The Birth of Death

by Orlando A. Sanchez

  “Huracan!” Ren yelled. “Move!”

  I saw the machine guns too late as they tracked across the floor and unleashed a swarm of rounds on my position. I outran most of them. One punched into my shoulder and the other caught me in the thigh. I’d be shredded if it weren’t for the polyweave Hanso gave me.

  “What happened to the fearsome force of nature, the infamous Huracan?” Sam asked over an intercom. “More like a spring shower now, huh?”

  “Hilarious Sam,” I said staying low. “Let me see your face so I can show you how funny you are.”

  “No thanks,” Sam replied. “I’ll just wait here until you bleed out. Feeling lightheaded yet? Where’s that famous skill of yours?”

  In any other situation he’d be right. There was no way he could have known about the polyweave.

  “I don’t need skill to end your demented ass.” What I needed was another one of those ATGM’s.

  “Can’t wait until I put two in you. The great Huracan Karib dying in the street like a gutter rat. I love it.”

  I tuned him out for the moment. He was right, though. The polyweave saved my life, but that .50 caliber Browning wasn’t a delicate touch. If I stayed here too long, I would be having eternal conversations with Death.

  “Are you ready to join me, mi amor?” Death materialized next to me, and looked across the large, empty space at the halftrack. “He is waiting to send you to me.”

  “Think you can reach out and touch them?” I asked. “You know one of those biblical old testament firstborn kinds of caresses?”

  She shook her head with a smile. “You know that’s not how this works, cariño—my dearest.”

  “Worth a shot,” I muttered. “I’m open to ideas.”

  “You only need to accept my kiss,” Death said, her eyes flashed a deep violet. “Only one kiss.”

  “And go from Death’s Hand to Death’s Lover?”

  More machine gun fire cut across the floor, blasting chunks of marble shrapnel in every direction.

  “Yes, be my instrument,” Death answered. “You only need to pay the cost.”

  There’s always a cost.

  “I’m going to pass on the kiss, for now,” I said with a shudder. “If you can’t reach out and touch them, keep my hand steady while I send them to you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Also a little help would be nice, maybe guiding a rocket here would be nice?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It wasn’t exactly a rocket, but it worked just as well. One of the marble columns decided that the half-track needed to be half-crushed and fell on it, flattening the rear section.

  Men spilled out from the vehicle as Wood slid in one of the entrances, firing a rifle. He missed most of them and dove behind cover as they returned fire.

  “Really? You couldn’t hit one of them?” I yelled across the floor.

  “One of these bastards killed Bertha,” Wood yelled back. “I’m going to make them hurt.”

  There was a commotion near the half-track.

  “What is that?” one of Sam’s men said. “Is that a butterfly?”

  “No, a moth,” another said. “It’s a moth.”

  I smiled. Death would lend a hand after all. Just not my hand.

  “A moth?” the first voice asked. “Since when do—?”

  The spray of blood shot out from behind the vehicle.

  “Get down!” I heard Sam yell. Another bullet and another body collapsing. “Fall back! Get outside now.”

  I whispered a silent prayer to Death, and admired Ren unleashing a ballad of destruction on Sam and his men. She moved differently: fast, efficient, and lethal. I caught a glimpse of her eyes as she shifted around a column, evading rounds intent on cutting her down. Her eyes were unfocused. She kept her gaze down as she moved around the floor.

  Some of the men from the half-track weren’t expecting a young girl. Those few seconds of hesitation, as she closed and aimed, cost them their lives. The others, who had faster reaction times, leaped out of the way, only to be dispatched a second later. Death had taken control of Ren’s body—it was a beautiful and fearsome thing to witness. Sam scrambled from behind the half-track, holding one of his men as a shield. Ren fired, dropping the human shield.

  Sam fired back. Ren dodged behind a wall, crouched down, and slid forward, shooting as she closed the distance. Sam made it to the stairs and ran up. His remaining men weren’t so lucky.

  “Fuck you, Huracan,” Sam screamed as he climbed the stairs.

  Wood stepped out from behind his cover and whistled at the carnage. Ren’s eyes came back into focus and she shook her head as she leaned unsteadily against the wall.

  “Did I—?” she asked looking at the bodies.

  “Maybe you should be her apprentice?” Wood said, looking at me. “I’ll watch her. Go finish this.”

  I checked my magazine. Six rounds left and then my blade. Outside I could hear the level of interaction subside. Hanso and the freelancer must have cut down enough of The Cartel to convince them today was a bad day for dying.

  “Lucy,” I said. “Can you get me a location on Sam upstairs?”

  “I can do that,” said Hanso as he stepped close to me. “That staircase leads to the roof. We’ll take care of what’s left outside. You better cure Sam of his sickness—permanently.”

  It was going to be just Sam and me.

  I ran upstairs.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I reached the top of the stairs and kicked the door open while waiting inside. Nothing. We knew each others methods too well and Sam wouldn’t fall for the obvious.

  I mentally accessed the information I had on Samael. He was an accomplished operator, skilled with a gun, and above average with a blade. About my height and fifteen years my junior. He had the advantage of being younger, faster, determined, and mostly batshit crazy. I had age, experience, and an acute desire to keep breathing.

  I’d say we were about even.

  “It’s over Sam,” I said. “Degas isn’t going to save you. Your men are gone or on their way. Stop this or join them.”

  In the center of the roof was a structure I could describe as a large, enclosed gazebo. The rest of the roof was covered in air-conditioning ducts and vents. Small structures provided cover as I emerged from the stairwell.

  “Once I kill you, Degas will recognize my skill,” Sam answered. “I didn’t betray the family. You did—you traitor!”

  So much for reasoning with him.

  I leaped behind one of the vents as Sam unloaded his gun on my position. He fired until he emptied the magazine. That meant nothing, he was still armed, and was an excellent knife fighter. I stayed close to the stairwell to prevent him from sneaking back down.

  I walked around the area, keeping the gazebo to my left and the stairwell to my right. I slowed my breath and calmed down. I needed to focus and regulate my reactions. The screeching of metal filled the night on the other side of the roof as I moved quickly to the source of the noise.

  One of the vent covers had been ripped off and thrown to the side.

  “Dammit,” I muttered under my breath as I approached the opening with my gun aimed. “You couldn’t make this easy.”

  I saw the glint of metal at the last second and ducked as Sam slashed the air where my head had been. He buried a fist in my midsection, causing me to gasp for air as he stripped my gun and tossed it off the roof.

  “Time to die,” Sam said. “I’m going to kill you and bring your parts to Degas. Then he will know who’s the best.”

  “That’s the difference between us, “ I said, giving him a wide berth. “I took pride in my work, but it never gave me pleasure. I fulfilled the contracts, but you…you enjoyed the killing.”

  “What can I say?” Sam answered with a flourish. “Some of us love our jobs.”

  I didn’t bother answering. The sporadic giggles and crazed look in his eyes told me he was too far gone for any kind of con
versation. He lunged forward with a jump. I dropped to my back and slashed his inner thigh, connecting with his femoral. The polykev he wore was good—just not good enough.

  He grabbed his leg and screamed.

  He ran at me in a football tackle. I circled around him and buried my blade in his side with a quick thrust, losing my grip and my weapon. He didn’t slow down. His blade caught my arm just below my earlier injury. My shoulder was on fire.

  He grinned and came at me again. If he felt pain, I saw no indicator of it. He slashed across and I stepped into his attack. He reversed direction and changed his grip to hammer the blade into my side. I blocked his arm at the elbow, shattering the arm. I pulled down, throwing him off balance, and buried his own blade into his neck.

  He brought his hands up to his wound. He didn’t have long. The femoral injury gave him at most a few minutes before he bled out. I had just severed his carotid. He had thirty seconds, at most.

  He staggered for a few feet before he collapsed on his back. I waited. When I was certain he was gone, I walked to where he lay and removed my blade. This was what Degas wanted, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

  “Lucy,” I said quietly. “Get my SCAN up ASAP.”

  “Reboot in thirty minutes,” she said. “Samael?”

  “He’s gone, but we aren’t done,” I said. “You have the plans?”

  “Tudor City,” she replied. “Heavily guarded and you’re going have to come from the roof. Insane security system and a small army of guards. You dealt with Samael. Maybe—?”

  “We have one more day before the contract goes wide,” I said, heading to the stairs. “Have Hanso keep this situation contained. Make it look like a siege.”

  “That will only buy you the few hours before dawn,” Lucy answered. “Once the sun comes up, it will be another situation entirely.”

  “I only need a few hours,” I said, my voice hard. “Come collect Ren and take her back to the Farm.”

  “I told you I don’t leave the—” she started.

  “Save it,” I said, cutting her off. “We both know where you are. Come get her. I’ll speak to Hanso, and send me those plans.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  THIRTY

  I sat across from the sleeping figure. Two a.m. meant he was in his deepest sleep. His senses were better developed than most. Part of his limbic brain, that old survival mechanism, picked up on my presence and kick-started him into consciousness.

  He reached for the gun that wasn’t there.

  He was an older man, body fit, probably hit the gym a few times a week. Time isn’t kind to any of us. He squinted in the low-light and tried to focus on me. After a few seconds, the realization dawned.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Did Samael know he was the other target?”

  “Of course not,” Degas answered. “Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s not a threat. She’s no one. Why target her?”

  “Estelle de la Cruz, sold into bondage last year after she was kidnapped and trafficked,” Degas said with a short laugh. “It was an attempt to destabilize a certain government in a country we won’t disclose”—he looked at the guards lying on the ground around his bed—“in open company.”

  “The same de la Cruz that was reported dead,” I said. “The daughter of—?”

  “Indeed,” Degas said. “You know…the usual. Except now she really needs to live up to the reports.”

  “If it turns out she’s alive…”

  “That would be awkward,” Degas finished. “She has one conversation, mentions The Cartel, you, or me, and life gets very uncomfortable.”

  “No one would believe her.”

  “She’s a loose end. You know this.”

  “I’m not giving her to you.”

  “This isn’t a request, Huracan,” Degas answered, angrily. “Everyday she’s alive, The Cartel is threatened. I will not have a sword of Damocles hanging over my head. Where is she?”

  I remained silent. I thought about our history. Degas wasn’t always an asshole, but he had let the money and greed blind him. There was a time I would’ve called him a friend. That was before he tried to have Sam kill me.

  “Let’s discuss this,” I started. “There has to be a—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” he snapped. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  “You’ll be asking that for a long time…I’m sure.”

  Degas let out a sigh. “Fine, lets play this game,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “To be left alone. Me and mine.”

  “I take it this includes the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you trying to atone, Huracan? Is that what this is about?”

  “Atone? My hands are covered in blood,” I said. “Blood that can never be washed off. I don’t need to atone. I need you to walk away from this.”

  “Impossible,” Degas answered with a shake of his head. “You turned on The Cartel, not the other way around.”

  “This is going to happen one of two ways,” I said, letting the edge in my voice cut through the room. “Either you declare us sagrado—sacred, or I’m having this conversation with your successor.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Degas said. “Killing me would cause more harm than good.”

  “I’m sure once The Cartel is under new management, they’ll be open to negotiations. I’ll take my chances.”

  He was right. His leadership stabilized The Cartel. I raised the gun I held. His gun.

  “Wait,” he said, raising a hand. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “We just did. What’s your answer?”

  “I’ll do it. Put the gun down.”

  “Make the call,” I said. “Now.”

  He picked up the phone next to his bed. He pressed one button. A few seconds later, I heard a female voice.

  “Good morning, Mr. Degas. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Agnes,” he replied. I kept the gun trained on him in case he decided to give her some code that sent the rest of the Cartel my way. “I’m issuing a sagrado status on Huracan Karib and his known associates.”

  A pause. “When does it go into effect?”

  “Effective immediately, Agnes.”

  “Sagrado status declared for Huracan Karib and his known associates, effective immediately,” Agnes said. “This order cannot be rescinded. Shall I proceed?”

  “Proceed.”

  “Authorization please.”

  “Cerberus seven three one,” Degas said.

  “Authorization and voice recognition confirmed,” Agnes replied. “Have a good day, Mr. Degas.”

  She hung up.

  “That wasn’t so hard now—was it?” I said as he hung the receiver back in its cradle. I stood and stared at him. “Don’t make me come back.”

  “You’re dead if you do.”

  I stepped back and out of the room, leaving a confused Degas in his bed. I took a few steps and listened. Nothing. Even a broken clock was right twice. Would Degas honor his word?

  “Lucy, patch in to his SCAN,” I said, quietly as I closed the front door. “He has to honor the sagrado status.”

  “I’m sure he has other means at his disposal,” Lucy said. “Done. He’s on an encrypted line.”

  “…Picasso, I just issued a sagrado on Karib and his little band of misfits,” Degas said angrily. “Find him and erase them all. Triple your usual fee.”

  “You lied to him?” Picasso asked. “That was short-sighted of you.”

  “Of course I lied to him!” Degas yelled. “He came into my house and pointed a gun at me…at me! Did he really think I was going to let him walk away? They all die.”

  “You first,” I said from the shadows. “You should’ve honored your word. Upheld the code.”

  “Fuck you and your code,” Degas spat. “You’re dead.”

  I fired the gun and let the rounds answer for me. His body slumped forward and I made a ca
ll.

  “Speak,” a voice said.

  “Congratulations on your promotion to Director of The Cartel.”

  “Thank you. Cleaners will be on site in thirty minutes. I’d suggest you be gone by the time they arrive.”

  “Thanks, Picasso.”

  “Thank me by getting out of there—now.”

  “I’m already gone.”

  “Give my regards to Lucy and your apprentice,” Picasso said. “Once you settle in, give me a call.”

  “You can count on it.”

  I turned one last time before leaving. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and looked into my eyes with her smile. It was a thing of frightening beauty.

  “Hasta luego, mi amor.”

  I gave her a short nod, which she returned, and left the room.

  “Until later.”

  THE END

  Author Notes

  Thank you for reading this story and jumping into a world of my imagination. Writing this story was both cathartic and exciting. Trying out a book with minimal magic, was a departure from my usual writing. Thank you for stepping into Huracan’s world and trusting me with your time.

  My main series, Montague & Strong has produced several tangent stories, each with rich and exciting characters. This series was my attempt at a straight thriller with a hint of the supernatural—I hope I did the genre some justice and was able to channel some of my youth when I was exposed to Chandler, Christie, Block, Doyle, and even more recently Child and Eisler.

  The influences were (and are) many, but the goal is still the same. Write a good story. Create a character you’d want to spend some time with, and join him as he deals with situations that spiral out of control as a result of his actions and choices. For me, that’s the recipe for a book that immerses me in the story, and makes it hard to put down.

  It’s my sincere wish that I achieved a small measure of that with The BIRTH OF DEATH.

  I want to thank you again for reading this story. If you would like a story with a stronger dose of magic (and destruction), I’d like to suggest my Montague & Strong series. It’s the ongoing story of an immortal detective, an ever-hungry hellhound companion, and an angry mage working the cases only they can.