Page 43 of A War Around Us

The grown man wept for the miserable life he wanted to live.

Sergio’s steps neared from behind and stopped. Standing close, he leaned on the open doorway. His eyes found mine, and his head dipped. Sergio was done with his task.

I returned to the wails of Agwe as he continued to mourn the life of his friend.

“Do we have a deal?”

His mouth opened, singing a vowel of grief. I took it as a yes.

“Why her?”

Sniffing, his large brown eyes looked up, and his shoulders rose. “She was the girl in the picture, man. We just took the job and followed the instructions.”

A picture.

My blood cooled, and my body shook with force. My pulse tugged with strings of madness, colliding in outrage at his words. I had to see it. Touch it and bear the image in my head for me to believe the captured silhouette wasmine.

But first, “Whogave you the order?” I had to know.

“I swear I didn’t know she was yours!” Spit dribbled down his lips.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“He didn’t give his name, just promised good cash,” he cried, but as I took a step closer, he blurted, “Midthirties, and had burn marks on his hands!”

I could think of a few, but one in particular stood out in my mind.

“Where is the picture?” Even and calm, I asked.

In violent wails, he muttered, “Under the lamp.”

In a quick spin, I scanned behind Sergio. Sergio moved aside, not bothering to get the picture himself. He fucking knew not to get in my way. Not when I could see death. Not when I felt the sting in my fingertips, and my hands itched for answers.

There was only one lamp. Gray with a film of dust over a box that served as a table in the far corner.

With each step, I saw Sergio’s work. The two bundles of unmarked cocaine on the couch. The peppered dime sized bags on the floor and the broken scale by the center table. All serving the purpose of the fabrication created for the law, but enough for the myth to travel across states until Borrelli caught the gossip of the poor bastards he’d hired.

Finger marks covered the lamp’s vase, indicating the amount of times it had been touched to show what hid underneath. With the force of the back of my hand, it was flung and shattered, causing a glass blast of tiny pieces.

I saw the image, and the demon broke free.

I picked it up. Watched Katia’s grace through the pixels, unaware as she sat inside a café. Open laptop, coffee mug to her right, bold emeralds looking up at what had caught her attention.

My jaw shut painfully as my teeth gritted. It hadn’t been a similar characteristic kill, it was a one human hunt.

Grooves in the left bottom corner tarnished the picture, and when I flipped it, I only felt the need for torture.

It was dated a year ago with one word.

Italy.

Borrelli has kept an eye on Katia for over a year now. Waiting, obsessing, andIstole his trophy. Now, he wanted her blood.

I laughed. There was no humor to it, and yet, I laughed. I folded the picture, turned and placed it inside my pocket, keeping the bloody and unfinished cigarette company.

I passed by Sergio and stood in front of Agwe’s terrified spirit while Arlo’s body straightened knowing his brother was nowhere near.

My body lowered to the bound man. His body paralyzed in terror the closer I got to his head. Silent tears poured down until I couldn’t see his eyes anymore.

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