by J. D. Oliva
"Expecting company?"
Jericho shook his head, taking another sip of cold-brewed coffee.
"You still play?" Prince nodded to the board.
"Been a while."
Prince took it as an offer and pulled a chair up to the table, examining the board. Jericho grabbed his dark-colored pawn and moved it up two spaces.
"It's customary to let the white pieces move first," Prince winked.
"Not on my board."
Prince moved his pawn two spaces forward. "How long's it been? Ten, fifteen years?"
"Something like that."
"Baghdad?"
"Kabul," Jericho reminded The Prince while moving his bishop.
"That's right. It was Kabul. You know we thought you died back there." Prince slid his rook forward.
"Officially, I did. I suppose I should thank you because that little bookkeeping snafu let me come back here and start fresh. Unofficially, I should cut your face off and staple it to the bulletin board by the register. It'd look nice next to the flyer that says bass player needed."
Prince moved his bishop and took one of Jericho's pawns. "You think you can still do that?"
"Probably. Fortunately, I'm retired." Jericho took Prince's bishop with his queen.
"I hear Cherry Vale Security is quite a successful business. Good to see you stayed in the private security game."
"We do home security systems. Lot different than fighting wars for hire."
"If that were true, you wouldn't have crossed some of my boys in D.C. last year. Those were good men you killed." Prince moved his rook to the other side of the board.
"They shouldn't have kidnaped a girl."
"Well, I guess she paid a lot for a home security system then."
Jericho laughed. Prince had a point. "I'm outta the game, but not out of business."
Prince took another one of Jericho's rooks. "No way. Guys like us, we don't leave the life."
"There ain't no ‘us.’ You fight wars for tyrants. I helped people make things right."
"Semantics."
"Check."
Prince chuckled before checking the board to see Jericho's knight had him in check. The king moved up and out of danger.
"You snuck in there and caught me by surprise. Kinda your thing, isn't it?"
"Used to be. What're you doing here, Daniel? You didn't fly across the country to settle some old business, did you?"
"No, I came here to offer you a job."
"Say what?"
"I've got an issue with a client. They're overstepping their bounds, and I'm not terribly comfortable with where the job's headed."
"Then cancel the contract," Jericho said with a shrug.
The Prince shot him a half-smile and chuckled. Jericho forgot. To someone like Prince, the idea of canceling a contract was unheard of. Money is everything.
"I had a better idea. What if I were to hire Cherry Vale to run interference?"
"You want me to hire me to sabotage one of your operations?"
"I want you to do the thing you did in D.C. Only this time, I'll make it worth your while. It'd be like being part of the team again, but you do your own thing."
For a moment, Jericho considered the offer. Blackfire, Prince's company, was staffed by some of the finest mercenaries money could buy. On his worst day, Jericho worked circles around any of them. The chance to show the old boss that's still true was appealing. But the idea of going back into business, especially with Blackfire, isn't something he was interested in. But the Prince was very good at selling himself and his ideas. Prince had this unique charisma that made him seem likable, even to Jericho, which is odd considering Prince left him to die and later tried to have him killed. The Prince didn't hear the word no often.
"Nah. The team left me to die in a burning Hummer. Besides, I'm retired."
"C'mon. Guys like us don't retire."
"I got no interest," Jericho said, taking his queen. "I'm done with fieldwork. You haven't seen the kinda shit I have."
"Look at you, sitting here in fucking Provo of all places, eating avocado toast. You're a goddamn killing machine. What happened in Chicago?"
Jericho shook his head. How could he possibly talk about what happened in Chicago? Most days, he didn't believe it himself.
"Checkmate."
Prince looked back down at the board and saw his king was pinned by Jericho's knight and two pawns. The Prince laughed. He didn't lose, even in chess. He reached into his pants pocket, and for a second, Jericho worried he'd pull out a weapon. If it happened, it would be game over for Jericho. Instead, Prince took out a card from his pocket. Jericho didn't like being unprepared.
"Take this, and please reconsider. These kids today, they're good soldiers, but they don't have the instincts of guys like us. You still have fire. You may think this is the life you want, but it's a lie. You call me when you're ready for the truth." Prince pushed the card across the table.
So that's what it feels like, Jericho thought.
"Thank you, but if I was ever ready to jump back into the fire, which I never will, you're the last person I'd call."
Jericho finished his drink and debated leaving the toast, but remembered it was six dollars a plate. Granddad would whoop his ass for not finishing. He took one last bite and got up from the table.
"I don't want to see you here again. We done?"
Jericho wiped his mouth and walked to the counter, leaving a few bucks in the tip jar. Refusing to acknowledge the man he left at his regular table, the retired, so-called killing machine walked out of Rugged Grounds.
IV
BLAM
Luther Rains fired the first shot from the Liberator into the air. Screams broke from the confused crowd. A young mother grabbed her children and threw them both to the ground. The group tried to break, but the second hooded warrior fired into the air. This time the entire crowd dropped to the floor.
Luther grabbed the tour guide off the tile floor and yanked her up by the neck of her blouse.
He calmly whispered into her ear. "Do you speak English?"
She nodded. "Ja."
"Good. I need you to say, everyone stay calm. This will be over in two minutes."
She did as told. "Iedereen blijft kalm. Dit is binnen een paar twee minuten voorbij."
"Very good. Come with me," Luther said, dragging her down the hall.
The woman, a college-aged blonde with blue eyes, walked carefully next to Luther. If they met under different circumstances, he would have asked for her number. Depending on how this worked out, he still may. The second hood walked behind them, while the third stayed watch ready for the portly security guard to get tough.
The three slowly turned down a white-walled hallway adorned with the works of history's greatest tormented geniuses.
"There it is," Luther said.
The Potato Eaters. A darkly-colored lithograph of one of Van Gogh's most celebrated creations. The master himself called it his best. A poor family gathered around a dimly lit table, sharing a plate of potatoes. It was a stark and visceral picture of the state of the downtrodden, the poor.
Luther knew that life and swore he'd never return. The Potato Eaters is his chance. Three times since the 1980s thieves triedMINI Cooper to steal this painting. All three were failures. That's why the price of this job was so high. It's the entire reason Luther wanted it to begin with. He needed to show the world he wasn't the same kid whose family struggled to survive in New Orleans Lower Ninth Ward.
"Hold this," Luther said, shoving the girl into his partner. Luther didn't know his name. He didn't need to know his name. They were professionals and names complicated measures.
Luther slid the Liberator into the front pouch of his hoodie. Wrapping his fingers around the oak frame, he took a breath and ripped the mounting from the wall.
“Let's go.”
Luther had forty-eight seconds to walk out the exit and jump into the conversion van. They'd trade it for a Mini-Cooper two miles down the r
oad. Luther and his partner walked back into the foyer where the third hood still kept the museum patrons face down on the floor.
"Forty-five seconds," Luther shouted.
The van pulled up outside the emergency exit.
"Thank you for your help." Luther pushed the girl down to the floor, and the three thieves made their way to the exit.
"Hou op!" The potbellied security guard shouted the Dutch word for stop after seeing the painting.
The thieves ignored the shouts and continued. They had thirty-one seconds. Slightly ahead of schedule.
BLAM
The third hood's head exploded. Luther and his partner stopped and stared down in shock at their now decapitated associate. This was an art theft at a small museum. These guards weren't supposed to shoot, let alone to kill.
Luther dropped The Potato Eaters and drew the Liberator. He fired two shots into the security guard's chest, dropping him instantly. Another guard, tall and dark-haired man with a muscular build, appeared from behind and opened fire, striking the second hood in the shoulder. Luther turned back and pulled the Liberator's trigger. This time the bullet didn't fire. Instead, the gun blew up in Luther's hand, leaving only small chunks of bone and hanging sinew. Luther dropped to his knee, staring at what used to be his hand. The second hood bolted out the emergency exit, but the van that was supposed to escort them from the scene fled.
This was supposed to be an easy job. It was never supposed to go this way. The tall security guard approached Luther from the behind and placed the barrel of his gun against Luther's head.
Fortunately, the splatter came nowhere near The Potato Eaters. The painting was safe.
V
The commotion in the Van Gogh Gallery sent all the attention and most importantly, the security, to that section of the Kröller-Müller Museum. At the other end of the building, in a wing called Expo 7, a thinly built, debonair man with graying temples and a pencil-thin mustache found himself alone. He slowly approached a different painting. The Monk.
To the untrained eye, it was a simple sketch of a somber monk set on a sepia background. Nothing about this piece looked unique or even particularly good. Art is, of course, subjective, but this particular work seemed a tad out of place in the same museum that housed much of Van Gogh's work. But for all the painting's simplicity, it was mounted to a large, incredibly ornate, metal frame.
The thin man pulled a set of rubber gloves from his pocket and slid them over his wiry fingers, snapping the rubber at the ends. Without pause, he placed his fingers around the metal frame and carefully removed the frame from the wall. Setting the frame under his arms, he gingerly walked toward the nearest emergency exit. Pushing the door open, the thin man was greeted by the same white conversion van that, seconds earlier, was waiting for Luther Rains and his men. The thin man slid the back door open and handed The Monk to another man in a black hoodie. The thin man closed the back door and took three steps to the passenger door and threw it open.
"Ready, boss?" the driver asked.
"Si."
The thin man nodded and closed the door. The van pulled into the street just as six Otterlo Police cars arrived to make sense of the chaos in the Van Gogh Gallery.
VI
Six months ago, Dana O'Brien broke the biggest story of her young career. Jackson Shane, a retired Chicago Police detective who suffered from severe PTSD, was brought back as an unofficial consultant on a case of what at first seemed to be a copycat serial killing linked to an earlier case Shane worked. The CPD's negligence cost five people's lives, including Shane himself. Dana's expose' uncovered layers of corruption, costing the city millions. She didn't have a lot of fans in CPD before the story. Today, she was persona non grata.
Of course, what really happened to Jack Shane is something Dana couldn't ever talk about. She made a deal with two other people to keep certain facts secret. Facts that would destroy her career. Facts no one would ever believe anyway. Keeping them secret was an easy choice.
Dana stood on the moving walkway at O'Hare International Airport, trying to get herself mentally situated for a trip to Amsterdam. In the six months since breaking the Shane story, Dana became a hot commodity in the freelance journalism world. She was living her dream of being a guerrilla journalist. The problem being, the world of guerrilla journalism meant a lot of travel and underwhelming pay. At least at this point.
"Dammit," she whispered under her breath, realizing she'd forgotten her Kindle at home.
Nine hours in a plane with nothing to read sounded like absolute murder. Of course, Dana could actually work on the book she was supposed to write, but that wasn't happening. Dana caught site of Barbara's Book Store. She checked her phone and saw she still had forty-five minutes before the plane boarded. Perfect time to find something to read,problem being or at least an overpriced snack. She ran her fingers across the new selections. That's what's always in airport bookstores, new releases and New York Times best-seller mainstays. Your James Patterson, Lee Child, Stephen King, that kind of stuff. She also found a section full of political books from your Bill O'Reilly's and Ann Colture's. Yuck. But nonfiction is the way to go. She had research to do in figuring out how to write a book in that world.
One book caught her eye. It had a black cover with a strange symbol that looked a little too much like a pentagram for her taste. The title read DOOMSDAY in thick red letters.
"That's a good book," said a voice from behind.
Dana turned back and found a diminutive woman with short, graying hair that was probably jet black twenty years ago. The woman had a peculiar smile Dana couldn't place. She tried to say something, but Dana didn't pick up on it. The woman raised her eyebrow and nodded. Dana turned to the back cover and found a matching headshot. The name on the cover read Reverend Julia Summerville.
"Oh my gosh, this is your book."
"Yes, don't mind me. I go to airport bookstores across the country and try to push my work on unsuspecting victims. It's a cutthroat world when you're fighting for royalties," she laughed.
Dana chuckled, hoping it was a joke.
"I'm Julia," she said, extending her hand.
"Dana O'Brien. I know who you are. I saw you on Anderson Cooper last month. You write about doomsday cults, right?"
"Doomsday cults and their historical role in our society. Impressive you remembered."
"Well, I'm a journalist, it's my job." Dana shook her hand, "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind talking to me for a few minutes?"
"That depends. Are you involved in a doomsday cult?"
They laughed a halfhearted kind of laugh people share with those they've recently met and are still a little uncomfortable around.
"No, I'm writing a book of my own, and to be honest, I'm absolutely lost."
"Well, if you buy my book, the least I could do is give you a few minutes."
"Deal!"
Dana handed the hardcover and her credit card to the cashier. $24.95 is a little more than she wanted to pay for some reading material, but for the chance to talk to a published author, the price was perfect. Dana placed Reverend Summerville's book in her backpack, and the two walked to the terminal where they took seats next to each other.
"So, where are you headed, Miss O'Brien?"
"Amsterdam."
"Oh, having a little fun trip, I see." The Reverend sounded almost disappointed.
Dana got why. Amsterdam isn't the kind of place a good Christian would go to stay out of trouble. Which is why she went there after high school.
"No, I'm actually covering a story. There was a very messy attempted robbery at a museum."
"Oh, I did hear something about that. Is that what your book is about?"
"No. A publisher reached out to me about a story I broke last winter."
"Anything I might have read?" Summerville said, looking for an outlet to plug in her phone.
Dana knew there's no way she hadn't at least heard of Jack Shane or the Pentagram Killer, but it might be too grues
ome a subject matter for small talk.
"I don't think so," she said. "I've never written an entire book before, and I've got some apprehensions." Dana grabbed Julia's phone and plugged it into her portable USB charger.
"Thank you. Well, my first advice is don't spend the advance. They make you pay it back if the book doesn't sell."
"They do?"
Summerville nodded. Dana didn't know that. Worse considering the money was already spent.
"It's simple, Dana. Most talented writers have at least one book in them. Any half-decent editor can drag something passable out of even the most mediocre writer. The publisher will take care of the marketing, and if they believe in it, they'll go out of their way to make sure it becomes a best-seller. Tell your story. If you didn't have something to say or some unique insight, they never would have come to you in the first place."
That made her feel good. If this was the path Dana was going to travel, the life of the freelance journalist, she was going to need to write a book or two to help build her brand. It might also be another way to pay her bills.
"That's the best thing anyone's told since...ever."
Summerville smiled and patted Dana's hand.
"Never lose your faith, dear. He never loses it in you," she said with a wink.
"Would it be okay if I emailed you sometime?"
"Of course." Summerville handed her a business card.
Seeing the business card in her hand gave Dana a shiver. It reminded her of Christmas night in Jack Shane's living room when the man with the dreadlocks handed her a black business card with a Silver J.
"You owe me," he said.
Dana played the scene out in her head thousands of times over the past six months. Even though she was one hundred percent sure he said she owed him, he may as well have said he owned her. She wanted to throw his card away almost immediately, but the memory wasn't as easy to discard.
"Are you okay, dear?" Summerville asked.
"Fine," Dana smiled and took the Reverend's card. "Thank you."
