Lance raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “Uh, not that I know of… why?”
“Because Isaac was killed in an up close and personal manner; someone was able to deliver enough impact—maybe with a bat or something heavy—to do him in. His son… well, like I said, he was shot, but the scene analysts say the murderer was someone positioned in a building that was blown to hell right after. It seemed like either a planned attack to take out the whole Reaver family or some kind of sick competition between some dangerous people.”
“Look…” Lance didn’t exactly feel confident in his answer. “Everybody was low-key scared of the boss; you couldn't stare at that creep without him giving you this… evil look. It was some haunted sh—stuff.” Lance pondered on his father's question before suddenly remembering what had happened earlier that day.
“Oh right, I almost forgot about Him…”
“Who?” Aden leaned forward.
“Some dude told us he killed Ekwome—I mean, Ekwueme; anyways, he said he killed the boss and beat Magellan down in front of us. That cat made him look like a straight bitc—fool… We didn't believe him, but after seeing the boss’s body just lying there… I don't know, dad.”
Aden pulled out a piece of paper with what seemed like lightning speed and slid a pen out from inside of his blazer. “What was his name?”
“Hmm, let me think… was it Tevin? Trayvin—something with a 'T.' I'mma go with Travon.”
“What else can you give me? Like, description-wise. Anything helps, son.”
“He had a fade, I think… some dark hair. Curly. Not really short or tall. Kind of weird eyes.”
“Weird how?”
“I can't describe it, to be honest. It was like they had some kind of darkness in them—like I was looking at death, you know?”
“Death, huh? We talkin' about a damn celebrity now or is this a real guy? Don’t fuck around with this one, Lance.”
“I’m not.” Lance Kaust stared through his father with a thousand-yard gaze. “He was definitely real. To be honest, it was something freakish… Like he could’ve killed all of us without so much as blinking, someone leagues more dangerous than the boss.”
Aden ignored his son for a moment as he thought to himself…
-
It’s not a coincidence.
The string of murders across the Citadel these past two months.
Similar impact wounds found on several victims.
These types of monsters really do exist.
I’ll find him.
15
Cause I Love You
-
Tavon
-
I'M FACING THE MIRROR ONCE AGAIN.
This time, I can't make out what's looking back at me; I can't see myself.
I have no real identity in this world…
Tavon. A mercenary, an assassin. Someone who can't remember anything else. There's an outline reflected in the glass, but that's it. I keep staring in an attempt to find it, to locate a penultimate expression affirming my own existence.
I’m real, aren’t I?
… Still nothing remains in the clear expanse.
I can carry it. Their lives. They were people set out to hurt others, deserving of punishment, but Isaac…
Sometimes it's different; sometimes I can see… me—smiling, frowning, and even crying, but today it’s vacant. This always happens after I’ve killed someone.
I'm afraid.
The light in the bathroom won't stop flickering. It changes its natural hue seemingly every passing moment and sometimes appears to faint completely before flashing back on to once more display the emptiness before me. To make matters worse, it's as if I'm hovering behind myself and observing as the real me stands locked in time. I'm only a shadow, a lie that's become impenetrable with age. Jokes aside, my reckless attitude conveys a hollow core, something that sits inside of me like a writhing desire to be more than what it is. If I wasn't a sellout—a killer for hire, maybe I could find a way to discover a real person beneath the illusion I've halfheartedly constructed. But if I followed that path, I couldn't feel the call; it’s a rush that follows a challenge, bringing me so desperately close to my own end while yet making me grow. Angelos thrives off those like me, the lost, those who seek out the strongest opponents and the most dire of circumstances to overcome. I’m convinced that hunting down others like me will help in discovering my own purpose.
Tavon, the one at the center of the chaos in the Citadel… a city where crime could one day be extinguished. I’m a symptom of a much larger problem. My heart pounds, and I’m able to bring myself away from the mirror as I attempt to quell my own anxiety. Enough of all that.
It's been a heavy week for me considering everything that’s occurred. Despite a few setbacks, I made my goal, and that’s why I’m destined to be the best.
Brock's just finished prepping a dish in the dining area; he always cooks enormous quantities whenever the poor guy's feeling flustered. He acts like he has no feelings, but he’s got a big heart underneath all the tough posturing. In the background, I can hear Lenny Williams' “Cause I Love You” playing at a low volume. Whereas I'm more of a hip hop type of guy, Brock has always been heavy into music with slower rhythm and plays a lot of soul—especially when he's trying to whip up something in the kitchen. A good guy, overall, but damn arrogant thinking he’s the master chef of the place.
Most of the food gets thrown away, anyways, or he works up the motivation to take left overs down to one of Zone A's homeless shelters and plays hero for the day. As anyone could probably tell, we were complete opposites—at least as far as our morals and motives were concerned. Whereas Brock is the perfect picture of altruism, I'm the one who profits off the misfortunes of others and changes the channel whenever animal abuse commercials come on.
Cynical jokes aside, I ignore the lives led by others—after all, too much contact with anybody wouldn’t be smart. I'm way more concerned about what strain of kush I'll be picking up at the end of the week and when I'll called for an interview. Speaking of which, when do I get promoted for all the work I just put in?
To take my mind off my own impatience, I acknowledge my roommate; I can tell he’s been bothered by something lately. “Whatever you're battling… I can see it's eating at you, brother. Maybe you should look around for a new hobby?”
Brock doesn’t look up as he begins sorting his painstaking results into a series of containers that I already know won't be able to fit right in our already overstocked fridge, a dilemma commonly faced when two barbarians inhabit the same dwelling. “I didn't ask for your help, did I?” he says, feigning an indifferent attitude.
I grin. “Your right, B, but we still live in the same place—might as well get comfortable.”
“That doesn't mean we sleep in the same bed.”
He opens both doors to our stainless-steel refrigerator and forcefully crams in what looks—and smells—like pounds of freshly-cooked jerk chicken coupled with plantains. The jackass doesn't even ask if I want any. No eye contact, either. What a tool.
I make my way over to a black, leather chaise longue I'd recently picked up for myself; a seat positioned before our television and a series of glass panels overlooking the hyper rails outside of the Angelos Embassy Tower. I grab the remote, a small tablet displaying a variety of options, and finally reply with: “Touché. Any plans?”
He still isn't even trying to look in my direction as he gathers up his wallet and cell phone. “Going to the gym again on my own since you’re choosing to be weak…”
“I’ve been busy enough—you think you'll finally catch up with me?” I access a quite large database including all movies and seasonal television commercialized within the Citadel. I scroll from an unknown broadcasted program to a channel depicting a sitcom about a group of couples who become stuck on a space shuttle on their way to their respective honeymoons on distant planets. From a hidden compartment in the side of the seat, I retrieve a half-finished blunt I’d
rolled a few days ago. To my surprise, it’s remained mostly intact.
I try to get a good ember started via generating a slight but focused heat from the center of the palm of my hand, but Brock grabs what I've got to smoke and throws it toward the garbage can!
He misses, thankfully, and takes the time to acknowledge what I said, “We'll fight again soon, my man,” he folds his arms and a familiar, cocky smile appears. Brock’s a happier guy when he gets competitive. “And this time, I'll win.”
“You know what?” My Kom Cell vibrates to let me know I received a message, but I ignore it and get up to retrieve the discarded blunt. “I hope you do just so you'll stop talking about it. You know that Angelos got its own dojo, so we can settle it whenever you feel up to it, brother…” I light up and quickly inhale to blow smoke in his annoyingly stoic face a few seconds later. Brock shakes his head at me; he’s too nice sometimes despite being a living, breathing war machine.
“Let's do it now the—”
“But not tonight—” I cut him off and begin coughing simultaneously before I can even finish my sentence. “Not tonight, man; I need rest after everything this week.”
My roommate brushes me off while heading for the door, but he subtly flinches after opening it to see a familiar face passing by down the hall; a face that belongs to a guy who identifies himself as “Cub.”
The most ignorant assassin I’ve ever met.
“Ay B, what's happenin'?” He spoke in a cringingly stupid manner. “You on ah contract againin'?”
“What did I tell you the last time we talked, Cub? Huh? Do you remember anything that gets said to you?”
“Ah, ya said ladies always come first and to get it done!”
Brock threw his hands up in frustration. “No! No, Cub; I done told you that we're not cool like that—our jobs are not the same. I don’t have ‘contracts’ like you people—I don't fuck with you, you don't fuck with me—maybe you fuck with Tavon, but I'm not trying to fuck with you like that.”
“I don't fuck with him, either!” I exclaim. “Leave me out of this fling you two got going on.” I look into my messages to see something sent from Aaliyah; it reads:
“Come over. Now.”
“What you mean ‘fling?!’” Brock stares back in a mixture of rage and bewilderment. “Tavon, I told you that I don't want to be around ANY of the friends you make in this business—this gig is not me, I just live here!”
“Settle down, man… I gotta do something.”
“Ya'll fight like yah been married fer some time there now.” Cub laughs heartily while never breaking his awkward stare at Brock. “Ya might as well be like the rest of us, Brock; ya got the frame fer it, ya know. Ya sturdy!”
“Oh, so now you want to check out my frame?” Brock turns to Cub, who remains aloof to anything he's implying.
‘Cub’ was an anomaly among hired assassins. Not only was he in possession of an accent no one had ever heard before—and everyone was convinced was made up solely by him—but he was a short, chubby man with thinning, cropped ginger hair and an incredibly rosy face. He also looked much older than what he really was. Cub was rumored to have had four different kids between four different women and was currently attempting to hide himself from the fourth female he'd somehow managed to hook up with. He was a pretty crudely-spoken guy and didn't care much for social mannerisms, and Cub happened to be really uncoordinated in his movements. He didn't rank very high in terms of strength.
Despite his imperfections, Cub was perhaps the most effective Core-Man in Angelos who'd been denied professional progress for almost a decade. Therefore, the little guy kept fulfilling his quotas and probably had a body count well over my own; in a way, he was a legend among us in the business although he was, in essence, a simpleminded and sometimes perverted old man.
“Ya know what they say: one's always gotta be checkin' frames to know who's sturdy and who's not.” Cub smiles and poses like he’s in combat with the most oblivious look on his face but tries his damndest to seem sincere.
“Nobody says that!” Brock's overly serious side dominates as he appears to barely keep himself from roaring in the poor sap's face.
“Ya sure?” Cub is unaffected. “Could've sworn I done heard it a lotta times, Tavon-”
“I'm not Tavon, you damn fool!” He points back at me, but I'm busy thinking about what to say back to Aaliyah. I mean, is she just trying to get laid or talk about what happened?
“That's Tavon; the kid who thinks he’s a pretty boy over there!”
“Aw shucks, I apologize, man.” Cub blushes but maintains his otherwise jolly composure. “Sometimes my age rears its old head; ya'll will know what that's like one day, too—say, why you wear a ring, Tavon?”
“I told you I'm not Tav—wait, oh…” Brock shyly conceals his left hand before heading out into the hallway and slamming the door behind him. While he's on his way, I can still hear Cub following him as he attempts to maintain another of his pointless conversations.
It's always funny to watch Brock get pissed, even if he's been through much if not more than what I've personally encountered.
I breathe in through an apparatus I’d put solid effort into preparing, expanding my lungs to their fullest capabilities before coming to a halt at my peak. After some time, I exhale and text my response almost simultaneously:
“On my way. Tea or wine this time?” I’m hoping it’s wine.
-
I luck out.
Aaliyah pours me a copious amount from an old wine bottle before serving herself. She's dimmed the lights in her flat and set up a display of burning candles atop a mahogany table that is positioned before a plush, vanilla couch.
I recall our previous conversation, when she finally made me for what I am, what I was born to be. Not long after I'd confirmed what she'd thought all along, I found myself thrown out onto the streets while it was raining. She'd had a hard time accepting what she'd thought was a “lie” …but I’ve never really lied to her. Not yet, at least.
“Don't think I already forgot about how you lied, asshat.”
Damn. Aaliyah’s bold…
I try to break the tension. “Oh, so the wine isn't your way of apologizing for throwing me out during a storm?”
“Hell nah,” she’s glaring at me, her arms folded… she’s been crying, “… you broke my trust.” She sips from her glass—which I’ve noticed has significantly more—while dealing me a hostile glance. “You been picking off whoever you want under my nose this whole fucking time!” She sighed loudly. “I feel like an idiot!”
“All I can say is that they’re not good people, Aaliyah-”
“So, you do it because you think you’re providing a service, huh?” She interrupts me in a huff. Her rage is building despite my efforts. “You do it because your ‘justice’ is better?!”
Fuck.
There is no justice to what I do.
“No.”
“You’re not exactly honest, either, so it might as well all be the same to me at this point.”
And in a moment, Aaliyah seems to relax into a much gloomier, eerie kind of anger; she’s a detective, after all, and understands thoroughly how to capture her prey.
I let her comment sink in, force down most of what’s left in the glass, and rest the ankle of my foot on my knee while sitting across from her on the couch; it’s comfy.
“Where did you buy this thing?” Maybe I can steer her attention away…
“I didn't.”
“So you stole it?” I wink at her.
She doesn't feel like joking. “I'm not you, Tavon.” She rolls her eyes in disappointment before indicating the wine bottle. “Zola—this girl I work with got me the hook up; her husband owns a vineyard and, as a matter of fact,” she edges closer, “has a REAL job!”
“I see you've got some new paintings hanging up.” I have to diffuse her rage before it starts again. That's how these things go… I think.
“Yuh.” She replies curtly.
“Mine. Who else would I be putting on my walls?”
“I don't know. You never told me you were an artist?”
“Sure did. You just weren't listening.”
“And when have I ever not listened to something you said?”
“Oh, I don't know, Tavon.” She finishes the next round of drinks before I do but is patient enough to wait on me. “I think I was real with you, so it's expected you'd be real with me back.”
“But that doesn't have anything to do with what you just said—that doesn't even answer my question?!”
“Boy, finish that cup!”
“You don’t plan on arresting me?” I finish the cup anyways, because now I'm realizing how good it tastes, and I'm not about to fall behind.
Aaliyah rips the cup from my grasp, refills it again, and slams it on the table in front of me before replenishing hers. “You're in my fucking house, right?”
“Yeah, and so what?”
“You’d already be in a cell if I’d wanted that outcome.” She smirks.
Before I respond, I look her over and have to stop and ponder for a moment…
I mean, she's only covered in a silk, black robe draped around a set of legs that I've gotten used to having curled around me by now. At this point, I can't even be upset because I feel like I need to close the distance between us quickly, before she has second thoughts.
And now, I recognize a song she seems to have on repeat: “Cause I Love You” by Lenny Williams. Why is this song following me around?
“Good choice in music.”
“What?” She looks taken aback.
“An undercover artist and good tastes? Huh.”
“Nobody said anything about being undercover, I just don't show out like some people. I'm not all about trying to get someone's attention. Is that all you care about?” Her cold facade is starting to wear away despite the inquiries.
“You got mine.”
Angelos Odyssey Page 27
