by J. D. Oliva
Chicago is a city with historically stringent gun control laws. If he went ten miles east to Indiana, finding a weapon wouldn't be a problem. Here, it's a different story.
"You need something?" Ike asked.
"I might."
Ike put his foot up on the table and pulled up a pant leg to reveal a holster mounted to his ankle. Without much thought, he drew the small gun. Even Jericho was shocked to see how brazenly he flashed the weapon.
"Be careful, man!"
"I'm a pawnshop owner who walks around with nothing but cash in his pocket. You think I'm stupid?"
"I thought you said it wasn't so bad here?"
"I said it was home. I got rat traps in my home, too. You want this or not?
"Yeah."
The mighty international assassin, Ethan Jericho, reduced to borrowing a snub-nosed .45 Colt from a pawn shop owner whose belly hung well over his beltline. Jericho took a closer look at the firearm. The Colt .45 Governor is a double-action revolver. He had six shots to take care of the problem. Usually, that would be more than enough. Today, who really knew?
"You gonna be all right?" Ike asked.
"I hope so."
"Who is that guy?"
"Ike, the less I tell you, the better. I promise I'll get this back to you."
"You do what you gotta do."
ILIX
Jericho ran eight blocks back to the RainyDay Center. The first time he ran these streets in the moonlight since he was a teenager in training. His first instinct told him to call the Center, demand his sister phone the police and evacuate. But that's not realistic. She wouldn't take his call, and even if she did, there's no way she'd believe him. Crissy didn't see the far corners of the Earth that the job took him, and how it changed him. In her mind, he's still a little kid making mistakes. Nothing would ever change that perception. If he called the cops on his own, they'd show up, but when they left, his British friend would be waiting. Besides, cops got better things to do than die.
This had to end now. This time Jericho was ready. His opponent's eyes were still healing from the flash. It took Jericho a few months before the spots stopped floating around his vision. That's another advantage. Besides, he's Ethan fucking Jericho.
The F-150, now with Arkansas plates, was still parked in the same place. He opened the door and turned on the radio. The old farmer he bought the green beast from never bothered to put a real stereo in, let alone Bluetooth, which was fine. Part of the fun in driving her up and down the mountains is hitting the seek button and trying to find a hip hop or alternative rock station with a strong enough signal. 90's alternative rock is a bit of a guilty pleasure. The city had an impressive alternative scene when he was a kid, and it was impossible not to hear a little Smashing Pumpkins, Wilco, or Urge Overkill. That's the thing about music, if you listen enough, you'll find what makes it special. No man ever died trying to listening to new music, except the time in Bucharest. Midway through Nebraska, he regretted not upgrading the stereo system. While he learned to love alternative rock, country music is a different story. He just couldn't stomach that shit.
Letting his mind wander to unimportant things helped make the waiting easier. WGCI was the station of choice back in the day, and hearing Travis Scott shout “Gimme The Loot,” it seems nothing changed.
Miss Crissy left the Center at a quarter past 10:00. The last person out the door. No surprises there. Watching her walk to her car, a 2012 blue Toyota Corolla, Jericho gripped the Governor and remembered his six shots. Nothing seemed amiss. Not yet. Around a year ago, Jericho was inside of his Humvee when an IED went off. He was lucky to walk away from that one. What if...?
Crissy started the car and pulled away from RainyDay. No issues there either. Maybe he misunderstood? Maybe he gave the pro too much credit in trying to set a trap? It's possible coming back here and his overactive imagination made a connection that really wasn't there. But where else could—
Light from inside the Center turned on. There isn't a chance Crissy left anyone behind, not the way she ran things. A familiar face approached the window. He's taller than Jericho remembered. His eyes shielded behind a pair of sunglasses, covering part of his facial tattoo.
"Zion," he whispered.
Aside from a little gimmick infringement, the sight made him smile. Those eyes hadn't healed. Good. Jericho stepped out of the F-150 and looked directly toward the main entrance. The pro, this Zion, opened the front door and smiled.
“Mr. Jericho,” Zion said, pronouncing his name JIREEEKO, rather than the way it’s supposed to sound. "Come inside."
Jericho paused and checked east and west down 11th Street, wanting to make sure no one else would see what's going to happen.
"Just us, mate."
Jericho nodded. The Governor in his front pocket was ready to go. He walked into the RainyDay Center as Zion, the younger, less inhibited version of himself, closed and locked the door behind them.
L
"It's a nice place, 'er."
"I liked to come here when I was a kid. Made me the man I am today," Jericho lied.
This guy knew enough. He didn't need to know about Crissy or anything like that.
Zion chuckled. "Right."
The Brit sized up the Center. The bright blue walls, the stacks of children's books in the corner, the motivational posters with pictures of Fredrick Douglas, Malcolm X and Dr. King, something about all of it under this light made it all look so sinister. Zion didn't seem impressed.
"I got them pages," he said.
"I don't give a fuck about those pages."
That confused him. Zion clearly wasn't expecting that reaction.
"If I did, I wouldn'ta left them with the priest."
"Don't matter. Little poofer's dead and I got 'em."
The two assassins circled each other. Both cool and collected, neither wanting to be the one to make the first mistake. There's a reason they're professionals.
"Good for you and your client. Who you working for? Y'all with the Prince?"
Zion laughed again. Jericho wondered why his old boss just happened to show up in Provo that morning.
"Freelance, mate. You know the game."
Zion pulled back his white Moncler hoodie, showing his Glock 19. The 9 millimeter Lugar was a semi-automatic and had way more than six shots. Jericho didn't show anything.
"I don't play games, son."
Zion flinched first, going for the Glock. Jericho reached for the Governor but took his eye off Zion's left hand. Zion sent the hook-shaped knife into Jericho's shoulder. Misdirection. Jericho overcompensated. Spent too much energy worrying about the Glock and forgot the freehand. He is rusty. And bleeding.
Zion's long legs closed the gap between them, as he drove the point of his sharp, left elbow down across Jericho's nose. The sunglasses shattered. Zion's right elbow came up, uppercutting Jericho under the jaw. The third elbow, another left,MMA fighter Anderson came down, catching him in the temple. These Muay Thai strikes came fast and hard. Zion moved like MMA fighter, Anderson Silva. Zion pulled the dagger out of Jericho's shoulder. With the sharp pain gone, Jericho finally pulled the Governor, and opened fire twice. With his vision blurred, both bullets missed.
Four more.
Zion swiped the blade, catching Jericho's wrist. He dropped the gun, which fired, striking a computer monitor. Zion slashed again. Jericho's forearms rose, blocking Zion's long reach. Swiping in figure-eight motions, Zion moved forward. Like a defensive boxer, Jericho brought up his hands and tried to crowd his longer opponent. His arms caught the blows, but the edge sliced into his forearms. Better than his face.
With the gap closed, Zion's long arms couldn't catch Jericho's front side. The tall assassin jammed the curved dagger into Jericho's back, just under his shoulder blade. Gritting his teeth, Jericho drove his forehead into Zion's face. If Jericho were taller, Zion's nose would have exploded. Instead, he caught the younger hired gun in the mouth, knocking a few teeth loose. With Zion stunned, Jericho jamme
d the heel of his palm into Zion's throat, knocking him to his knees.
Jericho thought about going back for the gun. Still three shots left in the chamber. But turning his back on the temporarily down Zion was a lousy play. Especially with the hunting knife still lodged in his back. Jericho reached back and pulled the blade out. Taking a closer look, he saw it was a Keris, an Indonesian fighting weapon whose practitioners believed was magic. Mystical powers or not, it was his now.
Zion popped back to his feet, and Jericho charged. Silat isn't one his preferred fighting styles, unlike Zion, but he was well-versed in FMA, the Filipino Martial Arts. Eskrima is a knife-fighting discipline Jericho studied when he was younger. Jericho thrust the Keris, but missed his target, slicing right through the white hoodie. Zion wrapped his left arm around Jericho's fighting hand, overhooking the wrist. Zion's long and boney arms pinched Jericho's wrist, clasping it in place. He was straight-armed and even with an edged weapon, he was helpless. Another Zion elbow caught the side of his head again. As the older assassin stumbled, Zion swept the foot out from underneath, sending Jericho crashing down. Zion twisted Jericho's wrist and pulled the Keris back.
"Good game, old man."
Zion drove the blade into Jericho's stomach and quickly ripped it back. The old man went limp as blood poured onto the concrete floor.
Stumbling into the back of the Center, Zion pulled out the three liquor bottles with ripped t-shirts sticking out of the top. Removing a cheap BIC lighter, the first shirt instantly ignited. He tossed the flaming bottle into Miss Crissy's office. Zion lit the second and positioned it right next to the unconscious Jericho. Zion kept the third in hand.
Zion burst out the back door of the RainyDay Center where the Ford Fusion was still running. Pulling out of the alley, he turned on Michigan and immediately made the left back onto 111th Street so that he could see the Center one last time. Zion unrolled the window, lit the final Molotov cocktail, and tossed it through the Center’s window where it burst into flames.
Zion casually pulled away from 111th Street as the RainyDay Center was swallowed by a wall of orange embers.
LI
Dana told Reverend Summerville everything about Amsterdam, The Potato Eaters, Holy Name and Father Luke. The one thing she didn't tell Julia about was Jericho, let alone how she met him. Some stories are best kept quiet. It's too early to call Julia a friend, but she was as much an ally as Inspector Meijer. But like him, she didn't need to know everything.
Just as Dana was finishing her story, her phone buzzed. She had the notifications set so whenever anything major happened in the city, she'd get breaking news. It was an old setting on the phone, programmed when she was determined to be the one breaking the news in Chicago. Her scope was a little more significant now, but the setting remained. So did her need to know everything that happened at all times. It might be rude, especially in front of a reverend, but Dana checked the notification. As much as she wanted Julia's respect, impulses are hard to control.
She opened the News App and saw the report.
"Mr. Jericho!" The cockney accent screamed over the iPhone speakers.
"Oh, my God! That's him!" She shouted.
"Who? The voice?"
"No, Father Luke! The priest from Holy Name! Jesus...."
Julia probably didn't like her choice of language, but let it slide. This time anyway.
"Dana, who is with him? Who's shooting the video?
She had no idea, but was pretty sure this is whoever chased her friend, who apparently went by the name Jericho, halfway across the country. Guess that’s what the monogrammed J in the black business card with the stood for. But how was she going to talk about that without opening the Jericho box?
Jericho Box? That’s a good title.
Dana refocussed. She couldn't be honest without having to admit she forgot to mention the giant assassin who she helped cover up the death of a cop. That conversation isn't going happen, not now at least.
"I have no idea."
"Who's Jericho?" Julia asked.
Dana shrugged. Not necessarily a lie since she really didn't know him either.
Julia grabbed Dana's hand and rubbed the tops of her knuckles in a very motherly way. Someone she barely knew doing that should creep her out, but this didn't.
"Dana, I need you to trust me." The reporter nodded with wide eyes. "Good. It's far too dangerous for you to be alone tonight. Maybe for a while. I'm going to talk to my husband. He's surprisingly good at handling these things. He'll have an idea of where to go from here."
"Okay."
"We've got apartments here at Willowbrook. We use them for traveling speakers and elders. They're fully furnished with a stocked refrigerator. I think you should stay here for at least the night. You know way too much to be out on your own with this maniac running around."
She's not wrong about that.
"But I don't have a change of clothes or anything."
"We can give you some clothes. A t-shirt and shorts to sleep in, and one of our polo shirts. Tomorrow morning Michael will drive you back to your apartment. You can pack a bag and then stay here as long as you need. As long as it takes for us to find those pages."
Dana struggled to find the words. She wanted to say no, I don't need your help. But that's not true. If this psycho knew Jericho, then who's to say he isn’t looking for whoever he's working with? She needed to lay low, even if just for a night.
"I have a cat," Dana finally squeaked.
Julia smiled. "Cats are incredibly resourceful. I think he'll be okay for one night. Tomorrow you can bring him here. Our 'round the clock security is here to make sure the little guy stays safe."
"Thank you," Dana smiled and hugged Julia.
"Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow we figure out what to do next."
LII
Jericho came to back inside of the burning RainyDay Center. He couldn't move. The way his stomach emptied out on the floor, he wasn't sure he wanted to anymore. The trail of fire hadn't made its way to the cocktail in front of him. It would be over as soon as the shirt with the six-pointed Chicago Star caught fire. It's his time.
The Prince is right. Guys like him didn't retire. They fought until someone younger, better or more vicious got them.
The fact that he's going to die here is a bitter twist. Crissy was right about him. He was far too dangerous to be around those kids. At least he waited until they'd all gone home. Assuming they had homes to go back to, of course. Jericho closed his eyes and waited.
"Hey! Hey, you gotta get up, E!"
Dammit.
The voice inside his head wouldn't give up quite yet. The same voice told him to get up back in Kabul and last summer in D.C., but was strangely quiet last Christmas at the Shane house. Maybe he should have gone then? It didn't matter, he's not listening to it this time.
"I'm serious! You gotta get up!"
Dammit. Why wouldn't it just shut up?
When the voice actually grabbed hold of his chest, Jericho opened his eyes. The voice didn't belong to some internal presence trying to will him to survive. It belonged to Ike.
"C'mon, you ain't dying here. Not where a bunch of kids play every day."
For some reason, Jericho found his legs moving and cooperating with the old pawnshop owner. The pain flared in his back and stomach when Ike pushed himself underneath Jericho's shoulder. This is a new pain for him. Stabbing pain is always the worst, but something about this is different. It felt bitter.
"Goddamn, you big!" Ike said as he dragged Jericho's lumbering frame through the broken window.
A tire iron surrounded by broken glass laid next to the windowpane. Guess that's how Ike got in, considering Zion locked the door. Paramedics already flooded the scene, and Jericho collapsed into one of their arms.
"He's bleeding!" one shouted.
He laid Jericho on the pavement as the others prepped the stretcher.
BBBBBOOOOOMMMMM
The third cocktail ignited, and the force knocked th
e EMTs to the pavement. They pulled themselves back up and lifted Jericho’s hulking two-hundred forty-five-pound frame onto the gurney. They draped an oxygen mask over his face. All he could hear is the sound of sirens. His mind started to slip again. The wailing sirens faded. The world went silent. Like that night in Kabul. Dammit, that meant he's probably going to survive again.
As they wheeled him toward the ambulance, someone stepped into his line of sight. It was Crissy. She shouted with tears in her eyes. Her words were muffled like he was underwater. He smiled, looking into her big brown eyes. Those tears must be because she thought they may have lost him. After all this time, she really did still care about him. Jericho focused his eyes for a second, He needed to read her lips.
Through the shouts and screams, he very carefully watched Crissy mouth the words, "Goddamn you, Ethan. I hope you burn in Hell."
LIII
The stretch Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the City Center in Provo. The driver popped out of his seat and quickly headed to the back passenger-side door. Antonio LeMay stepped outside the vehicle and looked on the scene. Two bands of protestors held back by the Provo Police barked at each other like waring junkyard dogs fighting over the scraps of a discarded turkey carcass. The religious vs. the anti-religious, who were so dogmatic in their beliefs that they might as well be a religion of their own. With his phone against his ear, he chuckled.
"It's quite the event over here. How're things there?"
"Different from what we expected, but still moving," his wife said on the other end.
"What does that mean?"
"It means your guy is getting sloppy."
"I don't understand."
"Take care of your little unveiling, and I'll send you something."
"Yes, dear. I love you."
"Of course you do."
He hung up and waited for the police escort to make their way to him. Four burly men with shaved heads and no-nonsense looks carved into their overly muscled faces approached.
