Behind The Hands That Kill

TWENTY-ONE

Four heads turn in unison to face her; with difficulty, I manage to restrain the enthusiastic swelling of my heart.

“Izabel,” I say, and for a longer moment than intended, it is all I can say.

She is wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs tightly to her curves, a pair of black heels, and a black silk blouse, fully buttoned all the way up to the middle of her throat; a sheer black scarf is wrapped around the upper-half, perfectly concealing the wound on her neck. But no amount of fabric can keep the eyes of others in the room from zoning right in on the very thing she seems to want to hide. She is stunning, as always, but I realize that there is something quite different about her. It is not her dark auburn hair, shorter than usual, done up in springy curls that barely brush her shoulders, or the glittery black barrette that holds her bangs away from her face on the left side; it is not the long, black eyelashes that seem to sweep her face majestically when she blinks, or the light glimmer of her rosy cheeks. It is the power in the depths of her eyes, a fearless necessity, a darkness that can never again hinder or blind her, but will forever be her advantage—it is The Change. And it delights and troubles me just the same.

“It’s good to see you,” Gustavsson says, beaming at her.

He makes his way over and takes her into a hug, in which she happily returns.

Woodard does the same, moving more gracefully these days since he became determined to better his health.

“I-I hope you’re not offended I didn’t try to see you in the hospital,” he says, pulling away from her. “I-I just thought you might want time alone.”

She smiles faintly, and shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, then glances at the rest of us with quiet reprimand. “Actually, I appreciate the gesture.” She examines Woodard with a curious and impressed sweep of her eyes. “You’re looking good, James. I’m proud of you.”

Woodard smiles giddily. “Aw, thanks, Izabel.” He pats his stomach with his palm. “Lost nineteen pounds already.”

Izabel smiles, close-lipped.

Then she turns her attention to Niklas; she walks toward him. I—and Niklas, judging by the look of expectation on his face—thinks she is going to say something to him, but she passes him up and comes my way instead.

“Have you told them yet?” she asks.

I pause, thinking. “Told them what?”

She glances back at everyone else, and then her eyes fall on me. “About the bounty on my head.”

“No,” I say, “but I planned to.”

“What about the bounty?” Niklas says, stepping up closer. “We already knew there was one—we all have bounties on our heads.”

“Yes,” I say, “but things have become more complicated.”

“How so?” Gustavsson asks.

Niklas narrows his eyes, chews on the inside of his mouth; I will never get used to my brother looking at me that way, as if everything is my fault, as though I am the Devil in a suit.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am.

I leave them all, Izabel included, and make my way toward the window again. I can feel their eyes on me from behind, the anticipation, the impatience, and the resentment from my brother.

I inhale deeply, and fold my hands together down in front of me again. “I will tell you all about the bounty, the surprising and…concerning possibilities surrounding it. But first, I will tell you how Izabel’s life was saved.”

I do not have to think back to that night too deeply to remember—I will never forget it for as long as I have breath in my lungs.

Bullets ripped through the air; I could hear them, but only in my subconscious; I could hear boots hitting the stones in fast succession; the firing of another gun blasting in my ears. I saw bodies falling around my cage. But I did not move. Or blink. Or flinch when a bullet zipped past me and dinged the cell bar inches from my head—I was disappointed that it missed.

More shots rang out, echoing off the tall stone walls of the building.

“The key!” I heard someone shout. “Victor, where’s the key?”

Still, I could not find the will to move, or to understand—what key? Who was this woman screaming at me about a key? I was sitting on the floor with Izabel in my arms; we were covered in blood, but…I thought…it was mostly hers.

“Victor!” shouted a man’s voice this time. “We need to know where the key is. Snap out of it, man, or she’s going to die. And I can’t be having that.”

I blinked, and raised my eyes to place a face with the familiar voice—Brant Morrison, my mentor from The Order. I knew I should be concerned that he was there, but I was not. Take me if you must, Morrison, put me out of my misery if you would grant me a dying wish, but do it quickly.

“The key! WHERE IS THE KEY?” he shouted.

It took a moment for me to understand, to pull my mind from the drowning sea of my despair, but finally I answered absently, “…Artemis…she has the key.”

The woman—something was also familiar about her—crouched in front of the lock on the cage door. She set her gun on the floor beside her and fished a lock-pick from her boot.

“Is she still alive, Victor?” Morrison asked.

I glanced unsteadily down at Izabel; I moved one arm from around her and brought my fingers to her nose, feeling for air coming from her nostrils. At least I thought that was what I was doing…I did not know; I felt like I was in another place, very far from there, but could still hear and see and feel everything. My other hand remained tight on the side of Izabel’s neck, trying to control the flow of blood; somewhere in the depths of my muddled mind I was still trying to save her, even though in my heart I knew she is dead.

“I should have done it myself,” I said absently, looking at no one. “I should have done it a long time ago…spared her all of this.”

“Snap out of it, man,” Morrison told me again. “If she’s still alive, there’s still time to help her.”

I looked right at him now, and for the first time since he entered the building, I was fully aware of his presence. But I did not care an iota that he was here, or who he was, or what he planned to do with me.

“I want her dead,” I said aloud to myself about Artemis, my teeth crushed together in my parched mouth. “Both of them—I will kill them both!”

“Calm down,” Morrison said; he pointed at Izabel. “Victor, keep pressure on the wound.”

I realized my error quickly and threw my hand back on her neck; her blood covered me, slippery and warm and final.

Finally, the strangely familiar woman picked the lock on the cage and pushed the door open; she dashed inside the cell; I did not even notice until afterwards that she checked Izabel’s wrist for a pulse. “She’s alive—Brant, we have to get her to the nearest hospital; she won’t make it to the Safe House.” She gestured for him with one hand. “Hurry!”

Morrison ran into the cell and crouched in front of me; he reached out to take Izabel; instantly my grip tightened around her, and I pulled her closer—they were not taking her anywhere.

“If you want her to live,” Morrison said, encouragingly, “you’re gonna have to snap the fuck out of it and let us take her.”

“Keep your hands off her!” I roared, wrenching Izabel closer. “I know you want me, to take me back to The Order—I know! But leave Izabel out of this! I will let her die before I let you take her!”

Morrison shook his head, and then set his gun on the floor; he held his palms up, facing me. “Listen to me, Victor,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt her. I just want to get her help.”

“Bullshit!”

“There’s no time for this,” the woman said.

Morrison reached out for Izabel again. “Hate me all you want, Victor,” he said, “but right now we have to get her to a hospital or she’s going to die. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Think about it—if I wanted her dead I’d let her lay there and bleed out. If I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you already.”

The woman crouched next to Morrison in front of me, peering intensely at me. I did not understand what that look was in her eyes, but for some reason, I felt like I should trust her; she wanted me to trust her.

“Victor,” she said, carefully, intent on holding my gaze. “I swear to you that the only thing I want to do is save her. I know I can’t make you believe me, but you have no other options. She goes with me, or she dies.” She leaned in closer—what is that look? Trust me, Victor, it felt like she was conveying. I’m here to help you. Covertly, without moving her head, she averted her eyes in Morrison’s direction, then quickly back at me. He may not be, but I am. Please trust me…

I looked down at Izabel in my arms, then reluctantly back up at the woman. Desperate, and knowing that she was right at least about having no other options, I gave in. “Take her—but only you. He does not touch her! Hurry,” I said, and let go of Izabel.

Morrison nodded at the woman, giving her the go-ahead, and then she took Izabel’s limp body into her arms swiftly but carefully, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, and she dashed away on flat-heeled boots, weaving through a maze of dead bodies. I watched the doors out ahead long after she had disappeared behind them.

The clicking sound of handcuffs locking into place pulled me back into the imminent threat: Brant Morrison, high-ranking veteran operative for The Order, who I knew was there to apprehend me. Squeezing my fist, I pulled back my hand in anger, the handcuff locked around my wrist jangled and scraped against the bar.

“Why save her?” I asked Morrison about Izabel. “Is she worth more alive?” I felt the warmth of Izabel’s blood all over me, soaking into my pants, into my bones; I swallowed hard and tried not to think about it, about her, and if that woman could get her to a hospital in time. If she would even try.

Morrison rose into a stand, towering over me; his bearded face stretched into a smile as I raised my head to look up at him.

“Most of you are,” he answered. “You. Fleischer. Gustavsson; you’re all worth double alive what you’re worth dead.” His smile grew, and he paused, studying me, and said, “But the girl”—he chuckled under his breath—“the price on her head is likely more than any hit you’ve ever carried out, Faust.”

Surprised by his statement, I stared up at him, long and hard and with tremendous curiosity. But before I could inquire further, Morrison shifted gears and threw the topic off course.

“I always knew you couldn’t handle it,” he said, shaking his head. “Attachments. They were your only weakness. They always have been, Faust, from the day you were brought into The Order, to the day you went rogue and left it. Your mother. Your brother. Marina. Artemis. Sarai…” He shook his head once more, a look of shame and disappointment spreading over his rugged features. “I have to give you credit though. You tried more than anyone I know could, to overcome the weakness, or to suppress it at least, but in the end it had more power over you than you would ever have over it. Should’ve been born into The Order; if you had, you’d truly be the unstoppable machine that most believe you are.”

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a pathetic response—because he was right, and a pathetic response was all I had—I retained eye contact and said, “So then what are you waiting for? Why cuff me to the bar, rather than take me in?”

He smiled a slippery smile.

“I’ll get to that soon,” he said. “But first, I wanted to ask you something.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to answer, of course, but I’m very curious, and it can’t hurt to try. Right?”

I did not respond.

Morrison dropped the handcuff key into his pants pocket, slid his gun still laying on the floor, behind him, and then crouched in front of me again, but out of my reach; he sprang up and down momentarily on the front of his feet.

“Did you ever wonder why no one in The Order knew you and Niklas Fleischer were half-brothers?” He twirled a hand at the wrist. “I mean surely it had to be a question itching in the back of your mind.”

Still, I did not respond.

Morrison’s mouth pinched at one corner, and he looked at me sidelong. “Oh come on, Faust, just be honest and say you thought about it but never could quite figure it out—there’s no shame in the truth.” When he still did not get the response from me he sought, he sighed and pushed himself into a stand. “All of us know—you know—that nothing in The Order is ever as it seems. Of course, you, being higher on Vonnegut’s pedestal than any operative in history, you had every reason to believe that everything you thought you knew was exactly how you knew it to be. But you’re not stupid, Victor; you’re probably the most intelligent man I’ve ever known. And you damn-well know, somewhere inside that methodical head of yours”—he pointed at his own head—“that there was no way you and your brother made it through the most sophisticated spy and assassination organization in the world, flying under the noses of those who built it, without them ever knowing the truth about your relation.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, though I already knew he would not tell me.

Morrison shrugged.

“It was just a question, like I said.”

“You said yourself that I am not stupid, Morrison, so do not insult my intelligence with cryptic bush-beating.”

He smiled; the yellow-white of his teeth barely visible beneath his lips. But as I expected, he had no plans to alleviate the aching curiosity in me.

“I have a question for you,” I said, turning the tables.

“Ask away.” He motioned his right hand, twirling it at the wrist.

“Just how in love with Marina Torre were you before I choked her to death?”

The smile disappeared from his face, and he stopped blinking.