He unscrews the cap from the cold bottle of water, taking a much needed drink, and breathing deeply to calm himself. The sound of the dog lapping up the fresh water near him is strangely soothing, as if he isn’t so alone. Devlin unzips his black Armani jacket and tosses it toward the opposite side of the bed near the closet. He then sets the bottle of water on the floor and lies back on the mattress.
The orange silk shirt and red tie are a bit too warm on his body at this time of the day, but under the circumstances, he elects to be prepared rather than comfortable. Devlin stares up at the blank white ceiling, remembering the events that brought him here. Thinking again about his lovely wife Yulia, he wonders if he has made the right decision. Just a week ago, he had financial success, a great home, and a job with Level IV Security Clearance.
After his eight-year stint in the military, Devlin had come home with a lot of problems, and drinking was becoming his soul means for dealing with those problems. Unfortunately, after enough drinking, he found himself slapped with a third-degree felony for DUI and another for assaulting a police officer. The court was lenient due to his posttraumatic stress disorder, but he still served over ninety days in jail. It was right after his release from jail that Henri approached him to work with his team of ‘rejects’ on a CIA project to gather intelligence data for gun control. Devlin was listed as a civilian contractor, but given top secret access to the database of criminal behavior so that he could perform analysis, and help to develop the program.
His mind ventures back to the insanity that took place just a few days ago. It always seemed odd that Henri wanted to hire convicted felons for his operations. Devlin never questioned the fact that he was logging into the CIA database with credentials belonging to someone else when he needed access to Level IV classified information. He also never asked why every member of the team seemed to have some type of baggage or misconduct in their history. But after having seen Henri for what he truly is, and now fully understanding his need to hold power over people, the team of rejects makes perfect sense. Henri had been able to secure a group of talented people, including Devlin, that were all thrown away by the armed services for misconduct. They were veterans placed in high-paying jobs, many of them so grateful to provide for their family, that they would do almost anything for a paycheck.
He turns on his side, staring out the window, watching the breeze blow the cheap cotton drapes here and there. In this silence, Devlin lets out an angry sigh, knowing that he is doing the right thing. He forces himself to remember the beast and the blind woman. His stomach becomes nauseous, wishing he could scrub his eyeballs after witnessing the devout sickness of Henri and his followers. As Devlin continues to think about Henri and his colleagues at the CIA, he considers all the people they have tracked, monitored, and apprehended over the past few months.
The young man sits up in bed, feeling a sudden need to take inventory of all his actions. He thinks back to his check-in at the hotel, and the stolen driver license that he used to get this room. His gut scrutinizes the cash transaction, and he realizes that the CIA could soon be connecting the dots that he stole the man’s driver license. He puts his head down in shame, pressing his thumbs tight between his eyebrows, realizing his foolish mistake. After one more night in this room, he would look at renting duplexes and private residences on a monthly basis to stay off the grid. No background checks, credit checks, or anything else the agency could use to nab him.
He feels panic creeping up in his throat, realizing it may be good to leave the Escalade as well, deciding that a stolen vehicle would be viable for less than forty-eight hours, even if it were taken from the airport’s long-term parking facility. Devlin decides that public transportation is best for now, along with payphones, prepaid cell phones, and anonymous email addresses. Stealing a car would only be done in the case of an emergency. He closes his tired eyes, trying to put these thoughts out of his mind to get some rest, but they continue to bombard him with anxiety.
After he realizes that any effort to sleep is futile, he gets up from the bed and moves over to the small pinewood desk near the television on the opposite side of the room. He takes a seat and uses a piece of hotel stationary to write a letter. Devlin smiles to himself as he realizes that calling it a letter would be making light of the situation. The document before him will more likely become his last will and testament.
V. Sundown
Beneath the cradle of a godless, bloody red sky Joshua Warnholt labors more intensively than ever in his life. Through the rays of a brilliant sunset, tears of agony stream down his face shamelessly from the corners of his bright blue eyes, despite his former proud stance of manliness and independence. His expression shows defeat below tufts of curly brown hair and he appears much older than his true age of fifty-two. Joshua’s clothing has been stripped from him and his white body is badly sunburned, covered in canola oil and white sand from the beach he has been detained on these past few days. His pelvis is shrouded by a red ceremonial garment tied loosely around his buttocks.
Joshua winces with the strong alabaster horns of hell pressing deep into the flesh of his thigh muscles; the burning sting of two prongs continually stabbing his inner legs. He staggers slowly, carrying a heavy stone with both hands, watching the wind blow fine, white dust off the top of the stone’s surface, whilst drops of sweat from his brow and blood from his legs saturate the hot, white sands below.
As he carries the stone, a group of Mexican natives watches from either side of him. Several of them are solemnly drumming on small, wooden cylinders covered in leather while he makes his way across the ten-yard span toward the priestess. The natives are also wearing red ceremonial loincloths, glaring up at him with mob justice in their eyes as they kneel at both sides of his treacherous path.
Joshua closes his eyes in an instant of teeth-grinding pain from the calcite horns digging deep into his thighs as he presses painfully forward. He stops moving for a moment, breathing heavily, looking down at the leather ropes tied firmly around his leg muscles to secure the alabaster stakes of torture to his inner thighs.
The stakes penetrate over three inches into each of his thigh muscles, sliding in and out of his flesh every time he moves. Each of the white stakes is made of fire-tempered alabaster with the long pieces protruding eight inches past his knees, pointing at the ground. At the top of each stake is a sharp end pointed straight up the inside portion of his thighs toward his genitals.
While the short pieces of the stakes are extremely painful digging into his thighs, they have been whittled down to a thin base so that they can easily break away. Joshua bows his head for a moment, looking down at the stakes, his body starting to convulse with fear as he feels his legs getting weaker. He closes his eyes wishing he could be anywhere else right now, and then stares down in disbelief at the instruments of his demise. If he loses his footing, the long end of the stakes will hit the ground, breaking off the small end of each piece inside of his thighs, and sending the large end of the alabaster shaft up through his genitals and into his abdomen. Falling backwards or sideways is not an option either as there are six alabaster spikes mounted around his upper torso. They form a strong, cage-like frame around his shoulder blades and up underneath his arms, ensuring that if he falls on his back; all six spikes will be driven into his upper back and underarms.
He closes his eyes tighter, shaking, trying not to break down. The weight of the stone in his hands and the heat on his back are helping him to accept that the end is near.
Joshua imagines his wife back in The United States; the lovely, plain girl he met in Virginia at college. His face manages a half-smile as he thinks about when he asked her to marry him, despite the rainy day that nearly ruined his perfect plans. He recalls her grabbing his hands and pulling him close to her, saying yes to his proposal amidst the chaos, the cold, and the thunder. Joshua’s smile instantly fades to defeat when he realizes that he will never touch her soft face again. As this thought enters his mind, he shakes his hea
d as though something foul has just invaded his mouth and nostrils.
He stops shaking his head and opens his eyes, staring straight at the Mexican priestess in front of him. His eyes glaze over desperately with humanity, begging her for mercy from this torture that has made him feel more alone than a comet drifting endlessly through space.
The priestess glares back at him with a demure melancholy; a fierce look of ancient ruin and ritual, unmoved by his plight. Small waves of smoke rise up from just below her ears where long, fluted earrings hold large pieces of burning incense just two inches above her shoulders, giving her the appearance of both necromancer and goddess.
Joshua looks over her strong body in dismay. She is wearing his clothing, her arms folded across her chest with the small skeleton of a bird clutched in her right hand. Joshua’s white dress shirt is two sizes, too large for the athletic, Mexican priestess, but it is tucked neatly into his jeans, which she has cinched tightly around her waist with a leather rope. Most of her beautiful face is covered in white clay except for dark, greasy black circles painted around her eyes, and two black, skeletal anvils on her nose. There are ten black stitches painted across her lips, expanding slightly onto her cheeks.
Her cold stare is cast upon Joshua through unflinching green eyes, and he begins to sob, taking in the reality of her owning him, and showing it by wearing his clothing. She observes with ruthless pride, waiting for him as each step gets closer to his inhumane death. He looks back at the large pile of stones behind him, noticing the lifeless stares of the tribe as they meet his gaze. There are easily over one-hundred stones at his back that he will need to move to earn his freedom. The tortured man returns his gaze to the front where he notices that there is no other living thing behind the priestess; just coarse spans of rock cliffs covered in the whimsical colors of sunset. Below her bare feet, he focuses on the small formation of stones that have been placed through his arduous and painstaking efforts; an attempt to build a wall in exchange for his life. Without counting, Joshua knows that there are exactly twenty-eight stones laid on the small foundation, barely enough to take the shape of a wall. The tears of failure flow hard from his eyes now, and he drops the stone as the sunset fades to its deepest hues of faint evening orange and red.
The priestess smiles at his defeat with a face full of wisdom and justice. She immediately raises the skeleton of the small bird horizontal in front of her body and snaps the spine in half, then casts the broken bones at Joshua’s feet. When the skeleton hits the ground near him, Joshua is shocked and terrified as his legs go immediately limp against his will. A sickly terror grips his throat as he stares at the priestess in hateful awe; the alabaster stakes hitting the ground, pushing upward under the leather ropes and into his abdomen through his pelvis.
Soon his crying turns to raw animal screams as the sharp calcite pushes into his body; making his lower jaw tremble with repulsed dread. He flails spastically into the space before him, reaching out desperately toward nothing, trying to pull himself off the stakes with the air itself. Within less than a minute, his convulsions of terror and raucous screams come to an end, and his body falls lifeless onto the sand.
The young priestess gestures toward the thick drops of blood draining into the earth beneath the fallen businessman. She then turns her palms up toward the sky and raises her arms high above her head; a gesture of ceremonious respect.
VI. Reflecting on The Devil’s Protégé
:: Begin Encoded Message ::
H.E.N.A.
L4c1t2 D2vl3n McC4nn2ll6 1nd 3mm4b3l3z2 H3m
3s4l1t2 th2 wh2r21b45ts 4f D2vl3n McC4nn2ll6. H2 h1s pr4c5r2d f5nds thr45gh th2ft 1nd d2c2pt34n; w2 w1nt t4 k22p th2s2 f5nds 1ct3v2 t4 tr1ck h3m 21s32r. F5rth2r, h2 h1s 1n 1nx32t6 d3s4rd2r th1t c15s2s h3m t4 sp4nt1n245sl6 g4 45t sh4pp3ng. B2 4n th2 l44k45t f4r br1nds l3k2 1rm1n3, 1nd 4th2r l5x5r6 cl4th3ng 4r j2w2lr6 st4r2s. W2 1r2 tr1ck3ng 1ll p5rch1s2s. D4 n4t 1ttr1ct th2 1tt2nt34n 4f l4c1l 15th4r3t32s.
Maxwell Out
:: End Encoded Message ::
Devlin jogs steadily next to the traffic during the heavy Chicago rush hour. Gloria follows closely behind as he looks to procure a new vehicle after having to dump the Escalade. His hands are tense as he traverses across American soil, preparing to commit another crime, adding to the list of necessary deeds this week, including other thefts. With only six hours left in the twelve-hour deadline, he elected to ditch the hotel room, abandoning everything except for his clothing and the letter; not wanting to leave any breadcrumbs for the CIA. He located a duplex for rent in the newspaper, but the owner insisted on meeting today, which means procuring a car to make the appointment on time, and safely transporting the dog. His breathing is uneasy as he looks from car to car like an ancient predator of the Midwest.
In his black jacket and dress pants, he can move rather stealthy, pretending to be a casual jogger. Soon he sees what he is looking for; a man in his early forties, out of shape, and by himself in a pickup truck. Devlin sets his sights on the large, blue F-150, and moves around closer to the driver side window. The vehicle is creeping through traffic slowly, which will make it an easy target. His right hand darts out and grabs underneath the driver-side door handle. As soon as he touches the handle, a tiny head pops up next to the driver. Devlin’s eyes widen as he realizes the man has his daughter with him. He releases the handle and starts to jog faster, moving expediently away to avoid any backlash.
“What the fuck do you want!?” The man screams toward Devlin as he rolls down his window a bit. “Were you trying to steal my truck, asshole!?”
Devlin pretends that nothing happened and quickens his pace. He enjoys getting his heart rate up to ease his anxiety. His eyes begin to seek out other vehicles to potentially carjack, looking for men who are traveling alone; old enough to avoid a fight, but young enough not to have a heart attack if things become violent. There are a few good prospects, but each of them is wearing a seatbelt; not ideal for a carjacking. He looks back to see Gloria trotting faithfully behind him. Devlin laughs to himself when he sees her cheerful expression; the dog would chalk this up as an adventure regardless of his crimes.
After another fifty yards, he approaches a silver sports car that is driven by a small man in his early thirties. Although this man is a bit young, Devlin has no choice but to get off the street before sundown. He quickens his pace, catching up with the Hyundai Genesis, still pretending to jog and mind his own business. The cars are moving a bit faster through traffic now, which forces him to jog harder, almost sprinting to keep up.
When he is finally in position next to the silver sports car, Devlin rapidly grabs the door handle and yanks upward, opening the door while the car is still rolling. As expected, the driver hits his brakes, coming to a complete stop. Devlin reaches over the man’s chest to grab him by the shoulder and roll him out of the vehicle. When his hand touches the soft fabric of the man’s white dress shirt, Devlin feels a sharp pain in his throat as the driver delivers a swift jab to his windpipe.
The jab is fierce and precise, leaving Devlin choking and a bit disoriented. He begins to back away, protecting his face out of instinct, looking down in bewilderment at the driver, a man with short, brown hair and pale, blue eyes. The man has a firm body and veins poking out of his neck from hours of intensive exercise. As Devlin catches his breath, the driver rises up out of the car, his face bearing the stare of a fighter. He is dressed in business formal attire with a starched white shirt, black slacks, and a black snakeskin belt.
The man moves toward Devlin with the fierceness of a scorned warrior. Devlin raises his hands in a protective boxing stance, using his military training. The small man turns sideways as he approaches closer and kicks with his left leg toward Devlin’s abdomen. When Devlin moves his hands to protect his abdomen, the man stops short with his kick, snaps his leg against the back of his thigh, and uses the momentum to kick Devlin hard in the face. The instant pain from the side of a foot impacting his face catches Devlin unaware. He spins slightly with the
momentum of the kick, and then drops to the sidewalk on his chest. As he falls to the hard cement, his right thumb gets twisted backward too far under his weight. Devlin rolls onto his side to avoid dislocating his thumb. The man continues to advance, approaching with anger and a cool confidence; the look of someone who trains to fight on a daily basis.
Devlin peers up in disbelief, wondering if this man works for the agency, but soon realizes he was lucky enough to find the one pissed off black belt in rush hour traffic. Once the man is within a few feet of his body, Devlin sweeps quickly with his right foot, trying to knock his opponent over and provide an opportunity for escape. The small man reacts instantly, pivoting his body upright, he uses his right foot to kick Devlin’s shin, forcing his leg back, and blocking the sweep.
On the sidewalk Devlin winces in fresh pain as his shin begins to sting and throb simultaneously. He reaches down immediately to protect his injured leg, but the man anticipates his reaction, and comes down at full force with a heavy punch to his right cheek. Devlin rolls over on his back, feeling like he has been clubbed in the face by a gorilla.
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Page 3