Invisible Threads

by Michael Hyslip

Nice, a quick reminder that invisible isn’t the same as silent, nor is it invincibility…. Taking a quick step forward, I let the door close and saw one room containing kitchen and dining room with a light on and two people sitting at a table. I waited in the hallway just on the other side of the room and heard the sound of guns being picked up, the cha-chink of a slide assembly racked back to load them, and footsteps toward the hallway. I almost laughed to myself about the idiocy of them in a situation like this without weapons already loaded.

  Someone stepped into the doorway, looked up and down the hallway, and then walked out the back door I’d entered through. As he did, the second person stepped out and looked around. It was a prime opportunity so I slammed the web of my hand, between thumb and index finger, into the front of his throat, turning off my shield to keep the headache at bay a bit longer. As he jerked back and his hands went to his throat due to the autonomic nervous system response, I grabbed the back of his head and pulled down sharply, face directly meeting my knee as he dropped to the floor in a heap. I reshielded and stepped farther into the room, careful not to step on the blood coming from his nose so I wouldn’t leave footprints—or would they be invisible too?

  There was a baseball bat against the table and numerous stacks of cash. I picked up the bat and watched it slowly disappear behind my shield as long as I kept it close to my body. The sight made me smile, but the headache was definitely stronger. I stepped back from the table against the wall just as the outside door slammed open.

  “Somebody busted up Jimmy!” one of the thugs said as he saw his bloodied friend on the floor. Looking around and confused by the money still on the table, he was clearly wondering why in the world someone would attack them, but leave the money. His handgun was pointing all over the place like some jittery addict who’d missed a fix. He finally seemed to think no one was still around, so he pocketed his gun and ran to the table to start gathering cash, but I hit an invisible home run on the side of his head. What a beautiful sound, even though I knew I swung just hard enough to introduce unconsciousness rather than death. I dropped the bat after wiping down the handle with my shirt to remove any fingerprints.

  I filled my pockets with all the money I could, but kept up my shield and formed a pouch with the bottom of my shirt to grab the rest. I was nervous as heck and felt the headache really becoming a symphony in the brain, but didn’t dare stay unprotected if more of these guys came inside. There should also be a kid out front taking orders, and I had to hurry in case he came inside. I headed to the back door, but heard voices yelling at each other; the alarm had been sounded. Then the front door opened, after knocking some sort of code, the kid from the front of the house ran inside and proceeded toward the kitchen, where his friends were sprawled.

  I backed up against the hallway wall as much possible, barely escaping bumping into him. I moved slowly to the front door when the kid ran out the back and yelled for help. I wasn’t sticking around and quickly moved away from the area.

  Two blocks later, I stumbled behind a parked car and puked, unable to maintain shielding any longer without passing out. I took off my shirt and used it like a knapsack to hold the overflow of cash I had been trying to carry in my pockets and hands. I tied it tightly and forced myself up and started walking again, and for the first time noticed a few odd bills that had fallen loose behind me while I was struggling with the shield. It was a super-idiot move—a giant trail of breadcrumbs to my location. I hurriedly crossed the road and ducked behind a parked car as some gangbangers ran around the corner with guns drawn, following the money in quite the literal sense. I felt too stupid to even laugh and took several deep breaths, hoping I had the strength to reshield if needed.

  I peeked through the car windows and saw the group picking up the few stray bills. They split up, one ran across the street toward me, with the others off in different directions to track me down. As he closed in, I shut my eyes and hoped my ability would kick in when I needed it. At the last moment, a gunshot rang from up the road, followed a yell. I heard footsteps retreating in that direction, leaving me in the clear. I was probably outside their general territory, and their presence had caused issues with what I assumed was another gang, which worked in my favor. For the moment I was safe, so I forced myself to start walking to my apartment, which was about three blocks away. I was unshielded and had to remain so unless absolutely necessary, or I’d probably pass out and get beaten to death by whichever gangbanger found me first.

  I struggled through three blocks of hell before reaching my apartment, popping inside, and closing the blinds. I got into the bathroom, left all the clothes on the floor, and jumped into a shower since I‘d been throwing up. Once done, I emptied the makeshift knapsack and pockets onto my bed and began counting.

  Holy crap! There’s over $32,000 here….

  I couldn’t exactly deposit it into the bank—at least not all at once—without raising alarms, but I could quit both my jobs. Life just got a whole lot more exciting…

  Chapter 7

  I had pushed myself too hard, and it took me several days to recover. I kept to light workouts, continued working both jobs, and stayed away from shielding to lay low until ready to venture out again. By the third day, I felt more energetic and could start making some plans, hopefully, better and safer ones than my impromptu incursion into gang drug operations.

  As I exited my apartment, I knew just where to start. After quitting both jobs, I stuck around the bar a bit and grabbed a few beers. Neither employer was too surprised that I quit since I was their best worker, showing up on time with the added bonus of sobriety. I had done great work and was much more reliable than any of their other employees. Because of this they had anticipated me finding work elsewhere before long. As I nursed a beer, I kept watch on the time as the clock crawled towards 4:00 p.m.

  The bar’s dark interior had a lot of character, almost as much as its clientele. Usually, things were quiet aside from the old jukebox in the corner, but the smell of old spilled whiskey and some patched holes told the story of more than a few brawls. A couple of regulars toked on their cigars as they shot a round of pool, while waiting for new blood and scam them out of their money. I was pretty sure that was the only way they kept up with their drinking habit, since neither had a job. I simply nodded toward them and silently wished them luck, hoping any poor sucker who came in wouldn’t lose their life savings.

  Right on time, ol’ Rusty entered and clambered onto his usual bar stool. Rusty was a local slum lord who caused his own share of trouble whenever a grumbling tenant entered the bar and saw him. It didn’t take much alcohol before a fight broke out over Rusty’s slimy tactics, the allegations of not having a single working air conditioner in his buildings, and many other problems. I would have to throw out the tenant and explain that they’d need to take their complaints elsewhere. Rusty would laugh about how there was indeed a working air conditioner, but only in his office; the fat on his body jiggled raucously over the plight of those stuck in his buildings because they had nowhere else to go.

  I knew he was typically there a few hours or so before walking to the liquor store up the road to stock up on the hard stuff. I stopped by the restroom, then exited the bar a few minutes before I knew he’d be leaving. Slinking around the side of the building, I shielded and waited until that detestable human being continued his daily pilgrimage to drunkenness.

  As the sun slunk lower in the sky, Rusty soon swaggered out to migrate down the empty sidewalk. I quietly followed, while leaving plenty of room between us, and stopped to wait outside the storefront as he bought three bottles of cheap whiskey. Coughing and waddling, he exited and continued toward one of the larger buildings, which I assumed he owned. Its run-down brickwork was pathetic, even for a slumlord, and the ivy running up the side might very well be all that kept the building together. I imagined I could hear the old plumbing groaning to keep working, pumping out something barely recognizable as water.

  Stepping to the front of the b
uilding, I watched him enter the main hallway and fish for keys. Inserting one into the lock of the manager’s office, it turned as I slipped into the building. I found myself in the first apartment accessible from a common hallway and across from the line of mailboxes anchored to the wall. I could hear a dog barking inside as Rusty yelled at it to be quiet, and I quickly closed the gap to the door as he stepped inside. I knew I’d be taking a chance with the dog, but I hoped it wouldn’t be a problem if things went well. I placed my hand against the door to keep it from closing all the way. The large mutt sensed my presence and started barking viciously, drawing the attention of Rusturd, as I began thinking of him.

  “Shut UP, you stupid MUTT!” he yelled, getting louder as he moved toward both the door and the dog.

  The dog yelped as Rusturd sharply pulled on his collar. I moved back a little as the door opened, and he took a quick look outside. Seeing nothing, he dragged the still-barking dog into another room to lock it up, so I took advantage of that moment to slip inside and let the door close behind me as he’d originally intended.

  I took inventory of the room, imagining it might look decent if the thick layer of dust or other filth was gone and the dog urine cleaned up. I doubted it, though: the yellowed walls from cigar smoke would never be clean, and the dirt in the floor would never come out but for demolition or fire. There was a cheap bookcase on one wall filled with garbage books and magazines, probably there just to attempt to convince someone that the landlord was literate. The dog was probably the only one who would’ve fallen for the ruse, but even then I wasn’t sure. The plastic plants were so fake that even Bruce Jenner’s “womanhood” would scoff.

  Returning to the living room, Rusty opened his first bottle and started drinking. He switched on an old TV on his desk next to an old computer, the amber liquid clambering for the next shot at his liver destruction. He then got up, reached into his cheap suit, and withdrew an envelope before walking over to the bookcase. He removed a specific book, where the dust was missing from repeatedly being disturbed, and extracted a key from its binding. He then pulled a painting from the wall, and after unlocking the exposed safe, he deposited the envelope. He returned the painting and the key, settling into his office chair and laughing as gaudy shows spewed forth from the television.

  It didn’t take long for him to finish one bottle of whiskey and open another; it wasn’t long after that before he headed to the restroom. I didn’t want him to know what had happened until well after the fact, so I settled against the wall and continued to wait. His return trip to the chair resulted in another bottle finished, and as his head dipped to his chest, he was soon snoring deeply as the alcohol took over. I smacked his desk hard, and while he jumped slightly and the snoring changed, he didn’t actually wake up. Time to work.

  I opened the safe quietly, exposing some property titles and about $25,000 in cash. I pulled out all the cash and settled it nicely into my jacket, where I’d hidden a sizable pouch for that very reason. I then pulled the titles out, closed the safe, and returned both painting and key. I took the documents and lit them on fire in the bathroom sink with his own matches. I closed the door and headed out. Of course, no smoke alarms were active due to the massive cigar smoking taking place, so I let them burn to ash. There would be ways to recover most of the properties’ paperwork, if not all, but he’d have to jump through the hoops of the county records office. Anything that wasn’t legit would be lost, and I was fine and dandy with that outcome.

  I quietly stepped out of the office into the main hallway of the apartment building, where the bank of small mailboxes was embedded into the wall, diligently hiding their deep contents from view. I took the bills I’d removed from the safe and stuffed them into the openings of every mailbox, trying to divide them evenly. There were about fifty apartments, so each person ended up with roughly $500 that mysteriously showed up overnight. No doubt, there would be plenty who would drink the money away, but also plenty whose lives would be changed by an incredible amount spent wisely.

  Upon completion of this task, I started on my last item on the agenda. I extracted a can of silver spray paint from my jacket and drew an outline of a ghost on the wall next to the mailboxes. I smiled smugly as I exited the building and headed home.

  The next evening I stopped at the old quaint bar and could hear the rotund landlord complaining loudly about theft. As I sat down on a stool, I listened for a while, covering a smirk as ol’ Rusty claimed he’d been beaten by multiple people or he’d otherwise have been able to fight back. His embellishment was comical, more to me than anyone, and as he started whining about the graffiti left in the building I prepared for another step.

  Once he mentioned that a ghost was some sort of gang symbol, I piped up, “Wait, did you say ‘ghost’? I worked at a diner a while back, and a customer came in a few times, claiming to know someone for hire who would pull various jobs for anyone with cash, especially against rivals. They called the guy “The Ghost.” I thought it was silly, but maybe it’s true.”

  Rusty turned toward me, and I could see the seed I’d planted begin to grow.

  “You did, huh? Well if that was true, I’d hire him myself because I’m pretty sure I know who paid ‘im to rob me!”

  “If I’m able to track them down, I can send word their way for ya. A good bit of revenge I’m sure could help the soul.”

  He grunted and went back to his drink with a thoughtful air, which was something I never thought I’d see with him. I finished my drink a few minutes later and made my way home, preparing for my next part of the plan, which I’d be ready to execute in a few days. After a week I had set up a secure way of communicating with “The Ghost”: some quality business cards with specific directions on the back.

  I had some time to kill one day, so while waiting outside his office under shield, I saw the slumlord making his way up the road with his usual bottles of whiskey. As soon as Rusturd fumbled for his keys, I quietly put the phony “Ghost” card in his pocket, then retreated back home.

  The next day my tablet beeped with a message:

  Rusty: “u the ghost?

  Ghost: “I am, and I know who you are.”

  Rusty: “how do I know it’s true?”

  Ghost: “I put the card in your pocket without you noticing. I’m assuming you’re wanting to hire or you wouldn’t have contacted me.”

  Rusty: “I know you stole my stuff. I should kill you.”

  Ghost: “I have few rules. I get paid to do a job, and I deliver, always. I work alone, always. I don’t discuss previous clients or jobs, always. If you attempt to track me down, attack me, or cheat me, I will find you and dismantle your life utterly, always.”

  Rusty: “Prove it. I’ll leave $15 in a safe place on my way home tonight, and I want a bottle of my favorite whiskey on my door.”

  Ghost: “Agreed, and we’ll talk real business afterward.”

  I shook my head, but figured I had to start somewhere, and it would be fun, so why not? If he felt like he was in control, then it would help get the ball rolling quicker, especially after he felt helpless from the robbery. I left my apartment and went directly to the liquor store he always hit on his way home. I entered under shield and pulled a whiskey bottle off the shelf. After leaving, I walked toward Rusty’s office and got close enough to see him lock the door and leave for the bar.

  I waited until he started walking and then followed. I didn’t care about the $15, but still needed to pick it up at some point just to prove that I was watching him. The entire time the slumlord kept looking behind him and across the street, hoping to see someone tailing him…as if it would be that easy. While passing a broken-down building, he quickly stuck something under a brick, then rushed onward after looking around.

  Seconds later, I grabbed what was there. It was only $10, not the $15 we’d agreed on. I moved the brick back within seconds. Meanwhile, Rusty moved slowly and was only about fifteen yards from the bar’s entrance by that point. He exited about ten seconds
after entering, looked around again, and frowned. I picked up the pace to get to his office first, but I did watch him stop to get his money from the brick, then spin around wildly after finding it gone.

  I opened the whiskey, poured about half of it out, and recapped it. After I arrived at his run-down building, I silently leaned against the door as he got closer and jumped when he noticed the bottle of liquor at his door. He frantically turned each way, looking for a clue as to how this had happened so quickly, but still took the alcohol, frowning that it wasn’t full, and then unlocked his door to disappear from sight.

  I rounded the corner to keep an eye on the door, but unshielded to see my tablet’s screen better. It wasn’t long until a message popped up:

  Rusty: “ok I dunno how u did that, but that was fast, sorry I couldn’t just leave $15.”

  Ghost: “60% payment, 60% whiskey delivered. The next transaction will be paid in full, or I’ll deliver nothing. Can we do actual business now?”

  Rusty: “ok ok I got it. Who hired you against me?”

  Ghost: “I don’t discuss clients.”

  Rusty: “ok ok so if I give you a name of someone to ransack and steal from, does it matter who it is?”

  Ghost: “No, only the price matters to make it worth my while. Ransack a bum, it’s cheap. Ransack the governor? That will cost you. My previous jobs are done and final, no conflicts of interest unless someone paid for extra protection.”

  Rusty: “ok ok… so $1,500 and you steal from a piece of trash named Greg Vielhatten. He’s a jerk trying to force me to sell him my properties.”

  I did a quick Internet search, and sure enough, Vielhatten was a real estate baron in the area, and also a bit of a sleazebag from what I could tell. It also seemed he had money, so this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Ghost: “$10,000 and it’s a deal. He has money, he has security. That means risk, which you’ll be paying me to deliver. If I clean him out painfully, though, some things won’t be worth the risk if he’s got a safety deposit box, but it will hurt nonetheless. I’ll even throw in some public embarrassment for the effort.”