Authors: Richard Doetsch
As Jack emerged from the tenement, he saw Apollo racing down the street, pursuing two thugs. Jack took up the chase, following the three as they sprinted across the city streets. They cut down through the subway, leaping turnstiles, across platforms, hopping up the far stairs, emerging onto the street and crashing into a vacant loft building. Apollo and the thugs seemed to have vanished as Jack entered just steps behind them.
The building was dark. Rats scurried in the shadows, and the stench of urine filled Jack’s nostrils. Several homeless people lay on
cardboard in their makeshift homes, casting their eyes downward, paying no attention to the pursuit in their midst.
Jack crept along, working his way up the stairs, four stories up, following the elusive sounds of racing footfalls.
There was a sudden shouting of “Police! Stop where you are! Drop your weapon!”
And then a gunshot. And another. And another.
Jack honed in on the cacophony of violence and burst through a door to see the two thugs with their guns aimed at Apollo, who was pinned behind a column in the wide-open space. A hail of bullets erupted, shredding the column, skipping along the floor around Apollo.
The world seemed to slow down. It was as if Jack could see every bullet explode from the barrels of the guns, as if life had fallen to half-time while his senses and reflexes doubled.
And for the briefest of seconds, Jack froze.
On the range, with paper targets popping up left and right, Jack was supreme, decisions made on instinct, his reaction time barely measurable. But this was real life, with real consequences; this wasn’t for a medal, a trophy, or first place. This was for survival, both his and Apollo’s.
Jack quickly recovered. His hand suddenly rocketed to his hip, quickly drawing his Sig Sauer. He raised his weapon and, without hesitation, fired two shots. The two assailants were thrust back as if a rope had wrapped around their bodies and yanked at them, a single bullet erupting out of the backs of their heads. They were both dead before they hit the floor.
Jack ran over to the two bodies and leaned down, confirming that they no longer posed a threat. He looked at the small bullet wounds in their foreheads, almost identical in placement, just like in target practice. And while the backs of their heads had been blown out, their faces were serene and unmarred but for the single bullet hole. And it hit Jack that the two young faces before him were
not men, as he had assumed—they were teens, hardened children of the street, and he had killed them both. It was the first time he had killed, and he was overwhelmed by what he had done, a sudden nausea taking over his body.
He heard movement, a subtle moan. He raced to Apollo’s side, where he lay sprawled on the bare concrete floor, a bullet wound to the chest.
“Took you long enough,” Apollo said with a smile.
And the world seemed to fall into double-time, moving at hyperspeed now. The bullet had missed the bulletproof vest; like threading a needle, it had found the small gap beneath Apollo’s armpit. Jack tore Apollo’s shirt open, ripped the vest off, and quickly examined the wound. Blood pumped out of the hole on the left side of Apollo’s chest in a rhythmic pulse, his life flowing out of him with every beat of his heart.
Knowing that he was in a war zone, Jack hoisted Apollo off the floor and threw him over his shoulder. He raced down the stairs, his partner on his back, and out the door.
After laying him down on the sidewalk, Jack grabbed the med kit from the back of his car, trying desperately to plug the wound while he waited for the ambulance to respond to the “officer down” call.
But despite his efforts, despite everything he could do, Apollo died. They were partners for all of one hour.
In the wake of the incident, a tragedy that hit the front page of every newspaper, Jack nearly succumbed to his grief. The guilt he carried over the deaths of his partner and the two teens was overwhelming. If he hadn’t hesitated, if he had listened to Apollo about waiting for him, if he had held his emotions in check and instead followed procedure, Apollo would still be alive.
And although Jack was cleared of any wrongdoing, he knew that the death was his fault. The irony of his nickname in the wake of his failure was like a heavy chain around his body.
At such a young age, Jack found himself at a crossroads in life. He resolved to push ahead. He swore that he would never pick up a gun again in the line of duty, he would never take a life, he would find other ways of carrying out law enforcement.
He enrolled in Fordham Law, attending at night, dreaming of a way out of the life he had chosen. He remained on the police force, taking a desk job until he could finish law school, all with the understanding and respect of his superiors and the men in homicide.
When Jack graduated, he was a natural for the DA’s office. He was an attorney from the street who could bridge the gap between cops and lawyers. His conviction rate was high, and his reputation grew.
After ten years, he became the natural choice to succeed the retiring district attorney. Handsome, successful, with a beautiful wife in the FBI and two baby girls, he was packaged and sold by the powers-that-be and won his first election by a ten-percent margin. His first year in office saw a rise in investigations and convictions, but his new reality set in after that. As a cop, things were black-and-white; either a crime was committed or it wasn’t. But the DA didn’t just handle crimes of the street. There was the more nuanced realm of white-collar crime, subjective areas where political favors were sought, where things beyond facts and reality came to bear.
In his second year, his office became involved in the unsuccessful pursuit of the real estate industry, while the third dealt with Wall Street—something that further distanced him from his father. In his fourth year, the final year of his term, the powers-that-be were looking for his successor, since they had no tolerance for backing a man who would seek to end their livelihoods. If Jack wanted to remain in office, he would have to play the game.
Jack loved his job. He loved carrying out justice, amassing convictions. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the limelight, the prestige of the office.
What he had first thought of with disdain eventually lured him in. He had gone out glad-handing, soliciting money, wearing false smiles, and making promises that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But it was all in sacrifice to his career, to the job, to getting reelected; the end justifyied the means.
And with his compromised values, Jack realized that he had become his father.
C
RISTOS AWOKE WITH THE
sun, its warm summer rays spilling across the white sheets, urging him out of bed. For forty-five minutes, he put his body through the fluid motions of an ancient routine taught to him in his youth; it at once worked out the body, the mind, and the soul. The routine was not a martial arts kata or yoga, although its ancient rites found a foothold in both. The sweeping motions of his legs and arms, the delicate balance achieved on a single hand or foot, the inverted crunches and situps, the spiritual emptying of his mind, all combining to awaken his muscles, heart, and spirit, preparing them for the arduous day ahead.
Through years of discipline, pushing himself to the physical limit, Nowaji Cristos had built his body into an instrument of perfection—one of power, capable of not only immense strength but also subtle dexterity and coordination that afforded him the tools to perform his expertise.
Completing his routine, he arose from the floor and looked around the elegantly appointed room, his home for the last five days. The room was masculine, with heavy, dark wood furnishings: an armoire,
a nightstand, and a matching dresser filled with recently purchased clothes. He stared at the luxury king-sized bed, his thoughts filling with memories. He had slept on all manner of surfaces, from the beds at the George V hotel in Paris to the jungle floors of Borneo. No matter where he closed his eyes, he could find a restful sleep, free of worry and anxiety, his body thriving on six hours of rest, the circadian rhythm of his mind like a precise clock. For forty-one years, through turmoil, death, and agony, he had never been troubled at night, but this week proved different. His dreams, usually few and far between, had become frequent nightmares, as if all of the dead had returned to exact their vengeance upon him.
With the look of a man fifteen years his junior, no one would have guessed his age. In spite of his large size and long black hair, he could lose himself in any environment, in any crowd, no matter where he was on earth. While he prided himself on his refined appearance and despite the notoriety he had gained the world over, his face was not known except to a handful of people. No photo or video existed of him—he was spoken of as myth, with descriptions ranging widely, from having been born on five different continents to possessing the appearance of varying ethnicities. Like a chameleon, he could adapt to any environment. The mix of clothing within the armoire would shape his appearance as everything from a day laborer to a homeless man of the street to an investment banker.
In the blue-tiled bathroom, he meticulously laid out his shaving kit—an old-fashioned single-blade razor, a soft camel-hair shaving brush, a heavy bar of Rhist soap—placing them on the washcloth on the counter. He filled the sink with scalding water, dipped the brush and the bar of soap in, and rubbed them together, building up a frothing lather. With the attention of an artist, he shaved his skin smooth, his dark eyes staring in the mirror as he examined his skin, ensuring that he hadn’t missed a spot. His face was strong, hard-lined, its tone just above a mild tan. Some may have called it the color of weak tea, a color found in many races of men: dark-skinned Caucasian, Mediterranean, Asian, South American.
He turned on the shower, allowing the steam to build, to fill the air with mist, fogging the mirror so he could avoid seeing his reflection as he removed his T-shirt.
While his face was pure, his body was marred. Jagged flesh, raised and ghostly white, had restrung itself along his left side, and his back was littered with crisscross striations, worn like a badge of honor for surviving torture during capture. Scars along the right side of his torso leaked down his body like melted wax, pouring down from the base of his neck, repulsing him at every glance while terrifying anyone who cast their eyes on it. The burns robbed his tan flesh of color, the grafted skin, grotesquely taut over his large muscles, stretching in odd folding shapes when his body flexed or grew taut. The pain of the countless surgeries had lasted for months, an agony forever etched in his mind.
Yet somehow, despite all of the brutality he had endured, his face had remained without blemish. It never exposed what lay beneath the designer suits he had grown fond of wearing, his damaged body concealed like the violence in his heart.
D
RESSED IN A
black Armani suit, starched white shirt, and pale blue silk tie, Cristos inspected himself in the mirror. He picked up two EpiPens off the counter and slipped them into his breast pocket. He exited the bedroom and entered the small office-like sitting room. His jet-black hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, his fingers were perfectly manicured, and a gold watch wrapped his left wrist. With the appearance of a refined Wall Street executive, he took a seat at a large partners’ desk. He glanced at the long black box that sat on the table in the corner, at the number 7138 along the side, but quickly directed his attention to the array of monitors before him. He read the first; the bank accounts in Sri Lanka, Switzerland, and Prague reflected balances in excess of fifty million dollars each. Each account was under the ownership of an elaborate string of shell companies,
each legitimate in its own right, with a diversity of holdings in real estate, textiles, and manufacturing.
The second and third monitors reflected his latest intel, dossiers, and photos pertaining to his various employees and contracts.
Cristos’s computer system was secure, with an encryption system that would be the envy of any government. But there were certain secrets for which he reserved other methods.
Unlike much of society, governments, and institutions, he did not trust his most important information to a silicon chip. He was taught at an early age that if one was to keep secrets, there was no greater location, no place more impenetrable, than his own mind. Computers could be hacked, vaults could be cracked open, associates could be coerced with everything from bribery to chemicals. But as sharp as his mind was, as good as his memory was, there were some things that needed to be recorded. In his simple homeland, a forgotten world that shunned technology in favor of a more spiritual existence, methods existed whose simplicity had been forgotten by modern society.
Cristos rose from his desk and stepped to the table where the rectangular box lay. He removed a small billfold from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, opened it, and withdrew two thin strips of metal, one L-shaped, the other with a multiwaved tip. He kneeled before the box and slipped the two sticklike objects into the lock on the near end, and with a surgeon’s careful hand, he picked the lock. After placing his tools back in their pouch and slipping it back into his pocket, he stood up, lifted the lid, and peered inside.
He stared for a moment and finally reached into the case, withdrawing a single envelope. He tore it open and removed a handwritten note. He read it through twice, before putting it back in the envelope and into his pocket.
He picked up his cell phone—satellite technology, multiple relays, and encryption software made it virtually untraceable for up to three minutes, which was twice as long as any conversation he ever needed to have—and quickly dialed.
“Hello,” a voice answered.
“Good morning,” Cristos said in a deep Eurasian accent.
“Well?” the person on the other end of the phone asked. “Do you have the case?”
“I do.” Cristos turned his head and stared at the long black box. “But it seems your intelligence—a word so inappropriate—was wrong.”