Behind The Hands That Kill

TWENTY-THREE

I did not know how long I had been with Morrison before I killed him and set myself free, or how long it took me to find the hospital, but by the time I arrived, Izabel had just come out of surgery.

“Señor! Señor! You can’t go in there!” a nurse screamed at me in Spanish. And when she ran into the room behind me, saw the extent of the blood on my clothes, she instantly backed away.

Two more nurses rushed in; they took one look at me, eyes wide and panicked, and either thought I was in need of a doctor myself, or I was the one who cut open Izabel’s throat.

The woman who had brought Izabel to the hospital, shot up from the chair. “It’s OK,” she also spoke in Spanish, motioning her hands, “he’s not the man who did this; he is her husband; he was attacked, too.”

The nurse’s eyes darted between me, the woman, and Izabel lying on the bed.

I ignored them all and went quickly over to the bedside.

The police were there in under five minutes, and as I sat with Izabel, holding her hand, the woman did most of the talking, reiterating what she apparently had told them when she first arrived without me. After they asked me questions, and I told them what happened—a fabrication, of course—they left us alone.

I stayed with Izabel for a long time before I went outside into the hall, and I sat down next to the young woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, but I got the feeling was a little older. She had soft brown hair that fell to her breasts, bright blue-green eyes, and freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose.

It was eerily quiet in the hospital; I could vaguely hear the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor, and a computer keyboard being tapped, and a life-support machine—Izabel’s life-support machine—beeping steadily from the cracked door of her room.

I sat hunched over, my forearms on the top of my legs; my feet were still bare, and my injured hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. The woman beside me sat with the back of her head against the white brick wall. The bench beneath us was made of wood; I could distinctly smell the black paint that it had been coated with last.

“If she’s as tough as everybody says she is, she’ll—”

“Who are you?” I cut in; I did not look at her.

I heard her sigh. She began to adjust her position next to me on the bench; she placed her folded hands on her lap.

Finally she answered, “My name is Naeva. Though you might remember me as the little blond-haired girl who always tried to play with you and Niklas when we were children. Niklas slapped me in the face with a dead snake once. And you—”

“I took the snake from him and forced it in his mouth,” I finished.

I looked over, and Naeva, my baby sister, smiled.

I smiled, too. But it was short-lived. Izabel, clinging to life on the other side of the door just feet from me, controlled all of my emotions.

“Your hair is different,” I said. “It used to be white.”

“I grew up,” she said. “And it turned brown. Like yours.”

I nodded.

After a long time, she asked, “Is he dead?”

“Brant Morrison?”

“Yeah.”

I nodded again. “Yes. He is dead.” Then I glanced over briefly. “Does that bother you?” I hoped she would say no.

She shook her head. “Not at all; actually, I’m relieved.”

The silence went on for another stretch.

I sighed.

Naeva sighed.

There were many questions she and I both wanted, needed, to ask one another: our separation as children; where we have been all these years; what kind of life outside of The Order had we lived, experienced, and shared with others; how long she had been in The Order; how she ended up there in the first place; who raised her after our mother was killed; if she forgave me for killing our father. But this was not the time nor the place to open that book. There were other, more important questions that needed immediate answers, and so I spoke to her not as my long-lost sister, but as any other young woman who might be able to tell me what I needed to know.

“Morrison said that Izabel’s bounty is even higher than my own. Can you tell me why?”

Naeva looked at me and shook her head sadly.

“I don’t know, Victor,” she admitted. “All I do know is that just like you and Niklas, Izabel is to be brought in alive—and unharmed.”

“How much is her bounty?”

“Forty million.”

I blinked, quietly stunned. Forty million? How is that possible? I could not fathom why The Order would want Izabel so desperately, why she was more valuable to them than myself or my brother or Gustavsson, all of whom broke the most sacred of laws. To The Order, Izabel was just an escaped sex slave from a Mexican compound. Or was she?

Then it occurred to me: “At the compound, or anywhere Javier could keep tabs on you and control you, you were not a threat to him. But now that you have escaped, you are a bigger threat than anyone because you know too much. He probably never anticipated you leaving. You being alive and free is a threat to his entire operation and anyone involved in it.”

I thought about that revelatory conversation for a long time, trying to remember it word-for-word.

“The information you hold, no matter how insignificant you think it all is, could bring down a lot of high-profile people.”

I was almost convinced that it was all coming to fruition now, that word did get out about what Izabel knew, after all. I thought perhaps the bounty was so high because several ‘high-profile’ clients all chipped in and hired The Order to find her. But still, it did not make sense to me why, if someone held that many powerful lives in the palms of her hands, she would be wanted alive.

And then something else occurred to me.

I turned my head to see my sister.

“You said Niklas and I are also wanted alive?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes. That is the condition.” She laughed lightly under her breath, and shook her head. “Brant wasn’t happy when he found out about this. He wanted you dead more than anyone—he could’ve killed you once. I was there; he had you in the sights of his scope; he almost pulled the trigger.” She sighed and looked back out ahead of her. “I think maybe he would’ve if I hadn’t reminded him that if he killed you, they’d come after him next. For a moment, I knew he didn’t care about that; he was going to do it anyway. But at the last second, he moved his finger from the trigger and packed the rifle away. He didn’t speak to me for two days. He didn’t speak to anyone for two days.”

A question I had been asking myself since I set up in Boston and began conducting hits of my own outside of The Order, had finally been answered. How did I manage to stay alive for as long as I did? I may have been smart about it, worked out in the open but stayed out of the open; I may have covered all of my bases, killed anyone who seemed suspicious—except Kessler—but I knew something about still being alive, was too good to be true. And as I sat with my sister on the bench, outside the room where the woman I loved was lying in a hospital bed, the answer had become clear to me. Killing me would have been easier than apprehending me—and killing me was not an option, despite what Morrison said.

Well, you almost had me, Morrison, I thought to myself as I sat there, staring at the wall. And while I was relieved that things did not turn out the way Morrison wanted them to, I was disappointed in myself that he got as close as he did.

“Why are you helping us?” I asked Naeva. “We have not known each other since we were children; you owe me no loyalties.”

I felt her hand touch mine, but I did not look down at it.

“You are my brother, Victor,” she said, and then squeezed my hand. “And who do we have in this world if we don’t have the love of our family.” Her hand slid away. “You and Niklas are all I have. I’d do anything for you.”

I looked over.

“How did you know I was your brother? Does The Order know?”

She nodded. “They know. I found out after you went rogue and Brant started hunting you. He was the one who told me.”

More silence passed between us, and then sometime later, I asked Naeva, “What do you plan to tell The Order about what happened here tonight?”

“I’ll figure it out,” she said. “Of course, I’ll have to explain something about why Brant is dead, but as far as you and Izabel—I’ll manage. Brant knew that he had to turn you in, but he kept everything quiet: the months he spent watching you; his plans to move in on you once he decided the best way to do it—no one knows about tonight, so I have time to figure it out. He knew that if he reported it too soon that every eye would be at his back, every mouth breathing down his neck.”

“So he never called it in,” I said, understanding.

“No. He wanted more from you first. He not only wanted to be the one to take you in, but he wanted to use you to lure in Niklas and Fredrik Gustavsson; he wanted information, numbers, names, etcetera. Brant didn’t just want what everyone else set out to get—he wanted everything. He wanted to make Vonnegut proud.” She paused and then added softly, “But he wanted too much…”

The shift in her tone planted a seed in my head.

“Were you involved with him, Naeva?” I asked gently.

She shook her head sadly. “No,” she answered. “But he was kind to me. He protected me. And I cared about him. He was my teacher just like he was yours.”

“But you told me you are relieved that he is dead.”

She nodded. “And I told you the truth. As much as I cared about him, he probably got what he deserved.”

She looked out ahead at the door to Izabel’s room, pushing down her grief, it seemed. “I do hope that she’ll be OK,” she said moments later, and with all my heart I knew she was being sincere. “I don’t know her, but I’ve heard a lot about her, and I admire her. She’s strong. She’s what I strive to be every day.” There was a sadness in her voice, and I found myself wanting even more to open that book, but we were still in the same time and place. It felt strange to me, to want to reach out to her, to comfort her, to understand her, to protect her, my beautiful and soft baby sister who I could not for the life of me picture being in such a dangerous line of work—it incensed me. But Izabel was my priority, and so I left it alone. Nothing incensed me more than what Artemis did to Izabel.

Naeva stood from the bench. I did the same.

“You need to go into hiding, Victor,” she warned. “Too many know where you are in Boston; you and your people, you shouldn’t all be under the same roof for more than minutes at a time. Vonnegut may not want you dead, but the longer you stay in the same place, the easier it’ll be for someone to figure out how to capture you.”

I had known this all along, but it took my sister reinforcing it for me to finally make the decision to do what needed to be done.

Then Naeva reached up and plucked a strand of hair from her head, and then handed it to me. Instinctively knowing what it was for, neither of us commented on it. I tucked the hair away deep in my pants pocket.

As she started to leave, I asked, “Naeva, have you ever seen Vonnegut?”

She looked at me as if I had asked a ridiculous question; she even smiled a little.

“Of course,” she said. “Why?”

I shook my head. “I was only curious,” I said, choosing to be vague about the truth. It was apparent to me, just from the little time I spoke with Naeva, that she was an expendable operative, someone who knew nothing, and probably always would know nothing. Like myself and many others, Naeva only believed she had ever seen the face of the real Vonnegut. And I let her leave that night, continuing to believe it—for her safety, the less she knew, the better.

I turn from the window; everyone is looking at me, waiting for the rest. My brother, as expected, is staring the hardest; the cold and unforgiving look in his face that was there for Izabel’s well-being before, has now deepened to include his sister.

Niklas never asked about Naeva after we were taken away from our families and forced into The Order; he pretended not to care about the little blond-haired girl who seemed to favor me as her brother. “I don’t give two fucks about that girl,” he had told me once or twice when I brought her up over the years. “Why should I care? And why do you keep asking?” But the truth was, Niklas cared more about what happened to Naeva than I ever did.

And Naeva loved him as much as she loved me, despite what he thought. “Why is Niklas so mean to me?” Naeva had asked the day he slapped her across the face with a dead snake. “He loves you, Naeva,” I had told her, “but he doesn’t know how to show you.” Naeva dragged a finger underneath her eyes, wiping away her tears. “Well, I love him too,” she had said. “I just wish he wasn’t so damn mean.”

Niklas scoffs and crosses his arms. “Wow,” he says, “you really think you know me—you didn’t have to lie to the girl; she’s probably not even my real sister.”

I turn to Woodard. “The results of Naeva’s hair sample?”

“They were a match,” Woodard answers. “She is your sister.”

I turn to Niklas again.

He snarls, and chews on the inside of his mouth.

“Whatever,” he finally says. “What I’m looking at is how you handled it—you just let the girl leave? Rookie move, Victor. Should’ve killed her.” There is accusation in his voice. But I do know my brother, and he is only using accusation to cover up pain.

“Yes,” I answer. “I let her go. She works for The Order, and unless we want a bounty on her head like you and I have, we should stay away from her.”

Niklas sneers.

Izabel steps up. And steps in.

“This has to end, Victor,” she snaps, pointing her index finger at the floor. “We can’t continue to live like this; we can’t keep hiding from Vonnegut and his thousands of employees”—she put a lot of emphasis on the number—“I won’t continue to live like this. We never should’ve spread ourselves so thin, taking on other jobs, wasting time and resources on other things when we should’ve been doing everything in our power to find and eliminate Vonnegut.”

Eliminate—it troubles me how much more like me she sounds every day.

“She’s right,” Niklas puts in. “France. Washington. Italy. A waste of fucking time, Victor. I’m tired of always feeling like someone from The Order is standing right behind me, just waiting for me to bend over. We need to take him down before we get fucked.”

I look across at a quiet Gustavsson, giving him an opportunity to put in his two cents.

“Victor and I were discussing this before the rest of you showed up,” he says. “I’m in agreement.”

Niklas scoffs. “You want to take time away from catching your serial killer?” He smiles, shaking his head with disbelief.

Gustavsson looks to me, and once again I have the floor.

I explain to everyone what I spoke to Gustavsson about, and for the next fifteen minutes they all debate and converse and agree and disagree.

“Then what do you plan to do, Victor?” Niklas asks; he gestures his hands as he speaks. “So we’re all gonna split up; Fredrik is still going to be doing his serial killer thing; Nora is going to be off with some crazy brother and sister hunting down and even crazier brother and sister—I don’t see how any of that is going to lead to putting a plug in Vonnegut’s operations. Not to mention, now you have The Gemini involved—crazy fuckin’ shit, brother. What do you plan to do? What do you expect me to do? And Izabel?”

I start to speak, but Izabel interrupts me.

“Actually, that’s the only reason I came here today,” she says.

All eyes veer in her direction—especially mine.

“I leave for Mexico in two days,” she announces. “And I’m going alone.”