by Sam Jones
He’s testing me.
And yeah, considering the circumstances, I’m definitely having second thoughts.
But Roenick can’t know that.
I’ll be in just as much trouble as Amanda is…
DO. YOUR. JOB.
She turned back around and faced Roenick with a competent and polished presence—
“No. I don’t have a problem with what we’re doing.”
Roenick nodded. Approving. Satisfied. “I have to commend you. It was surprising enough to discover I had family several years ago. It was even more exciting to learn that they, that you, were just the same as I am.”
Killers.
For hire.
“When I approached you, and revealed to you who I was, and what I wanted, you didn’t hesitate to join alongside me. And, until recently, you have not failed me.”
It was the money that drew Cassie into Roenick’s world. That and the notion of having some sort of blood-based relationship in a life that had otherwise been void of any real, human connection. It was a tiny speck of light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Two years later, Roenick panned out to be nothing more than a stone-hearted assassin, who liked to use the terms ‘brother,’ ‘sibling,’ and ‘family’ with no real weight or meaning. The moments where he called her ‘Ms. Palizzi’ added insult to that injury.
As time passed, Cassie held out less hope for a connection with him and relied more on his consistent work and paychecks.
I could have walked away from this several times.
But he’s still my brother.
It’s that simple.
Shit…
“I feel I’ve treated you with a harsher hand than some of the other people in my employ,” Roenick said. “Not only because of our connection, but because you are effective and efficient. In light of the massive ‘layoffs’ I’ve made over incompetence recently, you have been a reliable element, Ms. Palizzi. I suppose raising a hand to you earlier was frustration for your otherwise stellar performance.”
“That begs a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you: was it necessary to blow up that club? There were a lot of innocent people in there.”
Roenick clenched his jaw at the accusation.
“That was not my doing.”
Amanda waited.
She believed him.
“Richie Dubin” Roenick said, “was failing at the one job we contracted and paid him to do. Gregory was meant to replace him.”
“And look how well that turned out. Your guys at the club drew down on Black way too fast. Innocent people got killed and the place got demolished. You made a mess, Roenick, admit it.”
He gritted his teeth, the pearly whites stuck out in Cassie’s direction. “I see it as discarding six of the most useless, hack-brained individuals on this planet. I should have never hired them,” he said.
“And yet, you did,” she said.
Despite the fact that these two siblings were distant and shared only a common blood type, they shared a resemblance in the brief moments, such as this one, where Cassie was able to jab at him in the same fashion that a sibling would, prodding past the point of appropriate—
Why would you do that?
What were you thinking?
Are you sure you want to go there?
Only because of a shared, common ground did he not kill her over the inquiry.
“I learned from my mistakes,” Roenick said, “which is why the people who are here with me now are nothing short of the best.”
Right.
‘The best.’
Roenick continued walking, his apprehensiveness beginning to subside. “I did not paint you a full picture of Martin Black before I sent you to take him.”
“A job is a job. I can handle myself. I made a mistake.”
Roenick shook his head. Cassie was almost certain she heard him huff at her response.
“Again, Ms. Palizzi, you don’t understand the kind of person Martin Black is. Where he’s from. Who he works for. You’ve heard of The Trust, yes?”
“I have.”
“Martin Black is a Contractor. Contractors are not easy to kill.”
Cassie hid a grin. “I think I got pretty close,” she said.
“That’s just it, my dear. Close. Close, but no cigar. And it’s not that you were unlucky or because of your methods, despite you trying to kill him when I requested him intact. It is because Martin Black has a will to survive that is stronger and more persistent that the average human being. It’s not a gift, mind you. It was beaten into him by teachers and instructors since he was a young child.”
The thought of Black made Cassie’s nose itch. Every few seconds, she forgot about it, but the reminder came back in full, stinging force.
Black.
You prick.
“He’s not your average variety Contractor,” said Roenick. “Something about Black is a bit… off. The Trust recruits their people at an early age, anywhere from infancy to five years. Black’s history before his induction is quite… unique, though he himself is not aware of that fact.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I have my resources.”
Unquestionably.
“Until yesterday,” said Roenick, “I had never met the man. And out of all of the strip clubs, out of all the places, amongst all the paths that he could have crossed… he crosses his path with mine… right now… at this time.”
Cassie grew weary of hearing the urban legend that was Black. He had made a fool of her, plain and simple.
That prick…
I kind of liked that silver in his hair, though.
Gave off a Pierce Brosnan vibe.
Stop it, Cas.
He’s a prick.
“For a man with such a strong pedigree, he seemed quite foolish, at certain times,” she said to Roenick.
“Again, people like him are not to be taken lightly. He’s a survivor. Even if he were boxed into a corner, it would still take four men to bring him down. That’s why I haven’t killed him… Or maybe for fear of him having a Re-Val…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught that last part.”
Roenick lowered his chin to the ground and kicked at the dirt. “A Re-Val, or Reevaluation, is something that The Trust gives a Contractor when they feel they have… outlived their purpose. When someone is informed of their Re-Val, they essentially have been handed their marching papers.”
He looked up. Even though his eyes were still shielded by blue-tinted sunglasses, Cassie could feel a rise coming out of Roenick, a sense of loathing. The disembodied souls of his past were crawling out from the grave and whispering in his ear.
“The Trust is run by a group of Neanderthals known as ‘Executives,’” he said. “For twenty-five years they determine how a Contractor operates, breathes, and even thinks, should they live that long. They forever tether themselves to their employees like a parasite, and when they’ve finished draining the use out of their host, they discard them like a piece of refuse.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Cassie asked.
Roenick turned back to face her, straight and poised.
A familiar sense of calculated and cool.
“Because I have to trust you. Because I feel that I’ve kept you in the dark about many things for quite some time. In turn, I allowed you to walk into a situation you weren’t fully prepared for. My instincts tell me that Martin Black is still alive. Call it a sixth sense that has developed over a sense of… kinship I feel towards the man. I never planned on his involvement. But he is. Should he come around, I want you take him alive. There are certain questions I wish to ask him. There’s a certain value that he holds.”
“Such as?”
“His ability to put me in touch with his superiors.”
Cassie was unsure of the play. Fifty percent of her felt like it was Roenick leading her down a long hallway with no visible exits.
“Why would you want to get in touch with The Trust?” she aske
d. “It seems to me like a man of your caliber wouldn’t have any need to meddle with them.”
Roenick smiled.
“I want to kill them, Ms. Palizzi. All of them. If I could watch an Executive bleed to death in front of me, I would consider it a bonus. That proverbial cherry on top of the sundae called life.”
Cassidy held her breath for a moment as his anger continued to rise. Against her better judgment, she asked him—
“Why would you want to do all that?”
For a moment, he looked sad. Perhaps a little defeated. Roenick may have been just a nominal sibling to Cassie, but, in this moment, she held pity for the man. He turned, came toe-to-toe with Cassie, and held up a hand.
A hand that had no fingerprints.
“I used to be one of them,” he began. “I used to suffer under their employ, just as Black, I’m sure, is suffering. I used to be a Contractor, once upon a time… until I outlived my usefulness, at least in their eyes… One day I was the cock of the walk, the next I was a feather duster… The Trust exiled me and left me for dead, or at least they thought I was. Never before did I think an opportunity would arise that could provide me with a means to… well, let’s say ‘retaliate’ against them. Perhaps Black is that key.”
The pieces started to fit into place for Cassie. The puzzle that was Roenick started to have more of a defined meaning.
His connections.
His training.
How he found me.
“Martin Black might be dead,” she said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Time will tell. Should he return, your orders are to take him alive. I need you to fulfill the initial promise you made to me. That, along with my indiscretion, born out of stress towards you earlier, is enough for me to double your payment upon completion of this assignment. All in all, I’d say that between the paycheck and the boasting rights to having captured a Contractor, it’s quite alluring, is it not?”
It is…
Prick.
“He’ll put up a fight,” Cassie said.
“I guarantee you that he will.”
“And if it doesn’t fizzle out?
“Then we’ll cut our losses, and you’ll cut his throat. Does that sound like a reasonable enough plan to you?”
Cassie nodded.
“Good,” said Roenick. “I’d like you out on the streets. Check every hotel, bar, and recess in Las Vegas. See if his name comes up.”
“And if the people we question start asking us questions?”
“You’re clever enough. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Nice…
“If Black is still alive, he’ll be coming after Amanda. If he’s smart in the slightest, which I believe he is, he’ll figure out her whereabouts eventually,” said Roenick.
Roenick then dug into his jacket pocket and produced a folded up piece of paper – Black’s Commitment Waiver, sans Amanda’s autograph.
“If standard operating procedures for The Trust are still the same,” he said, “he’ll be needing her signature on this.”
“Her signature? Why?”
“It’s a long story, my dear. It would be in his best interests to collect it from her.”
He once again leaned in towards her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She held them slack, resisting any urge to indulge his embrace.
“I’m relying on you,” he said. “I’m counting on you. If we don’t finish this, then everything we have built together will crumble to the ground.”
You say we.
But we both know that you really mean YOU.
“One last thing, Ms. Palizzi.”
She waited.
“We lost six men the other night,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And the club they were in blew up. You initially blamed me for this.”
She looked away.
“And?”
Roenick brushed her cheek with fingertips that were as cold as his methods and motives.
“Do you know anything about this?” he asked her.
“No…” she said. “And how dare you accuse me.”
Roenick smiled.
“Well… someone did it. And it wasn’t Martin Black… and it damn sure wasn’t me…”
And, just like that, the conversation was over. Roenick walked back towards the compound that was now about a half-mile back in the opposite direction.
Cassie had one, final question for Roenick that was burning the tip of her tongue—
“Hey!” she shouted after him.
Roenick stopped but did not turn around.
“I thought Contractors all had these names made up after colors. Blue, pink, green, et cetera.”
“And?” he asked, waiting for the real question.
“The name ‘Roenick’ doesn’t seem to fit that trend,” she said.
“Astute observation, Ms. Palizzi… Roenick was the name that I picked once I ‘retired’ from The Trust.”
“And what was your Trust name?”
Roenick frowned and said—
“Marcus Silver.”
Black was out in the middle of the desert. He had parked his borrowed car from Stan Hope on stretch of road that sat about five miles away from the freeway leading into the strip, which was about another ten miles off to the east.
He checked his watch—
6:57 p.m.
Stan Hope’s ‘gun guy’ agreed to meet him at seven with the payload. Stan Hope, per usual, was lenient enough to put the whole thing on Black’s tab.
“Just don’t be a jerkoff and not pay me back, jerkoff,” he told him over the phone.
Love you too, Stan.
As he waited out the last three minutes, his mind couldn’t help but wander to thoughts of Cassie Palizzi, his female counterpart. He wasn’t sure how much of it was sexual attraction, respect, or curiosity that drew him towards her, but whatever it was, he hoped he would cross paths with her again. Something in the back of his mind told him that they would. She was too well-equipped and skilled to let something like Black breaking her nose go unaddressed.
Palizzi. You sly, little kitty cat.
You truly are the Catwoman to my Batman.
Ha.
Cute.
Batman doesn’t smoke cigarettes, dip shit.
He clenched his jaw as he felt his bloodstream scream out for nicotine. Black had survived a few days without it, and he was going to try to go a few more.
I make no guarantees.
He went itchy, the tingle traveling up his legs and to his arms. He felt itchy. Restless. Filled with rage. More symptoms of withdrawal.
Black exhaled and began stretching. The man learned how to withstand certain torture techniques as a teenager. He damn sure wasn’t going to lose the battle for his mind over cigarettes.
He made out a rumbling off to his left. Dirt clouds were forming from a vehicle approaching about a half-mile out.
This has got to be him.
Black could also make out The Four Tops playing with gospel-like projection from the vehicle’s radio.
I know that song…
That classic Motown-rhythm grew louder with each second that passed.
Right as his watch struck 7:00 p.m., the vehicle, a black pick-up truck with off-road tires covered in dried mud of several different colors, pulled up alongside Black’s sedan. Before the thing even settled to a full stop, the driver’s side door was thrown open and a six-foot guy with cargo shorts, flip flops, a black tank top, and curly brown hair tied up in a semi-greasy and sporadically washed ponytail approached Martin Black with open arms, music still playing on the radio.
“Hey bud! I’m Z!” the guy said with a festive projection.
Z moved to the flatbed, a beige tarp covered in stains was draped and tethered over what looked like a box resting in the back.
Black approached Z with his hand resting on his right hip to draw his Beretta if need be. “Said your name was Z?”
Z turned around. Black coul
d make out brown, puppy dog eyes and a well-manicured beard that resembled a Spartan warrior. Pearly whites stuck out of a never-ceasing smile.
“Yeah, bro! My name is Zay, but my friends call me ‘Z,’ and any friend of Stan Hope is a friend of mine, brother!”
Z patted Black on the shoulder as he rounded the back of the truck and began untethering the tarp from the flatbed. The sincerity of the guy’s demeanor made Black breathe a little easier.
“So!” Z said. “What are we looking at here?”
Down to business.
“Stan tell you my plan?”
Z nodded. “In a very blunt and drunken fashion.”
“Sounds about Stan.”
Z then reached into his pants pocket and produced a tube of ground up green leaves wrapped in rice paper. He lit it with a match that he ignited against his thumbnail. A sweet, skunky aroma filled the air around them.
“Frankly,” Z said as he exhaled, making sure not to hit Black with the secondhand. I don’t think people are blunt enough.”
“Well… that was a ton of pun,” said Black, both him and Z now somewhat chuckling at their mindless yet still much needed moment of stupidity.
“How far out are the targets going to be?” Z asked.
“Little less than a hundred yards give or take. I’m good at guesstimating, but I need the equipment to help with the difference.”
“How many targets?”
“That’s the only thing I’m not sure of. I’m overestimating at three to four.”
“Call it four. Better safe and overprotected than sorry,” Z said, taking another drag of his joint.
Christ.
I really want to smoke…
Z pulled back the tarp. Underneath it was a pair of wooden boxes. Sealed tops.
“I’ve got two options for you,” Z said. “Both are custom jobs. I made sure to tone down the muzzle flash and noise level on the both of them.”
He placed a hand on box number one.
“The first one here is a Nemesis Arms Vanquish. I replaced the thread and removed the bolt action from it, so you don’t have to waste the time cocking and reloading and all that stuff. Usually meant for longer distances, but with the tweaks I made to it, it’s better suited for targets around one hundred to one hundred and fifty yards out.”
Z’s hand moved to the second box. He patted it like a pet.
