Chapter Four

My fridge, aside from the necessities, was nearly devoid of food.

But after a few minutes of frantic scavenging, my efforts yielded half a bag of chips.

I carried my prize and a bottle of Dos Equis to the couch.

I don’t exactly enjoy the taste, but I do love the commercials.

Propping my feet on the coffee table, I surveyed the living room, it was a mess.

The laundry was all over the place, the gym bag was still thrown into the corner, paperbacks littered the floor, beer cans and bottles occupied every surface possible.

And not to ignore the elephant in the room: there’s a frigging bloodstain on the carpet.

I felt the hole under my shirt, then suddenly realized something amiss.

Wait, if I woke up dead, how did I get into my apartment in the first place? I had no recollection whatsoever of getting home the day before, and everything in the room seemed relatively undamaged.

This couldn’t have been the scene of the crime.

Getting up from the couch with a groan, I padded over to the door and opened it.

Opening it and crouching down, I examined the keyhole.

My safety measure wasn’t fancy, just a simple cruciform lock. With the right tools and a handful of time, it could be cracked easily.

Poking my head into the empty corridor, I scanned my adjacent residents.

Probably no help there, most of my neighbors are either college students or senior citizens. They’re either out partying, or plain just can’t hear.

I return my gaze and studied the lock closer.

Near the edge of the keyhole, the copper glinted, showing sign of scratching. Probably left by the tension wrench.

Someone did break in.

I got up, kicked the door shut behind me and walked back to the couch.

Someone shot me, successfully killing me, and then brought me back to my apartment. Things were getting weirder by the second.

I rubbed my face, scooped up my phone and dialed Jase.

The call connected after the sixth ring.

First came a series of erratic breathing, then, “Yeah?”

“Jase, this is Sarvis.” I said quietly, “I’m going to need some updates.”

“Sure thing, bro,” Jase sounded uncharacteristically cheerful, “whatcha need?”

I paused for a second, “…Christ, are you high?”

“As f**k.” The hacker confirmed merrily.

I groaned inwardly.

Jase on crack isn’t exactly a bad thing. His performance actually goes up slightly, but in the process, he becomes extremely annoying.

“Right,” I replied, shaking out the list out, “I’m going to need the names of the drivers who has been getting more action lately.”

“What sort of action?” the hacker snickered.

“D****t!” I growled, pressing the frosty bottle against my forehead, “those that have been more active lately.”

“On it, boss!” Jase chirped and put the phone down with a clack.

A keyboard rattled furiously on the other side, and then a rustle as the phone was picked up.

“Got it.” Jase said.

“Great,” I nodded and picked up a pen.

“Vincent Williams.”

I circled it, “And?”

“Yeah, he’s not it.”

I scowled, and struck out the name. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Fine,” the hacker sobered up, “I’ve got four drivers who has been more active in the recent months.”

“Thank you,” I took a swig of cold beer, “And they are?”

“Stan, Kyle, Eric and Kenny.” Jase snickered out.

I gave an incoherent snarl, suppressed it, then asked in mock pleasantness, “How do you feel about thirty bullets to the back of your skull?”

That got the desired result.

“Alright, alright!” Jase said hurriedly, “Kevin Newell, Rainerio Flores, Dennis Boggs and Macario Mendoza.”

“Thank you.” I said simply and hung up the phone.

Circling the names, I looked over my list.

The search was narrowed down, but I was still nowhere near the target.

Ah, well, baby steps, right?

I scratched at the duct tape around my chest, then suddenly a horrible thought hit me.

What if I was decomposing?

I lifted my wrist to my nose and gave a cautious sniff.

Nothing much, save that I probably needed a bath.

Another whiff.

Still nothing.

My right hand fell back to the couch.

So, I wasn’t decomposing. Yet. I really got to get to the bottom of this.

I rubbed my eyes and stood up.

This is starting to look less and less like a one man job. I was going to need to call more people in.

Walking over to my laptop on the dining table, I switched it on.

Crunching on some more chips, I waited for it to complete launching.

After the chips and most of the beer, my desktop finally popped up.

Must be all those damn viruses. I should really stop opening all those links Gere sends me.

Connecting to the internet, I logged on to my facebook page.

I wasn’t a fan of it. And yet, somehow I can’t stop clicking on it and reading inane posts of someone else fishing for a few likes.

We are kinda pathetic, aren’t we?

My wall was relatively empty.

Probably because I had relatively few friends.

A guy by the name of Thomas Belaire posted something about the weather and how it made him feel.

Cowan liked another nerd website.

Three of my “friends” have upcoming birthdays.

Some party pictures from Gere, with the descriptions “When life gives you lemons, bust out the salt and Tequila!”

I smiled and shook my head.

My eyes fell on the sidebar where there was a list of names. Some with green dots next to them.

A name with Mandarin characters caught my attention, next to the name, there was green dot.

Siren.

Yeah, I think it’s her. I mean, it’s not like I have a ton of Asian friends, but I was pretty wasted when I accepted her friend request.

I clicked on the name.

Can’t hurt to ask for a little more extra help.

A window popped up.

“Hey,” I typed, “how’s everything.”

There was no immediate answer, so I finished off the beer, tossed it and got up to get another one.

There was a reply waiting for me when I got back with a Skol.

“Not bad, I’m on vacation in Japan now.”

Yeah, right.

I smirked, abandoned the beer and tapped out, “Really? A vacation? Are you sure nothing bad happened around you?”

A pause, then “Come to think of it, there was this American cop…”

Lord, she’s aggressive. “Fine, fine, you win, I won’t push.”

“That was too easy.” I could imagine that smug smile she’s got on right now.

“Whatever, how do you feel about a little work after your break?”

“I dunno… this was a pretty stressful vacation.” A pause. “You should probably get in touch with my contact about this.”

Yikes. I remember her contact, Ms. Hur.

Ms. Hur was one of the senior contacts of the oversea agency known as White Regulations.

We never met, but I talked to her on the phone before. She had a cold, throaty voice, with flawless pronunciation. She talked about assassination like she would about the weather. Her tone had no infliction whatsoever.

It was like talking to a machine.

And I was actually half convinced it was so, until she sneezed.

But she was good for her word.

“I’ll think about it.” I keyed, “Maybe some other time, then.”

“What? Why?” Siren wrote back immediately.

“Uh,” I replied cautiously, “don’t call me a wuss or anything.”

“Wuss” was the immediate reply.

Sigh, she could be really juvenile at times. “I’m actually kinda scared of her.”

“Really? I always thought you two would make a cute couple.”

“You mean you always wanted me dead.”

“You know… I could show this to Ms. Hur.”

“Please don’t, I enjoy living.”

“Fine, scardey cat.”

I sighed audibly, “You have my eternal gratitude.”

“Damn right I do.”

A two minute pause, I went to work on the forgotten and lukewarm beer.

“Anyhow, contact her if you need the extra muscle.” She posted. Then as an afterthought, “I like Chicago.”

“Will do.” I replied simply and logged off.

Getting up, I stretched.

Well, at least now I’ve got Siren on reserve, that should be useful later.

I’ve got to clear my head.

A run should do the trick.

Heading into the bedroom, I scooped a pair of sweatpants off the ground and grabbed a T-shirt from the closet.

Stripping out of the work clothes, I tossed them casually on the king-size bed, where they joined the growing pile of unwashed laundry.

Itarol would not be happy.

I hopped awkwardly into the sweatpants, and as I walked over to the dresser to get my ipod, my shirtless reflection looked back.

I wasn’t tall, around 5’11. My build was wiry, not strong enough to bench press cars, but enough to get the job done.

Several scars ran across my chest and abdomen. Some were faded, others new, an expanding collection of mine.

And of course, there was a roll of duct tape strapped across my torso.

Huh, hard to believe that under the tape, there’s a bullet hole directly above my heart.

And the fact that I’m dead.

From my throat, a necklace glinted.

It was an 18th birthday present from my brother.

The design was simple, a small steel cross dangled from a short strip of leather. The leather was worn down and replaced many times.

I reached back, undid the clasp and placed it carefully on the dresser.

Tugging on the shirt, I grabbed the ipod and headed out.

 

Running has always been my way to work up a sweat. Plus, as a hitman I’m always doing it involuntarily anyway.

Might as well be good at it.

My route usually includes jogging to the Lakefront Trail, follow it for about three miles, turn back and pick up dinner on the way home.

But hey, I’m not going to bore you with my routine.

 

And so about forty-five minutes later, I returned, panting, sweating and holding a paper bag of Chinese takeout.

Plopping the bag on the cluttered dining table, I headed to the bathroom.

I took a quick shower.

Walking out of the stall dripping, I grabbed a towel and dried off.

Mopping my face, I walked to the clouded mirror.

Wiping away the steam, I peered at my own face. No change there.

Tousled black hair, two days growth and light gray eyes.

Leaning in, I glared into my own eyes.

They stared back lifelessly.

Which, considering my condition, wasn’t a surprise.

But then I noticed something out of place, looking closer, I found that the color around my pupil seemed to have turned to a darker hue.

I rocked back onto my heels, probably nothing to worry about. I’ve got more pressing matters to deal with. Like dinner.

Shaving and toweling off and hauling on some clean clothes, I sauntered into the kitchenette.

Amidst the aluminum cans and bottles, my pitiful dinner sat on the table. Oil was seeping through the paper bag.

I took out the leaking box of chow mein.

Ugh, beggars, choosers.

Under the off-yellow light, I ate the depressing meal alone.

 

The next day I was rudely awaken by my cell phone.

I groaned, and swiped groggily at the bedside table.

My fingers found the cold, vibrating, ringing hunk of metal.

I tried slid it open, finger slipping on the first attempt, but successful on the second.

Bringing the cell phone to my ears, “Wot?” I growled crossly into the speaker, “This better be important.”

“And it is, Sergeant.” A cool controlled voice replied.

Cole’s.

S**t.

“Lieutenant, sir,” I amended hastily, wide awake now, “I am sorry.” I checked the time on my bedside alarm. 6:07. “But, isn’t it rather early?”

“I’m afraid this couldn’t wait.”

“Err, excuse me, sir, but may I ask why?”

“We have another job for you.”

“But, sir, I haven’t even covered the first!”

“Yes, we are well aware of that,” Cole’s voice turned slightly impatient, probably also grouchy about being awake at this godforsaken hour, “but the project is slightly short-handed now.”

Perfect, just what I needed, more work.

But on the other hand, I do need the cash.

“I’ll get to it, sir.” I said simply.

“Excellent, I’ll have Cowan cover for you. The details will be in the usual drop box.”

The line clicked and went dead.

I promptly hung up, dropped the phone and let my head fall back on to the pillow.

 

When I opened my eyes again, the clock said it was 10:49.

I stared at it.

It turned 10:50.

Okay, I’m going to get up.

My body, acknowledged that, but still refused to move.

I mean now.

No response.

I heaved a sigh, and forced my biceps to go to work.

My muscles protested, but I still managed to will myself out of bed and stay erect.

Stretching, I squinted out the window.

Big mistake. The sun plunged daggers into my eyes. Scrunching them, I turned away.

Feeling my way into the kitchen, I opened the fridge, then remembered that I was completely out of food.

Crap.

I sighed and plucked out a can of Amstel, thought against it and returned it to its brothers.

When Itarol was here, this never happened. She was responsible for the food, and I for the booze.

I nudged the door shut and poured myself a glass of tap water.

Beats having nothing.

Making my way over to the couch, I sat down. My eyes fell on the piece of print out with five names circled and one crossed out.

Still grasping at straws.

I took a gulp of water.

And another case just dropped out of nowhere. Christ, I never knew we were short on man power.

I tilted my head back and drained the cup, and saw my shattered reflection in the broken mirror do the same.

Tapping the glass, I remembered the disagreement I had with Gere yesterday.

Gere never really knew Itarol. In fact, he has only met Itarol once in person.

My life was pretty screwed up when she left, but he saw her as the cause when she was merely the symptom.

I can’t blame her, nor could I summon up the energy to do so.

Standing up, I took the piece of paper with me, time’s a wasting.

Slipping into a charcoal double collar hoodie, I dragged on a pair of jeans, grabbed my keys and left.

 

Twenty minutes later, I walked into the post office on West Randolph Street.

Hands in my pocket, I hurried up a flight of stairs to where the PO boxes were kept. I located mine, box 5220.

Sticking the key into the key hole, I turned it 180 degrees to the left, 360 degrees the other way, then 720 degrees left.

The lock clicked as the latch withdrew.

This was one of the safety measures to safeguard our dealings, if the turn sequence is wrong, the safebox will automatically seal itself up.

I opened it.

The metal case was relatively empty save for a small package that lay in the middle.

I reached in and extracted it

The box was wrapped in brown paper and about the size of my palm.

Stuck to the top with a post-it was a note reading, “Open after completion of previous assignment before October 17.”

 

Perfect, just what I needed, deadlines.

Author's Note

Any and all comments will be appreciated