by A G Stevens
E P I L O G U E
It was a modest neighborhood filled with working people who knew the measure of a day and the value of a dollar, and their homes spoke of the age of the area they lived in. It was solid, if a bit gritty, having so far resisted the gleam of slow-moving gentrification, tucked away near the harbor and behind the elevated train tracks as it was. It was firm, yet comforting, edgy and defensive, with an energy that said those who lived here would protect their own whenever necessary.
There was an apartment building pushed back from the others a bit, as if it were hiding, or lying in wait. Derek Blaze trucked up the steps in jeans, jogging shoes, and a grey sweat jacket, a black beanie pulled down around his ears to protect them from the early morning chill. His key fit the front door, and the elevator button to the sixth floor bore the patina of his thumbprint. He rode alone, in silence, no earbuds to tarnish his wary sense of hearing, so sensitive to changes in air or shifts in motion. Here, there was little for him to be leery of, to draw his superior skills of detection for danger that he put to such beneficial use in his work for the House, and for others. But it never hurt to be prepared in case things changed.
His apartment was the full sixth floor, subdivided into a living space and a work space, not quite luxurious enough to be considered a loft, but not restricted enough to be thought of as a simple apartment. It gave him a place to retire to, whenever the world-wearying travel and constant in-flight motion found a respite, and the adrenaline was fully absorbed, even if those moments were few and fleeting.
With a turn of his key and the sweep of a retinal-thumbprint scan combination, he unlocked the door and came home for the first time in three weeks.
A pile of mail lay on the doormat inside, courtesy of Mrs. Speigel, the owner of the building and a saint of a woman who protected Blaze’s privacy with tenacity. He smiled at the knowledge that someone had noticed he was gone, and might have cared that he’d be returning at some point. It was a small luxury he afforded himself in the strange whirlwind that was his life as a spy-for-hire.
There was quiet inside this space, a stillness that Blaze could find nowhere else. The few people who knew him best would have called him an adrenaline junkie, but he knew that wasn’t really what drove him; it was merely a tool for his sense of justice that sometimes took dark turns, and he was fine knowing that all of it was necessary. There were rooms in this apartment that held weapons, and wealth, and secrets that dark people had entrusted to him again and again. And he’d taken those secrets and wielded them against even darker people, like a shield to protect those who needed it, or like a weapon against those who deserved it. The line between those blurred as often as not. But at this point in his life, he knew no other way.
At this moment, none of that held any sway over him.
All he wanted was to lie still and breathe a little.
So he dropped onto the couch, kicked off his shoes, and reclined, long and horizontal on the leather, with his arm draped over the edge and his phone balanced one-handed as he caught up on the life that lived beneath the surface.
“Junk...junk...” he intoned as he scanned his emails. “Work offer—declined...I work for someone else now, thank you just the same. Subscription renewal...bill...more junk.” It was monotonous and basic, and to others it would have been a slog.
For him, it was sweet relief.
A text popped up on his screen. Got the money. You’re a good man. Thank you.
Blaze smiled. Glad. You’re welcome. Dinner tomorrow, if you’re downtown.
The reply came quickly. Sorry. Tomorrow is bad. Let’s try next week?
Might be gone for work, he answered. If not, then it’s a date.
Perfect came back, with a smiley face attached.
Blaze swiped the screen clean, threw the phone on the coffee table, and sprang up, newly energized in spite of not really having relaxed at all. He made his way to the kitchen and scrabbled through the cabinets for a box of cereal, then emptied half the contents into a bowl and filled it with milk.
His phone chimed.
He shuffled back to the coffee table and grabbed it, then made his way back to the counter quickly as his stomach rumbled.
The contact was unknown. There was no number, just a series of asterisks as an identity.
The text read, Do you know who’s in your House, Michael?
They used my real name, Blaze noted. And capital-H House.
Before he could answer, another text came...a video this time. It buffered, then began playing. The view was black and white, but familiar...
This is my kitchen, he said, gazing at the screen.
A dark figure slid into view, shown from the back, in a coat with a hood that covered anything identifying. The slim profile and elegant line indicated a woman.
Blaze felt his pulse double.
He looked over his shoulder at his own surveillance camera stationed over his kitchen, and then at the others situated all around the space, wondering what they’d picked up while he was gone—images of this figure that might be on his hard drive. There were twelve lenses watching in total, and there wasn’t a corner that didn’t have coverage.
But someone had been there just the same.
His hand slid into the back of his waistband and produced a 9 mm that he clutched tightly as he watched the rest of the video, ready for whoever might still be there. The woman on the screen raised her right hand out to her side, and her fingers closed together in a meditational om gesture. She never lowered her hood or turned around.
Then the screen went black.
