by Dyrk Ashton
For the hundredth time he flexes the fingers of his right hand to test the fit of his deerskin Damascus-style three-finger glove. For the hundredth time he adjusts the neoprene sleeve on his left forearm. He checks the hazy sun behind the rusted rooftop water tower at his back. Its position is not perfecto, but acceptable. From this angle he can stand with a clear line of sight down the alley across the street, but still be hidden by the silhouette of the tower’s legs and the sunlight that glares along their edges.
Now, if she would just come out of the damn building.
For over twenty-four hours, he has waited. He was supposed to have accomplished his mission yesterday. She was supposed to have held a small weekend class, as she has in each of the three weeks he’s been watching her. Each Sunday at precisely 10 AM she would lead her handful of pupils out through the door. Family members, mostly modest laborers and shopkeepers, would have been gathered in the alley to take their children home. Miss Zhang Li Jing would wave as the last of them moved away, then Andreo would have shot an arrow through her heart. Just the way he planned it.
But there’d been no class. She hadn’t come out at all. And now it’s Monday morning.
He looks across the street and down the alley. Half a block up in the wall on the left, is an unassuming oriental-style doorway with chipped red paint and faded Chinese lettering. The English translation beneath reads New School for the Blind, Deaf and Mute. When the children hadn’t come yesterday and she failed to appear, he feared she might have left another way. But his reconnaissance had been thorough, as always. There are no other exits, and he has seen her since, through slats in the bamboo blinds. Moving about. Making tea. He could have taken the shot any one of those times, but firing an arrow through glass, especially at an angle. Sloppy. Desperate. Unprofessional. Andreo Ramos is nothing if not professional.
He lifts a canvas tarp on a small folding table behind the parapet wall and gives a shake of his head at what lies beneath. A handmade recurve bow of dense dark wood engraved with delicate swirling designs, next to an open, slim wooden case. Nestled in a slot of padded velvet in the top of the case is a single arrow, its shaft carved of the same type of wood as the bow, flighted with real feathers, and the razor-sharp head looks to be forged of bronze.
Archery is Andreo’s specialty, the bow and arrow his weapon of choice for assassination, but he’s never used equipment so... old school. His employer had insisted, however. He also required they not be practiced with until it was time for the kill. Andreo refused at first. A professional doesn’t work with untried equipment. But the man offered him five times his normal fee, paid half up front in gold, and assured Andreo both bow and arrow would perform as expected. There was something convincing about the man’s demeanor, and his eyes, framed in the upturned collar of his long leather jacket. Cold, unblinking, deep and black as the proverbial abyss.
The high-collared man also required Andreo retrieve the arrow and return it with the bow, which is why he’s wearing a paramedic’s uniform beneath workman’s coveralls. Once he’s dispatched Miss Zhang he’ll descend the stairs from the roof, saunter across the street and pull the arrow from her chest, even if there’s a frantic crowd. And like every job he’s ever done, even if a day late, this one will come off just the way he planned.
The LED blinks on a compact two-way radio that sits next to the case on the table. Andreo frowns at the latest in a long list of annoying text messages. What the fuck is going on? Andreo types, NOT. YET. He has no idea who these people are. All he knows is there’s another team in the city waiting for him to let them know the moment he’s dispatched his target, and that he’s learned to dislike them, whoever they are, very much.
Andreo catches sight of a light blue minivan coming up the street. He fears it might block his shot as it stops in front of the alley entrance, but then it backs up and parks along the street at the corner.
* * *
Kabir sets the parking brake. “It would be best if you wait here.” Cù Sìth grunts, eyeing the alley, street market and crowd.
Kabir climbs out and rounds to the passenger sliding door on Cù’s side. From inside he removes a backpack and slim canvas zip-case with shoulder strap and puts them on.
“I’m not going to steal your belongings, if that’s what you’re worried about,” growls Cù.
“You never know what we might run into,” says Kabir. “Better to have the necessities at hand.”
* * *
Andreo doesn’t like the look of the powerful man in the suit with a mane of gray-black hair up in a bun and thick sideburns, or that he carries packs that could possibly contain weapons. He wonders, if due to his failure to report the successful completion of his contract, another assassin has been sent.
The man enters the alley, taking in his surroundings. Andreo ducks behind the parapet wall as the man’s eyes scan his side of the street. This is a killer, he’s certain. Takes one to know one. But is he here to kill Miss Zhang, or to help her? Either way, Andreo will be ready. He wishes now he’d brought a rifle as well, but he’ll have to make do with what he has. He retrieves his Kimber Custom .45 from its holster in the paramedic’s bag beneath the folding table, pulls out and attaches a silencer, sets it on the table and hefts the archaic bow.
* * *
Kabir approaches the door to the school. It’s been at least ten years since he’s been here, visiting when he was working a tour. Mac, the most recent name The Rooster was going by, had been here as well, and they swapped stories through the night and into the next day. Kabir has had occasional communication with the young knight going by the name of Edgar, but Akhu and Mac are the only two Firstborn he’s kept in touch with in the last half-century. He assumes Mac is still in New York, as he has been for decades. He and Akhu are close, have been for a long time. Kabir would be surprised if he’s moved away. Now, he just hopes Mac is still alive, and Akhu as well.
He raises his fist to knock, but the door creaks open on its own. Only the glow of candles and scent of incense greet him.
* * *
Andreo nocks the antique arrow and once again checks the position of the sun and water tower behind him. He looks down the alley, but the man steps inside and the door creeps closed.
* * *
The door clicks shut behind Kabir. The spacious single room that comprises the New School for the Blind, Deaf and Mute was once a martial arts studio. It’s sparsely furnished and open, with high ceilings, windows far up along the street side, pockmarked bamboo floors, a few spartan shelves against the walls, a stand-alone rolling chalkboard of cracked slate, a meager kitchen area, and a single cot in one corner. A dozen woven straw mats for students are laid out in rows against one wall. Paintings and carvings, symbols of Taoist, Buddhist, Confucianist, Hindu and various other ancient Asian beliefs decorate the walls and shelves.
In the center of the floor, facing the windows along the street, Akhu sits cross-legged in a position of meditation. Her eyes are closed, but she’s alive. Kabir breathes a sigh of relief. He notes she’s dressed much the same as the last few times he's seen her, in a drab robe over an unadorned white mandarin collared blouse, brown leg wraps, plain walking slippers, with a single black chopstick holding her hair up. And he’s not at all surprised she’s floating nearly three feet above the floor.
Akhu breathes in deep, then lets it out slowly. All around the room the candles flicker. The space itself seems to expand and contract, as if breathing with her, then all returns to normal. She floats down to the mat, unfolds her legs, and stands. She opens her eyes, turns to Kabir, and smiles.
* * *
Andreo watches another man exit the van. Even bigger than the first, in a long black fur coat and sunglasses, with spiky black hair. He retrieves a rucksack from the van then leans casually against the front fender, dropping the rucksack at his feet. His presence is even more curious, and sinister. As Andreo considers the possibilities, what he was told of his target, and what he’s learned since he began watchin
g her, runs through his mind in concise, organized detail.
He’d been given the woman’s name and description—female, 5’ 2” tall, mid-to-late 30s, black eyes and hair, with Asian features. Not particularly helpful when you’re looking for someone in Chinatown, but he’d been given the location as well.
He had no problem finding her and has been watching for the last three weeks, making mental notes, logging her routine, learning as much about her as he possibly can, and planning the perfect time and place for the hit, which his employer insisted must happen on that particular Sunday morning. He rented an empty second-story office in the building across the street so he could see into the high narrow windows of the school, hiding in the darkness behind partially open blinds and using a rifleman’s spotting scope to learn as much as he could about her personal habits.
Miss Zhang Li Jing is the only instructor at the school and has no staff. His employer informed him she was mute, which Andreo has confirmed. How she can teach blind children when she can’t speak, he has no idea.
When classes aren’t in session she keeps to herself. She rarely leaves the building, where she also lives, but seems to be respected by the denizens of the neighborhood. Members of the local gangs, customarily surly characters, clear others out of the way for her when she passes. He thought she might be affiliated with them in some way, but he’s seen no further evidence of that.
She appears to have only one friend in the city, a short fat man named Mac Gallus, who comes by on Wednesday afternoons to peruse the market with her. They make a strange pair, she in her plain, loose-fitting traditional garb, he in a red sweatshirt, green gym shorts over yellow sweatpants, and yellow high-top sneakers. He also wears a red raincoat flapping on his back with the arms tied around his neck, and a small red stocking cap perched on top of his head. Ruddy complexioned with a short red beard that pokes down under his heavy jowls. Andreo remembers details. He prides himself on it.
Miss Zhang is reserved and silent while her friend is energetic and talks animatedly, loudly, and a lot, with a thick Scottish accent. Being mute, she never speaks, nor does she use sign language with him, but he sometimes watches her closely and appears to be listening, then will laugh or carry on, though he often wears earbuds, is constantly fiddling with an MP3 player, and will occasionally break into dance moves or shuffle his feet and shadowbox the air. The last time they parted ways, Andreo followed him to a closed-down boxing gym a couple dozen blocks away, where he may have once worked but now lives alone.
All in all, Miss Zhang doesn’t appear to be a threat to anyone. Why his employer or anyone else would want her dead, he hasn’t a clue. Now, however, with the dangerous look of the man leaning against the van, and the other allowed to enter her abode, he wonders.
He recalls something else his employer told him. “Exercise extreme caution in surveillance of Miss Zhang. Keep your distance. Don’t speak to her. In fact,” he stressed, “it would be best if she never saw you at all.” And if she did, Andreo was never, ever to look her in the eyes.
* * *
Akhu slides her hands in her loose sleeves and bows to Kabir. Kabir places fist in palm and bows in turn. Using Chinese sign language, she gestures, “May I?”
“You may,” he responds in Chinese—and hears her voice in his head.
“You’ve interrupted my annual worship of my sifu, Brother. I have two more days of meditation and fasting, you know.”
Kabir bows again and without opening his mouth, replies in her mind, “My sincerest apologies, most esteemed Akhu.”
“None needed, Brother Kabir. You are still going by that name?”
“Yes, Sister.”
She peers through his human cloak at his Trueface. “What has happened to your tooth?”
Kabir pokes the hole in his gum with his tongue. “Maskim Xul.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Enough said. I’d ask you to share tea with me, but I get the feeling this is not a social call.” Her eyes scan the door and nearby wall. It’s as if she can see right through them. “There’s another brother here. Not one I would expect you to associate with. This does not bode well.”
“There’s been trouble, of the oldest kind,” Kabir replies, speaking aloud. “Coordinated attacks on the Deva. I feared you may have been targeted as well.” He holds out the coin Peter left on the islet in the river near his home. “I have seen Father, and he gave me this.”
Akhu studies the coin without taking it. “I see.” After a moment’s contemplation she straightens, her expression hardening. “Explain while I get my things.”
* * *
Cù Sìth sniffs at the breeze, red eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. He surveys the alley and crowded street, checks parked cars, windows and rooftops. He can’t pinpoint its source, but there’s foul intent upon the air. He leans for the rucksack, stuffs black fur, matted with blood, further down into the top where the flap is unbuckled, and fastens it shut.
Kabir exits the school with Akhu behind him, a small canvas rucksack on her back. Cù approaches them, stopping a respectful distance away. Kabir remains on guard to protect Akhu if need be, but she’s unfazed by the presence of the dreadful Moddey Dhoo.
Cù Sìth growls, “We should hurry.”
* * *
The target has finally emerged from her abode. Even with the presence of the men, Andreo Ramos will complete his mission by putting an arrow through her heart. At least this will go the way he planned it. He finishes typing a message on his radio. Now, it says. He hits send and puts the radio on the table.
* * *
Blocks away, in a dark alley behind a dilapidated building, a radio like Andreo’s is tossed to skitter on litter-strewn pavement.
A deep beastly voice comes from ink-black shadows near overflowing dumpsters. “It’s about fucking time.”
Animal groans of relief and shuffling sounds follow as the shadows stretch and shudder into four monstrous shapes, then detach themselves from the walls. The heel of a steel-studded biker boot crushes the radio.
* * *
Andreo adjusts his stance on the asphalt roof, which is softened by the heat of the sun and reeks of creosote. He mentally gauges the breeze, angle and distance, takes a deep, calming breath, then raises the bow, draws back, timing his heartbeat, and aims.
In the alley the two men are instantly alert, their senses prickling at Andreo’s presence. They step in front of the woman, shoulder to shoulder, eyes scanning the street. Andreo says to himself, How could they know? A bead of sweat trails down his temple. Move, he says silently to the woman’s bodyguards, which he’s now certain they must be. As if obeying his command, they do, but only because the woman pushes them apart and steps between them.
Andreo exhales slowly, sights down the arrow at her chest, holds his breath. He’s about to loose his fingers on the bowstring when she lifts her head and looks right at him.
If he wasn’t a consummate professional, an experienced and hardened killer, he might think, ¡¿Qué demonios?!, the Spanish equivalent of What the hell? Or quite possibly ¡¿Pero qué coño?!, an expression similar to What the fuck, but far worse, referring to a certain part of the female anatomy. He might even twitch or hesitate. But he is a consummate professional, an experienced and hardened killer. Without curse, twitch or hesitation, he lets the arrow fly.
What happens next seems a dream in extreme slow motion.
As the fletching and nock of the arrow clear the bow, the bronze head glows. The air shimmers in front of it, cupping and bending—and the arrow picks up speed.
The woman steps forward, toward the oncoming projectile.
There’s a loud crack as the arrow breaks the sound barrier, hurling onward, straight and true, blue light trailing along the shaft like the tail of a comet.
But when the arrow passes the point where her heart should be, she has vanished.
The arrow hits the blacktop, but instead of skipping off down the alley or shattering into splinters, it punches throug
h, exploding the pavement with enough force to set off car alarms all down the block.
His eyes widen at the sight of the crater left by the arrow’s impact and the empty space between the two men where the woman had been. Now he allows himself to say it. “¡¿Pero qué coño?!”
The two men see him. The man in the fur coat crouches and howls. Actually howls. A horrendous sound like a pride of lions roaring in unison. With a chill of dread in his gut, he realizes this job isn’t going at all the way he planned.
* * *
The crowd in the street market, shaken by the concussive force of the arrow’s impact, are terrified further by the sound of Cù Sìth’s cry.
Kabir glances around for Akhu—but she can slip. At least she’s safe. Now what to do?
Cù Sìth has no such moment of indecision. He bolts to the van and swings the rucksack onto his back, rips off his glasses, red eyes gleaming, and roars again at the man who stands stunned on the opposite rooftop, then charges across the street. People scream and run at his passing. A car crashes into the back of another in an attempt to avoid him.
“Cù!” Kabir shouts, but to no avail. Kabir mutters under his breath, “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” and runs after him.
* * *
Andreo leans over the parapet wall, unable to believe what he’s seeing. The fur-coated man climbing the building, bricks chipping and windows shattering beneath his hands and feet as he comes. The other man runs crosses the street below him, shouting to the crowd, “It’s all right everyone. Everything’s fine,” then crashes through the front door.
