Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
IA: INVINCIBLE ASSASSIN Copyright © 2018 John Darryl Winston
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by BHC Press under the H2O imprint Library of Congress Control Number: 2018946367 ISBN: 978-1-947727-70-0 Also available in ebook (ISBN: 978-1-947727-87-8)
Visit the author at: www.bhcpress.com
ALSO BY
JOHN DARRYL WINSTON IA: INITIATE IA: B.O.S.S. IA: UNION IA: THE ORIGIN NOVELS
CHAPTER
01
PRESENT DAY … Is death white or black or any color at all? Or maybe scarlet like blood, the true elixir of life? I watch the thick liquid drip from the crumbling wall While the slime in my grasp prepares to die.
T
wo boys have just brought down a gang in an abandoned, dank, musty space once called a Market Merchant store. And now the final search for answers has taken one of them to an even darker place. Puffs of air escape the lungs of those in attendance and disappear long before they reach the many broken lights above them. “You’re gonna admit everything you did, or I’m gonna finish what I started, right here and now,” threatens Naz, standing over a defeated gang leader. Harvis understands Naz’s meaning as he kneels next to the fallen thug. He opens the voice recorder app on his watch and then taps the red button. He nods to Naz, indicating he is ready for the
4 |
john darryl winston
confession. Other gang members litter the floor in pain, consciously observing but too afraid to move. “You can start whenever you’re ready,” Harvis says, eyeing the thug. The two stand in judgment, feeling nothing for this scum who has just taken the life of an innocent lady. “I’m not sayin’ nothin’.” The gang leader trembles. Harvis looks back up at Naz and nods. Naz flexes his mind. The thug grabs his throat. His eyes go wide as he struggles to breathe. He reaches for Harvis’ arm only to have Harvis punch it away violently. “You better talk; I won’t be able to stop him soon.” Harvis laughs. Finally, the fallen thug concedes, mouthing the word, “OK.” But it’s too late. Harvis toys with him a bit, not able to help himself. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you.” He moves a little closer, turning sideways as if that will help. Something catches Harvis’ eye. He asks Naz to release the thug, and Naz complies. Harvis has words with the gang leader, and before long, with two fingers to the neck, he applies pressure to the thug’s carotid artery, robbing the gang leader of blood flow to his brain. Harvis is enjoying this, life seeping away from the undeserving. Now, you will die. The gang leader fades.
CHAPTER
02
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER …
W
hat do you do when your best friend’s kid sister is murdered, his only sister? You dream, or at least you try. And you keep waking up all night long, dreading the next day’s funeral. Back and forth, fully awake and half asleep you go, falling out of the dream and back into the nightmare of the real world. That’s me right now. I clutch my pillow and wrap it around my head, hoping to block out the world that has snatched me from my preferred reality. I was flying high over white clouds with nothing but blue skies overhead. I had hoped to surprise my mother in Beijing. I wonder how fast I was flying, how long it would’ve taken me to get there. She’s coming home next week, just before Christmas. A voice somewhere between a trumpet and a tuba rips through. “Attention, Harvis!” “Dad…” I start to pound my fist into the pillow but catch myself. “Do we have to do this every morning?”
6 |
john darryl winston
The General’s voice comes muffled through my closed door. “Sleep is for the weak, and dedication—” “Is not the adversary of accomplishment … I know!” I roll out of bed, landing on the floor straight into push-up position. “Give me a break,” I finish under my breath. I stopped counting my push-ups a long time ago. The goal is to do as many as I can until I run out of gas, so I crank out pushup after push-up, my body at work while my mind contemplates a different challenge. How can I help my friend, and what would that look like? I have no idea what Naz is going through, and I won’t pretend. I just need to be there, but how? Meri was all Naz had. And now that she’s gone, I’m sure he feels he has nothing to live for, or worse, nothing to lose. I grunt and collapse onto the floor. I immediately turn over and maneuver to position my feet under the bed, and push-ups become sit-ups. A poster of Bruce Lee watches over my bed. The General knocks on the door. For all the power my dad possesses, he respects my privacy without exception, which is cool. Although I don’t think he’d ever admit it. Just his way, I guess. Before I think too much about it, I prevent a smile from forming. “Come!” I grunt as my forearms hit my quads, and I return to the resting position. The General enters and stands in silence until I finish my situps. I go longer than I think I can, feeling a sense of power in making him wait. But then I become uncomfortable with my father’s unwavering presence and eventually lose the battle of patience. “Good morning, Dad.” I stand and then slowly elevate on my toes, so I can almost be eye to eye with him. “What’s up?” Never missing a thing, he looks at my feet. “Good morning, Son … fourteen next month. You’ll get there, soon enough. We’re leaving at 0800 hours, which gives you approximately fifty-seven minutes to get ready.” He looks over his shoulder at my suit hanging on the closet door. “Bring your overcoat; a storm is coming, the first of the winter.”
ia: invincible assassin
| 7
It’s one of the rare times I don’t see him in full uniform dress blues. He wears a beige polo shirt with dark brown dress pants. The General never enters my room with his dress blues on, I think because he doesn’t want me to have to rise and salute him in my own bedroom—also cool. It’s just too formal. The General holds a rectangular, black box. He presents it to me as if I’ve won some award. Maybe I have. “What is it?” “Open it. As you know, I won’t be here for Christmas, but your mother will. It’s an early Christmas present.” “Thanks, Dad.” I take the top off the box. “Two watches?” “They’re not watches, although that is one of their functions. They’re audiovisual position (AVP) locators, accessible anywhere on the planet through satellite relays. The wearers can keep track of each other no matter where they are with pinpoint accuracy.” “Annnnnd … what am I supposed to do with them?” “It’s military-grade technology. You won’t find those in any store. Think about it.” He turns to leave. “Could come in handy.” With a raised eyebrow, I watch him leave. He’s up to something. He always is. The General doesn’t do anything without an ulterior motive. He is tactical in that respect—all respects. The General closes the door behind him, and I look at the AVP locators. Keep track of each other? It’s obvious he wants to keep track of me. I have no use for the AVP locators, so I put them in my top dresser drawer in between my perfectly rolled socks. I crank out two more sets of push-ups and sit-ups and then hit the shower. How will I help my friend? I haven’t seen Naz since they released him from the hospital, and he’s not returning any of my calls. It’s clear he doesn’t want to hear from anybody. Hot water cascades over me, and words rush in. Solitude is my weapon and words my ammunition Sticks and stones are useless in this definition To turn a phrase or construct a verse is my defense mechanism
8 |
john darryl winston The firepower I ultimately use to bring meaning to this premonition Metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole It’s not the cause so much I’m after but the effect that appeals to me Literary bombs, landmines, mortars, and rounds devastate discretely And set the stage and tone for a new world order completely
It is a place I love to be, where I can escape, become one with the water. I take flight again as I did earlier this morning in my dream. If I could fly like Superman, I could watch over Naz until he weathered the storm. I laugh—fly like Superman. I didn’t believe in superheroes or superpowers, just dreamed about them—until Naz. He’s angry, and he’ll try to get revenge. I have to protect others from Naz and Naz from himself. He’s not ready to be a hero—he’s more likely to be a villain—so it’s my duty to keep an eye on him—but how? If I follow him, he’ll use whatever ability he has to eventually sense me as he sensed Soul and me that day we followed him to the Incubus Apostle’s lair. I need more, something else. I dry my hair and put the towel around my shoulders—keep an eye on him, that’s the key. I grab my phone to see if he’s returned my calls or texts. There’s nothing, nothing but Soul and … Hailey. I need to return her messages, but I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I like her, but I need to complete this mission. I need to focus. I read her text. How’s your friend I respond, Don’t know Hailey sends back,
ia: invincible assassin
| 9
Wanna hang out over Christmas vacation I answer, Going to stay home for Christmas She replies, K I resist the temptation to text, “thank you,” “bye,” or “happy holidays,” because I know the conversation will go on and on, and I need to cut it short. I have to watch him, watch him wherever he goes … watch him … watches … I take the AVPs back out of my dresser and threaten to smile again—but how will I get him to wear one of these?
CHAPTER
I
03
stare out the passenger window of the General’s Escalade. I am only vaguely aware of the transformation from my father’s suburban home to the once green but now dormant brown, rolling, wideopen rural spaces to the cold gray world of the cityscape, of the Exclave. And with the Exclave comes the snow. I watch the flakes hit the car window and immediately melt. The General drives more than half the ninety-minute trek to the funeral before I find my words. The irony, a wordsmith in search of words. “Dad.” I pull the rectangular box from the backpack at my feet. “What if you wanted … let’s say…”—I turn to him—“to keep track of someone without them knowing it?” The General smiles as if he’d expected the question, pulls a small manila envelope from his shirt pocket, and hands it to me. Always up to something. “Be careful. If you drop it, you’ll catch hell finding it,” he warns. I look inside the envelope and then empty the contents out into my palm. It’s a light brown, tiny circular piece of cardboard— no, rubber—about half the diameter of a dime. There’s also a small
ia: invincible assassin
| 11
booklet. I examine the miniature disk and know exactly what it is: a tracking device. “You only get one chance to plant that when you peel the paper off the back. The adhesive is permanent. Use your phone to program it to link to one of the watches.” I smirk as I look out of the passenger window. We are stopped at a light, and a homeless man with a leathery face approaches, his hand out for a handout, fingers protruding through a worn woolish glove. The light changes, and we pull away. I escape another debate with the General about why we should or should not patronize the homeless. “You’ll have to make up a story for your mother about where you are while she’s here, something about basketball and Coach Fears would probably do the trick. But if you get caught…” I look at him, not sure what he means. Sometimes it takes a second. He’s always cloak-and-dagger, so cryptic. What else would I expect? At the very least, it keeps me on my toes. “Are you familiar with the term plausible deniability?” he asks. “Yeah, that means your name is Wes, and you’re not in this mess.” He nods. “And make sure you spend some time with your mother. She’ll only be here for two weeks this time.” “I always spend time with her when she’s here,” I say and then realize I sound defensive. After a stretch of silence, I clear my throat. “I was thinking. Since I conceded—” “Conceded?” “Since I didn’t make a fuss about going to International Academy for high school, I was thinking I could take the semester off from there this summer, work on my writing, maybe get my mind right for ninth grade.” “Do you think you’re ready? Remember, it’s not the institution; it’s the individual, and change is good.”
12 |
john darryl winston
Silence is the academic answer for what we both already know. The General’s maneuvers have prepared me well. I spend the last part of our journey programming the tracking device.
THE GENERAL PULLS up next to the curb in front of the cemetery. “Give everyone my condolences.” “What time do you have to be at the airport?” “In one hour and tw … I have time.” The snow is still coming down, not hard but steady and beginning to stick on the manicured lawn inside the cemetery gates. I put on my black hunting hat and move to get out of the car. The General grabs me by the shoulder. “Your orders are to observe, discourage, and report, only.” I nod.
CHAPTER
I
04
stand solemn at parade rest, my hands in the small of my back and my feet shoulder-width apart, the same way we stand before a game while the national anthem plays. Soul and Coach stand to my right and the rest of the team, minus two, to my left. Ham is in custody for his involvement in Meri’s death, and Naz is MIA. Or is it AWOL? Either way, he’s nowhere to be found. A clergyman stands near Meri’s grave with Bible in hand, reciting the eulogy. On the other side of the grave, a stocky man dressed in a colorful skirt (or whatever they call it) with a matching hat and stockings plays “Amazing Grace” on bagpipes. The music seems appropriate but the performance part a bit out of place. “Do you think he’ll show?” whispers Soul, wiping his eyes. I shake my head. “Well, what are we gonna do? He hasn’t been to school either.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s coming back.” “What do you mean?” Soul’s voice cuts through the solemnness. “Shhh …” This is only the second funeral I’ve ever been to. Two years ago, when I first came to live here in the Exclave with Coach Fears,
14 |
john darryl winston
we lost Jose, one of our teammates, to a drive-by shooting. Besides me, he was the only other sixth-grader on the basketball team at the time. Coach and the rest of the team attended the funeral back then, too. It was one of the first times I got a chance to see what Coach meant by family, that we should always be there to support each other. It’s what he holds most sacred. It’s a different look than what my parents hold up as family—together in marriage, a spiritual and religious union, but more often than not separated by thousand of miles, my dad in service to his country and my mom to the business deals she brokers. But there seems to be more people at this funeral—hundreds. There are so many of them, some can’t even see the grave. Very few of us fit under the tent covering the casket. It speaks to the power this ten-year-old spitfire must’ve wielded in her life. I can’t help but feel guilty that I didn’t get to know Meri better. I could’ve written some words as a tribute to her. Maybe I still will. Afterward, the clergyman gives words of encouragement and support as people linger, leaving flowers and paying their last respects. I pull up the collar on my peacoat and the flaps down on my hat as the snow continues to fall. Coach, who had left Soul and me to pay his respects to others in attendance, returns. “Have you heard from your brother?” We both shake our heads. “I’m worried, Coach,” says Soul. “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” consoles Coach. “Give ’im time. He’ll need it after something like this, but he’s also gonna need you guys at some point so make yourselves available.” “No doubt, Coach,” says Soul. I nod. We start toward the cemetery exit, and I hesitate, realizing he’s here. He has to be. There’s no way he would miss his sister’s funeral. He just doesn’t wanna be seen, doesn’t wanna be around people. Naz never did.
ia: invincible assassin
| 15
“Hey, Coach. I’m gonna stick around for a while. I’ll walk back.” I turn toward the grave. Many still congregate there. “I’ll hang with you, Wordsmith. I don’t have no place to be,” says Soul. “That’s OK; I wanna be alone for a little while.” I give Soul and Coach hugs, as they’re both big huggers. Me … not so much. “Suit yourself,” says Coach. “You sure, Wordsmith?” asks Soul. “Positive.” I look over my shoulder as I make my way back to a small group standing near Meri’s grave. Coach, Soul and a few more players from the team leave together—family. I pull a pristine rose from my backpack, kneel, and recite Psalm 23. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the path of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” (KJV) I place the rose on her casket, stand and then turn to see Mr. Tesla nearby talking to a tall lady with dark hair pulled back in a bun and wearing sunglasses. “Um … hi.” I approach the two respectfully, nodding to the woman and holding out my hand to Mr. Tesla. “I don’t know if you remember me, sir, but I’m one of Naz’s teammates. We met—” “Harvis,” says Mr. Tesla, bowing his head slightly. “Yes.”
16 |
john darryl winston
“Harvis,” says the lady opposite Mr. Tesla, holding out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you, although not in the most ideal of circumstances.” She looks at Meri’s grave. “I’m Naz’s therapist.” “Oh … nice to meet you … Dr. Hornbuckle. Naz talks about you all the time.” “I hope nothing bad.” “Oh, no! All good, Dr. Hornbuckle.” “Well, that’s good to know, and call me Dr. Gwen, please.” “Yes, ma’am.” “This one was special, one of a kind.” Dr. Gwen looks at Meri’s grave. “Loved by so many … such a tragedy.” Her words are strong, as is her presence. There is no trembling to her. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard from Naz, either,” she continues, turning her attention away from the grave and scanning the cemetery grounds, echoing my suspicion that although Naz is not in attendance, he is likely around. “I’ve heard many good things about you, too. My son, John, said he had classes with you in the summer academy at IA.” She nods toward a clean-cut young man, also with dark hair, about my size, standing several feet away with his back turned, apparently waiting. “John,” she calls to him. John walks over and immediately sticks his hand out to me. I match his firm handshake but am barely able to recollect him being in any of my IA summer classes, although I never mingle much with the other students there. We stare at each other for a bit, and I wonder if the good doctor possesses those same intense blue eyes behind her dark sunglasses. There’s an awkward silence, and I take the opportunity to scan the many bushes and trees that define the landscape of the cemetery. If Naz wanted to be close enough to hear and see the memorial but not be seen, he’d hide behind the closer ones. The bushes on the perimeter catch my attention. They will conceal me. Now’s the best time for me to take cover while a good number of people are still milling around and moving about, coming and going.
ia: invincible assassin
| 17
“Well, I have to get back,” I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Nice to see you again.” Mr. Tesla bows his head. “Wait.” Dr. Gwen pulls a card from her clutch and hands it to me. “You’re likely to hear from him before I do. I have a proposition for him. He needs to call me, though … as soon as possible.” I look at the business card and nod. “Yes, ma’am. I will. I should be getting back.” I shake her hand. “J … John, is it?” I reach out for John’s hand. He takes it, and we exchange a firm handshake. “Mr. Tesla.” I shake his hand. I slowly walk away, having no intention of leaving the cemetery. I make my way to the exit and then casually walk along the inside of the cemetery fence. Looking back to check and see if I am being observed, I almost stumble over a homeless man who has made camp alongside the fence. “Excuse me,” I apologize. He nods and puts his hand out as I pass by. I have a thought—a perfect opportunity to defy Dad. I reach in my back pocket and pull out the few singles that congregate there. I turn and hand them to the derelict, just now taking notice of him. He’s definitely dressed for the winter: a drab wool hat stretches out over an apparent mass of hair and his face is completely wrapped in a gray scarf, except for his alert eyes. He nods and gives a muffled, “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” I nod back, turn, and continue on my path until I find a group of trees that adequately conceal my presence. The people leaving the funeral pay me no mind. I just hope wherever Naz is—if he’s watching—he doesn’t notice, either. In his present state, I should be the last thing on his mind. It doesn’t take long before the funeral party dissipates along with the falling snow. I remove my hat, button the flaps, and put it back on. It’s only then I notice the homeless man is also gone, and then it strikes me—why would a homeless man camp out at a ceme-
18 |
john darryl winston
tery? Easy answer: visiting a loved one probably. Duh. I shrug off the irony, lean against a tree and prepare the tracking device. I don’t have to wait long as Naz emerges from a cluster of bushes opposite Meri’s grave. Lucky for me, he’s predictable. Naz stops just before he gets to Meri’s grave. He appears to take a deep breath and then continues. He kneels down in the same spot I did and places a flower on Meri’s casket. My eyes well up, and I shake off the emotion. I’m tougher than that. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I shouldn’t be crying now, but it’s different. My father says tears betray the strength of a man, but my mom says they embody it. I miss my mother all the time but right now more than ever. I wouldn’t tell anybody that. I’m not sure what to say to Naz—a wordsmith without words again—and Mom always has the right words. I look away and then close my eyes tight to make the tears disappear. I say a prayer. When I return my gaze, like an angel, someone has appeared from nowhere. Her white knit hat like a halo and matching mittens to warm cold hands, D sits next to Naz. I turn back around and nod. This is good. I don’t want to be a voyeur on what could be an intimate moment for the two, but I don’t want to lose Naz either, so I turn around every few minutes to keep track of their progress. After a while, they’re sitting on the grass, and from a distance, I swear Naz is smiling. D laughs, confirming what I thought I saw, and Naz chuckling soon follows. I nod again and smile. Perfect! At one point, D pushes against Naz’s shoulder causing him to lose his balance and fall to his side. The two laugh again. Not knowing how long D will be there, I’m tempted to sit down. It has stopped snowing, and not much of it has accumulated on the ground up against the tree. Still, I decide to stand strong and wait for my friend to be alone. After what seems like more than an hour, I turn to find D facing Naz. She leans in, kisses him on his cheek, and stands—sly dog. Naz looks up and says something. She replies and walks away. Naz
ia: invincible assassin
| 19
watches, and she looks back several times before she reaches the gate. They must really like each other. When she’s gone, Naz turns around and looks at the casket. He says something. It’s now or never. I come from behind the tree and start toward him. I immediately see the clergyman return and approach Naz from the rear, maybe startling Naz. I freeze. Whatever the man says apparently upsets Naz, and the look on the man’s face after Naz’s response paints the picture of disappointment. He asks Naz one more question. Naz answers with a posture of pride and then turns his attention back to Meri. The man puts his finger up like he wants to say something else but then pauses as if he thinks better of it and walks away looking slightly dejected. I hold the tracking device on its edges between the thumb and middle finger of my left hand, careful not to let the adhesive touch my skin. One thing I can be sure of is that if the General says the adhesive is permanent, I can count on that fact to be true. I have one chance at this—let’s do it. I gather myself, readjusting the backpack on my shoulder and then make a motion symbolizing the cross in front of my chest. I say a short prayer and then continue my approach. “Hey, man,” I say when I’m only a few feet away. Naz’s head turns slightly, acknowledging my presence, and then he returns his gaze forward. I pride myself on being prepared for any and everything—four readings of the Art of War will do that to you—but at this moment, it occurs to me I still have nothing in the way of the words. I can’t talk him down or derail him from his decided upon path. My only goal is to plant the tracking device as stealthily as possible. Surprisingly, Naz breaks the ice. “Do I know you?” Naz continues looking straight ahead. “What?” His question is a bee’s sting that surprises me. “Do I know you?” he asks again, almost too quickly, with an air of impatience. “I don’t under—”
20 |
john darryl winston
“Because … there’s something familiar about you. There always has been … since my first day at Lincoln in Coach’s class. Everyone knows that I can’t remember things, but I see flashes.” He finally looks up at me, suspiciously. “And … you’re always throwing out hints … when you help me out and I say, ‘I owe you,’ talkin’ ’bout ‘trust me: you don’t owe me.’ Why don’t I owe you? What does that mean, ‘I don’t owe you?’” Trying to buy some time, I put my free hand in my front pocket and walk to the other side of the grave. I didn’t expect that—so much for predictability. I take a deep breath that I hope Naz won’t detect. “The Wordsmith is wordless,” Naz continues. “Last week, everything I did … with Roffio and the rest of those boys, none of it surprised you.” “Naz—” “Let me finish.” He stops me with an open palm. “You even took the bullets out of that gun Soul brought.” Naz stands and faces me. “You knew they might have weapons. You’re not bulletproof, and you would’ve never put Soul in danger; you’re his guardian angel, his protector. At the hospital when Soul asked about the things I did, it was you who covered for me. How do you know about what I can do?” This is my strength, and some call me the Iceman because I don’t rattle easily. Watch me work. “I don’t,” I say with a straight face. “Like Soul, I just saw. That’s how. And at the game earlier that day, you didn’t miss a shot. Even pro ball players don’t shoot that good. It is what it is. There are things on this earth that are bigger than you and me, things that we’ll never understand. It’s called faith, belief in the unseen. Heard of it?” I say, regaining my composure. “Uh-huh.” Naz looks down at Meri’s casket and then back up at me, shaking his head. “You said all of that with a lot of conviction, but I’m not buying it. You’re hiding something. Did you know I could read minds, too?”
ia: invincible assassin
| 21
Can he? I show no emotion. Is it possible, with the other things he can do? “Great! Read my mind. I have nothing to hide.” I bluff, trying my best to think of basketball, video games, rhymes, anything but my past with Naz. “Forget about it.” Naz looks back down at the grave, dejected. “It doesn’t work anymore anyway. Your secret is safe … for now. What do you want? You knew I’d be here, so you waited ’til I came out of hiding. I don’t have to read minds to know that.” “Just checking on you, man. Everyone’s worried about you, haven’t seen you at school.” “Just need some time.” Naz shrugs. This is my chance. I can’t let Naz sit back down or walk away. I reach out to shake his hand. He looks at it and then up at me. I keep my mind as clear as I can just in case what Naz says about being able to read minds is true. When Naz finally takes my hand, I aggressively pull him toward me in an intended man-hug. He reciprocates. I place the tracking device on the middle finger of my left hand and when Naz is close enough, press it against the back of his black hunting jacket. When we release, Naz furrows his brow. Something is off about my little show of affection, and I’m sure Naz can feel it, too. “Naz, if you need anything—” “Family, I know.” “Well, yeah—” “They took my only family away, the Incubus Apostles.” Naz turns back to Meri’s grave. “And they’re gonna pay.” He’s blunt, which surprises me. It can only mean he’s reaching out, but I have no intention of giving him advice about the negative impacts of hate and revenge. His straightforwardness spurs me on to some directness of my own. Maybe I can at least negotiate a stay in his actions. Here goes nothing. “Naz.”
22 |
john darryl winston
He doesn’t look at me, but I know I have his ear. I use words that appeal to his sense of duty as a friend. “I need you to promise me one thing.” He turns to look at me, expressionless. “Three weeks,” I say to peak his curiosity and continue the dialogue between us. “Three weeks?” He takes the bait. “Give me three weeks to see what I can come up with.” “The case is closed. Everyone thinks Roffio was lying about a boss and that he acted alone. The police said the orders Ham, Dill, and Denali were following must have come directly from Roffio and there was no boss.” “The police?” I scoff. “My father’s a brigadier—” “General! I know.” He twists some of his hair, making it obvious he’s giving it some thought. “You have three weeks,” he concedes. “Well, you know where to find us.” I walk away, looking back to see if I successfully planted the tracking device. To my surprise, the device has somehow turned black, and I have to squint to see it. Like a chameleon, it has become the same color as his jacket. Sweet! Military grade, Dad said. I leave the cemetery, wandering and wondering what will be Naz’s next move. He’ll probably start asking around … as if all the questions haven’t already been asked. But that’s what I would do. I hope he doesn’t ask the wrong person the right question. That would be bad for them. Maybe after three weeks, his passions will cool, and he’ll get over it. Not likely. Great! Three weeks. That gives me one week to hang out with Soul and … Hailey, I guess, and when Mom gets here next week, I can spend the entire Christmas vacation with her. She must’ve planned it that way. I smile involuntarily and look around to make sure no one notices. The General’s idea about using basketball and Coach as an excuse to get away from Mom was solid, but I’m glad I
ia: invincible assassin
| 23
don’t need it anymore. The tougher proposition comes after those three weeks: getting away from Fears at a moment’s notice, when I need to track Naz.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR John Darryl Winston is a graduate of the Motion Picture Institute of Michigan, the Recording Institute of Detroit, and Wayne State University. He also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. He is an educator, coach, musician, and songwriter, but considers himself an author first—mainly because he believes that miracles and dreams live in the written word. He lives in Michigan with his daughter Marquette and intends to acquire an African Grey parrot one day when he conquers his irrational fear of birds.