Behind The Hands That Kill

SIXTEEN

My brother’s seat at the head of the table has been empty since he came back from Venezuela. He and I still aren’t on the best of terms, but I can’t leave our organization without some kind of structure in his absence—it falls, I fall too, that sort of thing. So here I am. Standing where my brother usually sits, looking out at a few familiar faces, and a couple new ones, too, all sitting around the meeting table. Nora, on my right, taps her nails against the tabletop, from pinky to index, again, and again, and again. Fredrik sits to my left, across the table from Nora; he’s as quiet as ever, staring off at the wall; probably got that serial killer he’s been hunting with the government, on his mind—hell, he hardly talks about anything else. James Woodard sits to Fredrik’s left, looking healthier these days; got himself on a Vegan diet, or some such shit; lost a few pounds, and is feeling like a new man.

Izzy’s seat is empty.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pinky to index. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The contents of the table shake when I slam the side of my fisted hand down on it. “Do you mind?”

Nora snarls at me in response, but her fingers go still; she leans back against her chair, crosses her legs, and leaves her arm stretched out on the table.

I still sleep with her every now and then; it’s a mutual understanding we have: there’s nothing special between us other than work, and that we like to fuck—we’re not even friends. And if something ever happened to her, I couldn’t be bothered to give a shit, really. Might even give me some relief, to be honest. Nora isn’t exactly on my List of People I Trust, and she never will be.

“So where is this guy, anyway?” Nora asks, glancing at the double-doors that lead into the meeting room. “Twenty minutes late—not a good first impression.”

“I doubt he’s coming to impress us,” I point out.

“You know,” Fredrik speaks up, “I don’t recall being briefed on what exactly he is coming here for.”

“And without Victor,” Nora adds with a wary, sideward glance.

“Victor is who arranged it,” I say, and then look over at Fredrik. “And all I know is that you’re supposed to give him the same respect you’d give my brother.” That’s how I know that what we think of our visitor, no matter how unimpressed we might be, won’t make a damn bit of difference to Victor.

“You mean that we’re supposed to give him,” Nora corrects me. “You too—not just us. And I don’t like where this feels like it’s going.”

“Neither do I,” James Woodard seconds. Then he lowers his eyes. “I-I mean, not that it matters what I like or don’t like.”

“Grow a pair, will you?” Nora says, shaking her head.

The other two operatives—new to the Table, and probably temporary—just sit and listen. The woman, uptight and suit-clad, has this annoying habit of chewing on the inside of her mouth, with her mouth open—pop-click-pop-click-pop; the man, long-faced with small black eyes and a gourd-like nose, breathes too loudly for my tastes; he sounds like a fucking Chinese pug going up a flight of stairs—heave, hisss-sooo, heave, hiss-sooo.

“I hope this doesn’t take long,” Fredrik says. “I have to get back to my investigation.”

“I think this is a little bit more important than that psychopath you’ve got a hard-on for,” I say. “Don’t you even care what happened to Izzy?” Please don’t say something to piss me off, Fredrik; I’m not in the mood.

Fredrik looks right at me, straight-faced, unemotional.

“I do care,” he says, “but what’s done is done, and we have to move on.”

OK, I guess that just barely hugged the line between acceptance and a fist in his face. Besides, I can tell the guy is downplaying the way he really feels—he cares more about Izzy than he cares for anyone.

“Who is he, anyway?” Nora asks.

Everybody looks at me now, waiting. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Pinky to index. Pop-click-pop-click-pop. Heave, hisss-sooo, heave, hiss-sooo. I’m going to lose my shit in a minute.

“I don’t know,” I say, irritated by the noises and the truth. “Victor gave him the code to enter the building, informed all the guards that he was not to be frisked, and if he has a weapon he gets to keep it.”

“I don’t like this,” Nora says. “Why would Victor do this? Especially after what happened. What if he’s losing his mind? Like this whole thing has finally pushed Faust over the edge. This mystery guy could be anyone, friend or foe—or worse, he could be just like any one of us.”

“Then I guess you better hope he’s more like James,” I say.

James looks up, red-faced; I laugh a little inside.

“Where is Victor?” Fredrik asks. “He had to tell you that much, at least.”

I nod. “He’s on his way to Dina Gregory’s as far as I know.”

No one says anything, knowing what that means.

The sound of shoes tapping against the floor outside in the hallway becomes evident, and all eyes turn to the doors; guns come out of our pants and boots and such, fixed in our hands, ready to fire if needed. I admit, even I’m holding my breath a little. Because Nora could be right about my brother finally being pushed over the edge. I also have to agree with her about not liking any of this, or where it feels like it’s going. Hell, I pretty much agree with Nora one hundred percent in this whole ordeal, but I’ll be damned if I give her the satisfaction of knowing it.

Voices exchange words outside the door, and then seconds later, one side of the double-doors opens into the meeting room. A tall black man with short black hair walks in, dressed from shoulders to toes in a black-and-gray suit and black shoes; diamond-and-silver stud earrings shimmer against his semi-dark skin. He looks about my age, maybe a little older. Nora seems to be covertly checking him out—good, maybe he can take her off my hands. And my dick.

Holding out my empty hand, I offer the man a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Have a seat.”

He nods, and then sits. Only after he sits do I follow suit. I keep my gun in my hand.

“I’m Niklas Fleischer, Victor’s brother.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” he speaks up, and already he’s pissing me off. “I know who all of you are. Victor briefed me well before sending me here.” He raises his arms, elbows propped on the table in front of him, and folds his hands together; silver-and-diamond cufflinks shine demonstrably on the wrists of his dress shirt poking from the ends of his jacket sleeves.

Sucking on the inside of my mouth, I say bitterly, “I wish I could say the same about you. Victor told me your name is Osiris, but not much more than that. In fact, the only thing I know about what happened in Venezuela is what happened to Izabel. It’s been two weeks and I don’t know shit, so you’ll have to excuse the fucking chip on my shoulder because you know more about my brother than I do.”

Osiris smirks. Motherfucker.

He unfolds his hands and rests his back in the chair, puts his hands in his lap.

“I’ll just get right to the point,” he says.

“Yeah, that’d be the wise choice,” I come back.

He ignores my attempt at provoking him.

“My brother and sister are responsible for what happened in Venezuela,” he says, looks at us all one by one, and then continues. “And I was hired by Victor Faust to help track them down, capture them, and bring them to him alive.”