Terminus (4 page)

“
This
I can do.”

“Splendid!  You start immediately.  Hands-on training will take place on the job.  Sign the transfer docs and you’re on your way.”   A thick stack of papers in a black leather binder appeared in Harold’s hand.  He set it down on the desk, pulled a black fountain pen from his breast pocket, handed it to Nick, and opened the contract to the last page.

“Sign here.”

“I suppose I ought to read it first.”

“Be my guest, Nick.  We have all the time in the...”  A sheepish grin.   “We have time.”

For the most part the terms, warranties, and stipulations looked acceptable.  There was one clause that mentioned a temporary abdication of angelic methodology, explained in language so dense he found himself skimming it.  Finally he reached the signature line, clicked the black fountain pen, signed his name—in red ink!—and handed the contract to Harold. 

“Very good,” Harold said after a close look at the final page.  “This contract is hereby executed and binding.”

“Yes.  Now, there’s one thing—”

“Thank you, Nikolai.”  He gave Nick’s hand a quick shake.  “You’ll be hearing from your new supervisor shortly.”

“But—”

“Goodbye.”

5

HE NEVER SAW THE DOOR OPEN.  Nor did he see Harold leave.  Nick stood with the fountain pen in his left hand and looked around, trying to discern any spatial point of reference.

He couldn’t.

Like Chloe’s train, the entire construct began funneling into a small black circle with a whooshing sound that sounded like an industrial-strength shop vac.  The black hole sucked in all the white around him and eventually seized Nick’s leg, tilting him sideways.

He could do nothing to stop from getting siphoned into that tiny void.  In the next ten seconds, or ten hours for all he knew, Nick found himself standing on something solid in the gloom.  He cleared his throat, and the sound of it resounded as though in a cavern that stretched for miles.  He heard a dissonant trickling that seemed to grow in texture and complexity.  As it got louder, the darkness around him began to pull away like black curtains at the unveiling of a monument—

Not a monument, but the body of an unreasonably large man dressed in a black suit, with Gargoyle sunglasses masking his eyes and no expression whatsoever on his face.  Nick fell back onto the cool surface of the ground.  But all he could see before him were the pant legs of what looked like a giant.

“Watch yourself.”  The black-suited man’s voice was a
basso profundo
.  When Nick got to his feet, he realized that this man with the coffee complexion, muscular build, black goatee, and shining bald pate stood at least six inches taller than his own six-feet two.  He looked sort of like a larger, beefier version of Samuel L. Jackson.   With a walking stick.

“Wait, you can see me?”  Nick said.

He took a step back since Goliath here neither spoke nor exhibited any sign of affording him personal space.  All around, humans pushed past one another through the long halls, up and down the wide staircase, and under the semi-circular windows near the domed ceiling adorned with an astrological mural painted in gold.

Grand Central Station, New York.

Another terminus.

“Wonderful.”

Goliath raised his shoulders slightly and exhaled with barely contained irritation.  All the other briefcase-toting luggage-rolling humans either walked past or through him.

“So, you’re my new supervisor,” Nick said.

The corner of Goliath’s mouth twitched under his mustache.  Nothing else moved, not even his eyebrows.  Nick stepped up to him. 

 “You’re going to have to say something sooner or later if you expect me to—”

“You can still return to your previous position.”

“Ah, so he
does
speak.”  Nick shook his head.  “All right, Goliath—”

“Johann.”

“Johann, right.  Let’s get one thing straight.  I am never going back to that dead-end reaper business.  This is my future.”

One hand still resting on his walking stick, which now revealed a golden orb under his ebony-gloved fingers, Johann lowered his sunglasses and glared at Nick over the rims. 

“What do you know of your future?” He replaced his Gargoyles and clicked his tongue.  “Sophomoric reapers.”

“And what’re you, a blooming archangel?”

Johann snapped his fingers—how he did that wearing gloves was anyone’s guess—and something resembling a human smartphone appeared in his hand.  With his thumb he typed away and muttered something about signs of excess mingling with mortals.

“Hey!”  Nick said. “To whom do you report?”

He tried to grab the smartphone, but Johann  snapped his fingers again and it winked out of sight. 

“You’d do best to go back, Nikolai.  Your path has already been ordained.”

“I said, to whom do you report?”

“Are.  You.  Going.  Back?”

“When hell freezes over.”  A woman in a tan raincoat pulling a carry-on passed obliviously through them both, and Nick started to laugh. He thought of what he and his giant must look like—only nobody could see them.  “You really ought to try laughing, Johann,” he said.  “It does wonders for constipation.  You know, of the mind.”

Both hands on his walking stick again, eyes hidden behind his shades, Johann said, “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me, buddy, I can...”   he was gone, suddenly “...look after myself.”

Sensing his strength and aggression returning, Nick leaned back against the window with his hands behind his head, peered over the ledge, and considered his new career.  With this transfer he’d been granted not only a break from the meaningless deaths but a chance to use his power for something that truly mattered on this pitiful planet.

For the first time in a hundred years or so, he smiled.

6

WITH A HEAVY HEART, CARLITO GUZMAN looked down at his bodyguard.  Had he not been forced at gunpoint to his knees by Lito’s two lieutenants, Alfonso would have stood six foot four—nearly a foot taller than Lito, sometimes called The Chihuahua, though never to his face.  Thin lines webbed Alfonso’s eyes, black and red blotches littered his face, his busted lips bled. 

“Ten years, Alfonso!”  Lito sighed.  “Ten years, I trusted you with my life.  You took a bullet for me at the Conroy shipyards.  And now this?”

“You have to understand, Lito.  I was—”

“Don’t even try.”  Lito held up a hand.  “It’s embarrassing.”  He knew what had to be done.  It was for the good of the family, the organization.  For the good of Maria, though she’d never understand. 

Lito’s anger burned white hot, his voice dropped to a deadly whisper. 

“I will not abide a traitor!”   

“You don’t understand!”  The hulking bodyguard gagged from the blood in his throat.  “Maria and me, we’re in love!  We’re—”

“If your intentions had been honorable, you wouldn’t have sneaked around behind my back!”

From outside his office, Maria banged on the door.

“Please, Lito.  Don’t hurt him!”

“I’m going to have a word with you too,
hermanita
.  You wait there.”  He turned back to Alfonso.  “I can forgive many things, you know that.  But  betrayal?  Dishonoring my sister?”

Now Alfonso began to laugh.  At first a subtle ripple from his chest, then a crescendo until the laughter became near maniacal.

“Oh, you find this amusing, do you?” Lito said.

The amusement sloughed off Alfonso’s face, leaving in its place a dark, cruel expression that gave Lito pause. 

“You will see it my way,” he said.

For a moment, Lito remembered just how imposing Alfonso could be, how dangerous he was to anyone that dared cross his family’s safety perimeter.  Even on his knees with two strong men holding him down at gunpoint, he could intimidate with his eyes—Lito referred to it as Alfonso’s being in the kill zone.  He’d never expected to see it turned against him.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Lito said slowly, “I’d think you were threatening me.”

“Threatening is such a harsh term.  I call it informing you.”

“You’re in no position to—”

“I have leverage, Lito.”

“You have nothing.”

“Oh, but I do.  Privileged information.”

“So does the FBI.  As far as they’re concerned, I am above reproach.”

Despite the gun now pressed into the back of his head, Alfonso smiled. 

“Not about you, Chihuahua, about Maria.  I know all about her past.  About January 27th, 1992, Pablo and Antonia Suarez.  What if she were to learn the truth?”

Lito froze.  Stopped breathing for a minute and for too long couldn’t speak a word.  How could Alfonso possibly have found this out?

“And you say you love her?” he said finally.

“Oh, I do.  But you wouldn’t want her to learn the truth now—not when your family has kept it a secret her whole life.  She will hate the very memory of your parents and despise you forever for carrying on the lie.”

“It would hurt her to know!  Do you not understand?”

“Oh, I can imagine the pain she’d feel, the betrayal.  You wouldn’t want to bring that upon her just because your men think they saw me talking with Gustavo Suarez, would you? I mean, what if they were mistaken?  Come on, let’s be reasonable.  Just give me the Hernandez branch and we’ll forget the whole thing, eh?”

Lito was familiar with the many operational wings of the family businesses, but Papi had only mentioned this one in passing, no details before he died.  The truth was, Lito was at a disadvantage.  Not that he’d let anyone get the impression he was less than completely in control. 

“The Hernandez branch needs further evaluation before I turn it over to anybody.”

“I promise, Lito, you put me in charge of that branch, I will take the
best
care of Maria.”  He smiled.  “If not, I can’t guarantee your precious little sister will remain innocent about her—”

“Alfonso, I warn you—”

“I can’t guarantee her safety, either.  Her neck is so soft, so fragile...”

Was this
hijo de puta
actually trying to use Maria’s life to blackmail him?  Alfonso was indeed dangerous.  With all the weapons and assassins available to him, he could have her murdered and disposed of without anyone knowing about it, without lifting a finger.  

He wanted to kill Alfonso right then, right there, but Lito had learned not to show his hand too soon. 

“I see.”  He kept his expression neutral.  “Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

“Just give me a chance, Lito, eh? I promise to take good care of the Hernandez branch
and
Maria.”  Which probably meant he’d treat her just a little better than the dozens of girls he perpetually abused both sexually and emotionally.  “Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.”

Lito was silent for a minute.  Then he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, now that you put it that way...”

A triumphant smile lit Alfonso’s beaten face. 

“Yes?”

“Give me a minute to consider your...proposal.”

The sun painted the sky amber as it sank over the horizon at Imperial Beach.  Between the Venetian blinds, slats of dying light cut through the dust of the dimming office.  The only sounds were the ticking of an antique grandfather clock and Maria’s soft weeping outside—so naive, so foolish.  That was why Lito had to protect her.

This was not the life Mama had envisioned for any of them, especially baby Maria.  But it was Papi, the infamous Victor Guzman—by whose side Mama stood until her own untimely death—who had brought this upon the Guzman family.  Lito could still hear his raspy dying voice:
No use crying over fate.
 
Blessed or cursed, you accept the hand you are dealt, and you fight!

Then came the memories of all the good times he and Alfonso had shared since childhood, Lito only twelve and Alfonso seventeen when they first met.  But thanks to his size and ferocity Alfonso had already been in security training, part of the family for all intents and purposes.

A twinge in Lito’s chest clipped his reverie short.  He patted his old bodyguard’s face gently and smiled. 

“Thank you for all your service to our family, Alfonso.”

“Wait! Where are you going? WAIT!”

He walked to the door, opened it, and with a nod to his lieutenants, shut it behind him.  

“Lito, no!” 

Out in the hallway, he heard Alfonso’s panicked cries. Maria pulled free from Eduardo and ran over with tears streaming down her cheeks.  “
Ay dios mio
!”

Before she could say another word, two loud pops exploded behind the door.

Twice, Maria flinched.

Twice, she gasped.

“Maria.” He kissed the top of her head—a sweet jasmine fragrance rose from her hair.  “One day, you will understand,” he said gently.  “You may even forgive me.”

7

THE JOURNEY ACROSS THE PACIFIC was worse than he had imagined.  He’d agreed to this job thinking, what was the big deal?  Air or sea, cargo is cargo, right?  But now, after four weeks of mid-ocean ship transfers in the middle of the night, dodging international patrols, Yuri Kosolupov had to face the irony that he might die from sea sickness.

Hanging his head over the gunwale to heave what little of his lunch he had kept down, Yuri comforted himself with the thought of his wages for this “simple” operation—20 million euros for gathering up components from various locations (an abandoned warehouse in Volhynia, Ukraine, the back alley of an electronics component factory in Pyongyang) and transporting the entire package to the States via the Mexican Border.  Five million of it was already in his account in Zurich as a retainer, the rest to be paid upon delivery.

And now, after all the trains, the armada of ships he and his precious cargo had transferred from countless times, he felt like he was going to die on this miserable fishing boat off the coast of Ensenada.

The sky turned a shade of green that probably matched his complexion.  As a dark veil obscured the sun, the air turned frigid with threatening winds that agitated the waves.