he could answer. My reassignment in San Felipe, Albuquerque, started a few months ago. It was exactly what I thought it would be at the beginning, but lately I’d been questioning if I was the right bishop for the mission. I’d only been out of school for two years and it showed.

“Are you okay?” I asked, feeling guilty that I had made this visit all about me.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “You can do this.” Andrew must’ve sensed my distress hidden in my silence. He’d always been great at seeing through me. Sometimes, I wondered if he knew me better than I knew myself. He seemed like he could read my mind—back when we were younger and especially now. “You’ve worked your entire life for this.”

“What if I fail?” My voice broke at the reminder of my time at San Luis Obispo months ago. “Again.” This was a side of me only he could see. I didn’t have to be strong all the time around Andrew. I didn’t need to have all the answers when I was with him. I could fail with him without the fear of being reprimanded and shamed.

Andrew stopped walking. He looked around the church, perhaps to make sure that no one was around. “That was different. You weren’t ready then. But you are now. Leave the past behind.”

“I sometimes wonder if I’m cut out for this life.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was too late to take it back. I dared not look in his eyes, fearing to see disappointment in them.

He studied my face before he spoke. “You’re born to do this, Heath. Don’t let one hiccup derail your future. It’s in the past and there’s nothing you can do to change that. What matters is right now.” He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me. Priests weren’t huggers, but we were brothers first. “You need to be kind to yourself. Sulking will not get you anywhere.”

I hugged him back tighter.

“Remember what the uncles used to tell us?” he asked.

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