Page 1 of The Reaper

One: The Reaper

Havana

An extraordinary life: the currency upon which men in the shadows were built. Ironic, considering how hard we tried to live, breathe, and act behind obscurity. What I wouldn’t give to be an ordinary man, living an unremarkable life.

The bell tower from the nearby church rang, a relic reminding those who could hear it of the time—high noon. Like most of Latin America, Cuba was steeped in Catholic traditions, pressures that guilted the living from those who’d turned to dust. I would know. I wasn’t proud to admit it, but I succumbed to the pressure every now and then. Who was I kidding? It was a compulsion. Call it insurance just in case they were right.

I looked up at the blue Havana sky between the rows of preserved Spanish colonial-style buildings painted bright colors, stamping them with Caribbean identity. The blistering heat was a reprieve from the bone-chilling cold of Boston’s brutal winter. There was no getting used to that weather, but if there was one great byproduct of New England’s winter, it was the prolonged darkness where I found my solace.

Sweat trickled down my forehead into the slanted crease above my left eye. A scar. A daily reminder of what could happen if I let my guard down. After quenching my thirst with a gulp of lemonade sweetened with fresh sugarcane juice, I leaned back in the iron chair, soaking every bit of sun I could take until my skin punished me with a burn.

Far away, a speeding car revved, making me uneasy. Its tires kissed the road with haste and purpose. It sounded heavy, possibly an SUV. It could be nothing, but I kept my ears and eyes on high alert.

Patrons were unfazed as they sipped their Cuban espresso out in the open-air café along the street lined with pastel-colored vintage American cars from the sixties—like crayons on the cobblestone ground.

“¡Hola, hermana!” a statuesque woman dressed to the nines exclaimed, greeting an equally striking woman. They shared similar almond-shaped light brown eyes, golden skin, and shiny black hair. Their resemblance was uncanny.

A couple more joined them, exchanging boomerangs of cheek kisses planted on both sides of their made-up faces. They took their seats, straightening their floral sundresses to keep them wrinkle-free, seemingly unaware of the potential threat looming.

One of the ladies glanced my way, appraising me from head to toe. Interest was written all over her gaze. Her matte red lips parted in a smile. She leaned closer to the table and whispered something, causing everyone to giggle. “He’s so sexy, no?” I didn’t hear the words that came out of her mouth, but I was an expert at reading lips.

I adjusted my position, uncrossing my legs before placing my right hand on my thigh, inches away from the gun tucked into my white linen pants. The first three buttons of the matching shirt were free. I cocked my head and fixed my sunglasses, trying to discern which direction the car was going—approaching or receding? It was a habit formed out of necessity.

A group of middle-aged men wearing tan straw hats passed by on the sidewalk. Their body language appeared docile and non-threatening, but my sight traveled to their waists searching for signs of any weapons and assessing levels of danger. I could never be too sure in my line of work. I’d seen it all, and no one would ever surprise me again.

The revving grew louder, nearer.

My whole body tensed, bracing for what was coming. Revving no longer suggested a speeding car impatiently navigating streets, or youngsters being youngsters. As a trained assassin, it held a different significance. These days, revving was followed by shots and, on rare occasions, explosions. Revving could mean a hit. It could mean a suicide bomber plowing through a crowd of people indiscriminate of their victims.

It could mean death.

A small child walking behind his mother—who was involved in a one-way conversation on the phone—stopped and stared at my face. You couldn’t miss the fascination in his innocent brown eyes. Perhaps he was playing a game of ‘One of These Things is Not Like the Others’ among the locals and me. My blond hair stood out like a sore thumb among the sea of brunettes. I should’ve worn a hat.

The speeding car was closing in.

“¡Puta madrè!” someone yelled from a distance through screeching brake pads. Horns blasted. Disrupted city pigeons took flight.

The kid was still staring, his mother was twenty feet away.

He’s gotta go. Having a child as collateral damage if this day went south wasn’t how I wanted to spend my afternoon. I removed my sunglasses, exposing my scarred eye, and snarled at him.

His mouth opened wide. “Mama!” he cried, running away in the direction of his mother, who extended her hand to grab his. Good.

A black SUV came into view. All its windows were tinted opaque. The back-seat window slid open, revealing the nose of a rifle.

Terror amassed in me. Not for myself, but for everyone around me. “¡Quédate abajo!” I yelled, urging everyone to duck. These men were undeniably gunning for me.

It was havoc. Porcelains shattered on the ground, screams and clatters filled the air. People were pulling, pushing, and tripping on their dash to the exit, others hid under the tables and prayed. A succession of shots was fired and heat scored my left arm before I managed to get behind a concrete half-wall. Bullets pierced through windows and glass vases, flowers were everywhere—what was left of them anyway. More shots followed. Debris from the concrete wall floated, causing some patrons to cough.

I peeked around the side. I withdrew my gun and aimed it at the speeding car as it passed, memorizing the set of numbers on its plate: Rep. Cuba. 122–500 Havana. I fired, managing to hit the back of the car, shattering its rear window. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I looked back at the café; all horror-struck eyes were on me. No one appeared to be hurt, thankfully.

Blood had dyed my sleeve red as it seeped through the white linen.

I patted the source of the blood. A sharp pain radiated from my deltoid when my fingers brushed the shallow wound. The bullet had passed through and was probably lodged in the wall behind me.

Sirens wailed from two different directions, becoming louder as they neared.

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