This Darkness Light

by Michaelbrent Collings

  John followed up with a kick at Thing Twoʹs solar plexus.

  Thing Two didnʹt block. It felt like John had just kicked the Rock of Gibraltar. He bounced back and Thing Two just grinned and reached into his jacket.

  John leaped forward. No kick, he drove his entire body weight forward. Leaping at Thing Two, driving both his hands into the other manʹs arm, pinning it in his jacket. If Thing Two got a weapon into the mix, John was dead.

  But Thing Two now had one free arm. John didnʹt. The huge man punched the side of Johnʹs head and everything exploded into a series of sparks and rainbows.

  Someone screamed. Not John, not either of the killers.

  Something flew past him. Thing Two screamed now. A thud.

  The sparks cleared from Johnʹs eyes and he saw Serafina slumped against the side of the elevator, her eyes rolling independently of one another. Thing Twoʹs face was bleeding in four long furrows. Serafina must have attacked him, clawed the bigger manʹs face and gotten knocked to the floor for her troubles.

  Wow.

  No wilting flower, this girl.

  John still had a fight on his hands, but he used Thing Twoʹs distraction to his benefit. He drove his right hand into the bigger manʹs jacket as well, finding the huge hand grasping the gun, half out of the holster hidden there.

  John helped him along. Put his finger over the killerʹs and yanked.

  The explosion was deafening. Thing Twoʹs knees buckled suddenly as a bullet passed down through his hip, probably shattering it. His finger came off the gun and John yanked it out.

  One more shot ended Thing Two.

  He looked at Thing One, prepared to shoot him as well.

  The remaining killer was on hands and knees, still gagging. John waited for him to either get up or collapse.

  The man suddenly coughed. Coughed again.

  Blood exploded from his mouth. Poured all over the steel diamond tread plate on the floor of the elevator. Another cough. More blood.

  Serafina groaned. John glanced at her and saw her spot the blood. She stood hurriedly and moved away.

  ʺWhatʹs that?ʺ she said. ʺWhatʹd you do?ʺ

  John shook his head. ʺI didnʹt do that.ʺ

  He realized the doors had closed. They were heading down. He should push a button, should decide where to get off. But he couldnʹt look away from the bloody man at the back of the elevator.

  The killer coughed one more time. More blood, and this time it didnʹt stop. It poured out of his mouth and nose in a fast-flowing river of gore. Thick and red, and then thick with bits of brown.

  Then it was a black muck.

  Thing One shuddered and fell face down in the pool of effluent.

  The elevator dinged as a floor passed them by.

  John wondered if more stone-faced men were waiting for them wherever they were headed.

  Two dead men in the car, but he only had eyes for one of them.

  What happened to him?

  NEW BLOOD

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 1:45 AM

  Subject: Operation Falling Stars

  You wanted a status report. Iʹve got someone who can fix at least part of our problem.

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 1:52 AM

  Subject: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  I wonʹt ask who. But that was fast.

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 1:52 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  Iʹve had my eye on him for a while now. And thereʹs a certain irony to this situation that I find rather amusing.

  ***

  In spy movies, a shadowy figure would sit at a bench. He would light a cigarette as a sign to a far-off someone who would give the ʺall clearʺ to another someone. The shadow-manʹs contact would approach and sit down and say something like ʺThe rain is windy in Kiev.ʺ A dialogue would then begin.

  In real life it was much simpler, much more banal.

  Isaiah walked the three miles to the last part of the job. It was an all-night FedEx office in West Hollywood. No one would notice two men who briefly met to chat before one–Isaiahʹs client–went in to make copies.

  Isaiah would walk away. His car–his real car–was parked another mile down the street.

  Liam Donaldson drove up exactly when he was supposed to, which was exactly when Isaiah walked up. They met at the third space in the middle row. There was one other car there.

  Liam was a short man with a few hairs that clung to his scalp with the tenacity of mountain climbers refusing to let go and fall to final doom. Still, he had a face that was usually open and smiling. Isaiah knew this because he had watched the man and seen the smiles.

  He always watched his clients as well as his targets. Part of the service, though none of them realized it.

  Liam had three children. He did not beat any of them. Nor did he hit his wife, Bea. They had been married for fifteen years and were as happy as anyone reasonably had a right to be in this fallen world.

  Liam liked to golf, though he did not get to play as often as he wanted. He also enjoyed old movies and had a love of video games that made his children believe him to be the coolest dad in the world.

  Liam owned a construction management firm that netted approximately thirty-two million dollars of business a year. He was doing very well for himself. That was how he had found Isaiah, and how he could afford him.

  Liam was Idellaʹs big brother.

  He had noticed the change in his little sister, of course. And one didnʹt become a rich man in charge of a company that oversaw multi-million dollar construction projects by being stupid. He quickly figured out it was Claude who caused his sisterʹs withdrawal, her transformation from vivacious woman to shell of a human.

  He tried to get Idella to do something about it. To press charges, to leave her husband.

  She refused.

  In the last year, he grew concerned for her life. The police refused to help him. Their hands were tied by her refusal to cooperate and by Claudeʹs good standing in the community and by the law. Justice–as so often was the case–failed to protect the weak or punish the wicked.

  Liam found Isaiah.

  Now he was waiting with a manila envelope in one hand, a pile of office papers in the other.

  Isaiah appreciated that the smaller man neither fidgeted nor looked guilty or apprehensive. He had no qualms about what he had done.

  Isaiah nodded. He took the envelope.

  ʺDid he suffer much?ʺ said Liam.

  ʺExtremely.ʺ

  ʺDid Idella see?ʺ

  ʺAs little as possible. But youʹre going to get a call on your cell any minute, and you need to be prepared to sound horrified. And to help her for a long time.ʺ

  ʺWeʹve had an extra room ready for her for years.ʺ

  ʺYou may fall under suspicion.ʺ

  Liam shrugged. ʺIf I go to jail, thatʹs the price. Worth it to save the life of a good woman, wouldnʹt you agree?ʺ Then he squinted at Isaiah. ʺMaybe you wouldnʹt.ʺ

  That cut Isaiah deeply. He tried not to show it. ʺRemember: you donʹt tell anyone about me. Ever.ʺ

  Liam nodded. He took a few steps toward the FedEx.

  Then he stopped and turned back. ʺItʹs probably a bad idea to pry into the life of a man like you, but I just canʹt resist.ʺ

  Isaiah waited. He knew what was coming. It always did. At least, from the brave ones. And Liam was definitely a brave one. Hopefully that bravery could be found in his sister. It might save her.

  Liam took a breath, then said, ʺSo whatʹs with the collar? You really a priest?ʺ

  Isaiah didnʹt touch the white collar that ran around his throat, but he was suddenly acutely aware of it. He always was, but more so when someone noticed or menti
oned it. The sole thing he ever wore that wasnʹt black, whether on a job or off. Even when going to bed, he slept in black shorts and a black t-shirt.

  The collar was the only bit of brightness on his person. There would never be anything more.

  Liam was waiting for Isaiahʹs response. ʺAm I a priest?ʺ It was hard to answer, no matter how many times he heard it. No matter how many times he asked himself. ʺSome say so. Others donʹt.ʺ

  ʺWhat do you say?ʺ said Liam.

  ʺI say…probably. Iʹm just not sure for whom.ʺ

  Liam nodded as though this made sense to him. Maybe it did. He walked toward the FedEx again.

  ʺLiam?ʺ The other man stopped. ʺAre you aware of the final ramification of our contract?ʺ

  Liam looked confused. ʺI….ʺ

  ʺYou hired me to right a serious wrong. I did it.ʺ

  ʺSo?ʺ

  ʺSo I hope you never commit such a wrong.ʺ

  Isaiah let that sink in. Saw Liam grow a bit pale. Under the yellow lights of the parking lot, he suddenly looked jaundiced.

  Then he smiled. ʺI guess thatʹs fair, eh?ʺ

  Isaiah nodded. Liam walked away. Isaiah didnʹt think heʹd have to see the man again. That made him as close to happy as he could be.

  He walked out of the parking lot. Slower than he had walked to the FedEx, because he had no timetable now.

  The street disappeared as he strolled. He no longer saw the sidewalk, the dark storefronts beside him. The occasional bench built directly into the sidewalk disappeared from his consciousness.

  He only saw eyes.

  They were blue. One bright and beautiful, the other clouded and sightless. One the source of what remained of his joy. The other the source of his eternal misery.

  He wasnʹt sure which gave him which feeling, though.

  He was less than a quarter-mile from his car when he came upon another night-walker. This wasnʹt unusual for West Hollywood. This was a place that catered to a class of people who enjoyed or even gloried in lifestyles so varied that said variation itself was their only categorization. So there were people who worked nine-to-five and went to sleep at decent hours, and others who believed the fun didnʹt even start until the stars were high in the sky.

  The other pedestrian was an older man. Dressed in pink hot pants and a gold shirt that came to his belly button and screamed ʺITʹS RAINING MENʺ across the front, it wasnʹt hard to figure out that he was a member of one of West Hollywoodʹs most vocal and famous crowds. The city was the first one to have a majority of openly gay councilmembers, and was universally recognized as one of the most gay-friendly cities in the United States.

  It was also the second city in the United States to change the term ʺpet ownerʺ to ʺpet guardianʺ in its municipal codes. Isaiah did not mind or notice hot pants and gold shirts on sixty-five-year-olds, but he did think equating a schnauzer to a toddler was a bit silly.

  The other man nodded as he passed. Isaiah nodded back, still lost in blue eyes that warmed him with happiness, then burned him with guilt.

  He should have been more aware. Then again, he wasnʹt sure where the gun could have been hidden in those shorts.

  The instant the older man passed, he felt the unmistakable poke of a gun barrel in his ribs. ʺAlley,ʺ said the man.

  Isaiah complied. Going with an armed man into a dark place resulted in moving deeper into the spiderʹs lair, but he wasnʹt worried. Privacy would be necessary for what came next.

  It seemed it was to be a night of judgments.

  They walked a few feet down the alley. The knife kept poking in his ribs. That was stupid. And a mistake that so many people made. What was the point of a ranged weapon if you were going to stand right next to the person, right in range of their weapons?

  Isaiah stumbled. The obvious move that so many would have taken would be to twist, to try and disarm the would-be mugger with hands or arms. He didnʹt do that. He fell forward, his arms flailing in a convincing display of awkwardness.

  ʺGet the f–ʺ

  The last word cut off. Isaiahʹs back foot, upraised as he fell forward, kept rising in a sudden kick that caught the older manʹs gun, knocking it up, and then continued upward and connected with his chin. A devastating blow.

  The man slumped. Out.

  Isaiah picked up the manʹs gun. A Sig P238, which explained why he hadnʹt spotted it. It was a small gun, specially designed for concealed carry, so it had probably been jammed in the back of the old manʹs shorts.

  ʺVery clever,ʺ he muttered. He didnʹt like that the man had gotten the drop on him. Not because it was a shot to his pride, but because of what would have to come next.

  He pointed the small gun at the man who was slumped against the wall.

  ʺDonʹt.ʺ

  The voice came from the far end of the alley. Deep and authoritative, the kind of voice that was used to being obeyed.

  Isaiahʹs hand remained in place, gun still an extension of his arm, aimed directly at the unconscious man who had brought him here. But he swiveled his head toward the sound.

  ʺWeʹd very much appreciate it if you didnʹt murder Agent Chambers,ʺ said the same voice.

  Two things penetrated immediately. One was the ʺAgentʺ part of the sentence.

  Not a mugger. And agents donʹt dress like that, so this was all a set-up.

  The second thing that penetrated was that the man who spoke–a tall, painfully thin man in a dark gray suit–was not alone. He stood in the far end of the alley, aiming what looked like a 9mm Glock at Isaiah, and he was flanked by four others. All cut of similar cloth and bearing similar sidearms.

  All a set-up. All to find me.

  Iʹm done.

  It was almost a relief.

  He only hoped the blue eyes would someday both be bright.

  He dropped the gun. The man who had spoken said, ʺPlease come this way.ʺ

  Isaiah did. He had no intention of fighting. Judgment had come for him at last.

  And really, hadnʹt that always been the point? Hadnʹt that always been his goal?

  He had crossed half the distance to the men when two of them split off and ran to the downed Agent Chambers. They gave him as wide a berth as possible when they passed. Their weapons were holstered. Clearly they knew him, and knew what he could do: they were worried he would incapacitate them, take their guns away, and kill the others.

  He might have. He might have.

  But did not.

  They passed him without incident, and he heard them call for medical assistance. He did not look back.

  Isaiah walked toward the other three. Two were typical agent-types. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown suits. Boring.

  The tall, thin man was more distinguishable. Not only for his height and near-cadaverous build, but because of something only half-concealed in his eyes. An energy that he tried to hide but that kept slipping through. Isaiah didnʹt like the look, and didnʹt like the man.

  The tall man put away his gun when Isaiah was about ten feet away. So did the other two men who remained.

  Isaiah faltered at this point.

  Whatʹs going on?

  He had been ready to go to jail. To be put away for life or be put to death for the lives he had taken.

  But that happened with handcuffs and flashing lights.

  Now…neither.

  ʺCome with me, please, sir.ʺ

  Sir?

  The agents turned their backs on him. They began walking.

  Isaiah followed them. He didnʹt necessarily want to, he was simply so stunned that he had no choice but to do so. Dragged along by a riptide of shock, a current of incredulity so powerful that he would not be able to escape until it deposited him where it would.

  The men walked him out of one alley and into another. The stores that Isaiah had been strolling in front of all backed up to a wide lane that was not quite a road. Cars could travel it if need be, but mostly it was used for the trash trucks to come through and empty the Dumpsters that the businesses filled like cl
ockwork, twice a week.

  A large black Ford SUV waited in the lane.

  It was black and insectile, looking more like chitin and carapace than chrome and plastic and steel. The windows–even the front ones–were so darkly tinted that Isaiah could not see inside. Front window tinting of any kind was illegal in California, and he wondered for a moment how the vehicle got away with that without being pulled over every five minutes.

  He wondered what the license plate said. Government?

  The three agents who had accompanied him took up a semi-formation around the back door, and the tall, thin agent opened it.

  A man stepped out.

  The only word Isaiah had to describe him was elegant. He was tall, but not oddly so. Just enough that you would have to notice him in a crowd. Perhaps six-two.

  His features were precise, as though he had not been born but rather designed by someone with an eye for symmetry and a flare for simple grace. A nose that was long and thin, a chin that tapered to a point that was fine without being weak. His hair was dark but graying at the temples, leading to an impression of agelessness–he could have been thirty or sixty. Isaiah genuinely couldnʹt tell.

  His eyes were visible even in the darkness. Bright and glittering. Green and alive.

  Isaiah thought those eyes were the most alert he had ever seen.

  The manʹs suit was gray and exquisite. Not the kind you would get off a rack at Macyʹs or Nordstrom, but the kind of suit you traveled to a different continent to have tailored especially for you. The kind of suit that cost thousands of dollars just to get to…and was a bargain at that price. His tie was silk, ruby red. A matching handkerchief, folded to knife creases, stuck out of the breast pocket of his suit.

  ʺIsaiah,ʺ said the man, ʺitʹs a pleasure to finally meet you.ʺ

  Isaiah stepped back.

  ʺDonʹt run,ʺ warned the cadaverous man who had brought him here. ʺWe have agents ringing the area for a two block radius.ʺ