by David Beers
Waverly was silent for a second, thinking. Christian admired the man’s decisiveness, and knew that he was coming to a decision on which path to take. There were no other options that either Christian or Tommy could map out.
“I’m with Tommy, Christian. What you’re suggesting is too difficult, and I don’t think he’s had enough time to build up a cult. Two years might be long enough, if he wasn’t running from country to country.” Waverly turned to Tommy. “Let’s hear your plan.”
Chapter 3
The waitstaff didn’t like the gringo that came in once a week. They didn’t dislike him either, though. He was quiet, always paid his bill, and always tipped well. In a small Mexican town like the one the restaurant resided in, that should have been all anyone needed to do to be treated like a King.
The gringo was different. He wore a small sombrero and sunglasses each time he came to the restaurant, and he always sat in the same spot—outside on the porch, at a table nearest the street. He always faced the street and usually brought a pad of paper and a pen with him. Sometimes he wrote. Sometimes he watched the people passing by on the street.
He would eat from the basket of chips placed in front of him and drink red wine. Three glasses before he asked for his tab and then left.
El Fantasmo Blanco.
The White Ghost.
A cook gave him that name, an older bald man who had watched the gringo enter and exit the restaurant numerous times. The cook kept his distance and advised everyone else to do the same.
“No está bien. Aquí arriba,” he said, tapping his own temple. He’s not right. Up here.
The waitstaff saw it as well, even if they hadn’t been able to voice their feelings. It was in the way El Fantasmo Blanco carried himself. It was in the way he looked at the waitstaff (when he occasionally removed his sunglasses), how his eyes didn’t see them. Sure, he focused as he asked for something in perfect Spanish, but he saw through them.
The waiters and waitresses treated him with respect, but kept their distance. They appreciated the tips, but would have appreciated it just as much if he stopped coming in.
The ghost had been busy the past few days, even if no one at the restaurant knew it.
He was preparing to leave, and as he sat down today, he had prepared for something else as well. He pulled his pen and paper out, setting them down in the shadow of the umbrella above. The sun was blazing, but the umbrella would keep its ruthless nature from annoying the gringo.
The chips came first, and then the wine. The waiter did not ask what El Fantasmo Blanco needed. It wasn’t necessary.
The gringo looked out at the street, watching people move to and fro for a few minutes.
Finally, he turned and motioned for the waiter to come back.
The gringo spoke in Spanish. “There is a cook inside. Will you bring him to me?”
The waiter’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he kept his countenance. “Si, señor.”
The white man went to staring back at the street as the waiter did his bidding. A few minutes passed and then the cook walked out onto the patio. He was wiping his hands with a rag, and his face was still as he approached El Fantasmo Blanco.
“Hablas Englais?” the gringo asked.
“Yes. Some.”
“Good. Have a seat.”
The cook pulled the chair out closest to the street and sat.
“What is your name?” the gringo said.
“Torez.”
“Good. You didn’t lie.”
The gringo studied the cook. There was fear inside him, but he hid it well. The man had seen a lot in his life, hardships unimaginable to many people north of the border. He might be sitting in front of a ghost, but it might not have been his first time.
“Last week,” the gringo continued, “you stepped out here to smoke. You saw me and left, heading to the front. Why?”
The cook swallowed. “I do not like you.”
The white man smiled. “Now that I can understand. Why don’t you like me?”
“You are evil.”
The gringo took his glasses off. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “How do you know?”
“Your eyes. They tell your soul to the world. Or, they would if you had one. You do not.”
The white man nodded, his face still as he turned to the street. He was silent for a moment and then said, “I followed you over the past few days. It bothered me that you ran off so quickly last week, and I needed to understand what you knew.” He turned back to the cook. “I don’t think you know anything, so I’m going to tell you—”
“No, señor. No,” the cook interrupted.
“Hush now,’ the gringo whispered. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “My name is Luke Titan, Torez. I’m unsure if you know the name, but it could be very valuable for a man such as yourself. I’ve decided recently that I’m leaving this place soon, so your window of opportunity is closing rapidly. If you wish to sell that name, you will need to do it quickly. However, if you do sell it, you will die soon after. Much too soon to enjoy any of the money you would have earned.”
The cook worried the rag between his hands.
The gringo pulled an envelope from his front shirt pocket. It was relatively heavy, though its interior couldn’t be seen.
“In here is $100,000. I buy your silence with that money. If you take it, no one will ever hear my name from you.”
“And if I don’t take it?” the cook asked.
“Then your silence hasn’t been bought.”
The two stared at each other for a second, the envelope in between them.
“You’re soulless. I cannot accept money from you. I will not speak your name.”
The gringo looked for a second longer, then placed the envelope back in his pocket. “Your choice.”
The cook’s jaw tightened for a second at the loss of such a great sum of money, but his face quickly resumed its normal state.
“Okay, then. We understand each other,” Luke Titan said.
The cook nodded and stood. He walked back into the restaurant, leaving El Fantasmo Blanco alone.
Luke looked back at the street. He wasn’t surprised the old man hadn’t taken his money. The cook’s fear was genuine, and superstition didn’t die as one grew older. For him to have accepted such a large amount of money, would have been akin to selling his own soul.
Luke actually liked that the man had held firm. His soul wasn’t for sale. Neither was Luke’s.
He was leaving tomorrow, heading back to Georgia, back to the world he left years ago. Christian had been relentless, and that was something else Luke liked. Christian wanted to catch Luke above all else, to murder him even.
Luke hadn’t been ready to return, but Christian was yet again forcing his hand—much as it had back in Mackenrow’s house. The Lover’s ex-wife’s house. Luke hadn’t wanted things to happen the way they unfolded; there were plans that should have taken place. They didn’t, though, because Christian had been too fast, at least mentally.
And now, he was proving too fast yet again. Forcing Luke to act before he was ready.
No matter. He would go back to the States. Back to Georgia. Back to Tommy and Christian. He would bring them what they so desperately wanted.
Chapter 4
Charles watched the man step from his car, though Charles couldn’t be seen from his vantage point inside the warehouse. He had fifty men here today, all of them armed with automatics. It was overkill, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. The man standing in the middle of the parking lot had left Charles feeling uncomfortable, and worse, Charles hadn’t been able to find out a damned thing about him.
The man was a ghost, if he existed at all. Perhaps the person Charles now looked at was simply lost, pulling into an old warehouse and planning on stretching his legs before heading out. That made as much sense as the calm man on the phone actually showing up.
Charles had used all his considerable power to try and
figure out who he was dealing with, but he learned nothing. Not until this very moment, as the man stood beneath the hot summer sun. He wore a baseball cap (Atlanta Braves), sunglasses, and a closely cropped beard. He was dressed in blue jeans and a button down shirt, which was tucked in.
The man was thin, but Charles’s eyes were sharp, and he could see the muscle lying beneath the shirt. Charles didn’t give one fuck about muscles—not when he had fifty AR-15s pointing at the man right now—but it was still good to know.
Charles took the elevator down and walked out onto the gravel parking lot. The guards followed behind him, all fifty of them, and they knew exactly what Charles wanted. The man in the baseball cap needed to understand who was in charge, and where the power resided in this relationship. Charles walked straight forward, heading toward the black car and the man standing next to it. The guards circled out around him, all of them carrying their weapons.
The sunglasses hid the man’s eyes from Charles, but he didn’t appear to notice the armed men walking out around him. He was looking up at the sky.
“I’ve missed Georgia,” the man said.
“How was your trip?” Charles asked as he reached the car.
“It was fine. You brought quite a crowd.”
The black sunglasses stared down at Charles, their opaque nature blocking the man’s thoughts, but seeming to speak their own: nothing you do here can hurt the person behind these.
“I’ve got enough men to solve any problem you have.”
“Shall we go inside?” the man said as his face scanned the guards.
“Sure, I’ll show you your product.”
Charles turned and led the way inside, listening carefully as the man walked behind him. He hadn’t breached the subject of the man’s name yet, but he would soon.
“Here you are,” Charles said as they entered the lower floor of the warehouse. Large boxes sat on top of one another, creating massive squares atop wooden pallets. They covered half of the 10,000 foot warehouse.
An arsenal.
“It looks like a lot now that I’m standing in front of it,” the man said, his voice as calm now as it had been outside. He was goddamn staring at an armory larger than most small countries possessed, and he sounded like he was ordering coffee.
“Before we go any further,” Charles said as he turned, “I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
“You weren’t able to find out?”
“Not everything,” Charles said, lying and hating that he had to. And it’s you I’ll come for, he thought.
“That’s good.” The man hadn’t turned to look at Charles, but stood gazing at the boxes.
Charles saw two options in front of him. He could kill this person right now and deal with the consequences, or he could play this fucking game and see where it led.
He felt the gun pressing against his back, almost burning like a brand. It wanted to be freed, allowed to put a bullet through the man’s goddamn baseball cap.
Charles smiled at the thought: the guy standing here staring, when all of a sudden a hole opens up in the side of his head. He giggled, envisioning the blood bubbling out and falling down the man’s shoulder.
“Something funny?” the calm man asked without turning.
“No, not yet,” Charles said. “Now, who are you?”
“This is a delicate subject for me, Mr. Twaller. I’m not trying to be coy, but only need to stress why it’s so delicate. You see, if my identity were revealed to certain entities, my life would be over, and those entities would pay a lot of money to accomplish it.” The man turned then, removing his sunglasses as he did. Everyone was taller than Charles, and this person was no exception. He stood maybe 6’1”, and looked down at Charles with brown eyes that were harder than baked brick. “I want to make sure that you won’t be tempted to tell such entities, Mr. Twaller. A man in your position, well, he could probably arrange to be paid without actually revealing his own identity.”
Charles swallowed, his lips pursing.
“It’s nothing personal,” the man said.
“I don’t care if you’re fucking Jimmy Hoffa. I didn’t get to where I am by ratting.”
“Very true.” The man smiled, his white teeth looking closer to those of a Great White Shark’s than a human’s. Charles felt a chill run down his back and his nipples grow hard at the sight of them. “My name is Luke Titan, Mr. Twaller. Dr. Luke Titan. Have you heard of me?”
Charles looked at the man, seeing through the beard and the hat for the first time. Perhaps this man had some cosmetic work done on his face, but Charles wasn’t sure how he’d missed his identity. Luke Titan—Dr. Luke Titan—had been all over the news a few years ago. His face had been as famous as the President’s for a little while, and Charles started laughing as he realized he’d almost killed one of the most wanted men in the country. He’d almost put a fucking bullet right through his skull, and that was hilarious.
Charles giggled, his big belly bouncing up and down over his belt.
“Oh, God,” he said in between his laughter. “You really are Luke Titan.”
The doctor kept smiling. “I really am.”
“And … and …,” Charles was trying to talk through his laughter, but was out of breath, yet couldn’t stop giggling. “And I bet you want to go to war, don’t you? That’s what all this is for! You want the blood to wash right up to the goddamn FBI doorsteps!”
Luke had picked the right man for the job, even if he hadn’t been 100% sure based off of the man’s resume. Charles Twaller’s curriculum vitae read like what Luke imagined an arms dealer’s might, if there was a Harvard and Goldman Sach’s for arms dealers. Mr. Twaller worked with all the right people, and had an impeccable reputation—if perhaps a bit too freewheeling with the drivers that delivered his cargo.
That was what actually sold Luke on Charles Twaller. The murdering of the drivers. Luke didn’t want a Harvard type in charge of what came next; he needed someone with a bit more … unpredictability. The dead drivers made Luke think Mr. Twaller might be that man. He was button down and professional all the time, except for the few cases where he could kill in cold blood and get away with it. Of course, the man had killed other people—even been to war with a rival once—but all of that was business. The dead drivers weren’t business. They were pleasure.
And so Luke had chosen him to hold his weapons in hope that he might take the next contract.
Mr. Twaller was perfect, and Luke saw it as the fat, short man giggled like a schoolgirl, surrounded by millions of dollars in guns.
The past two days had been long, Luke having traveled from Mexico to Los Angeles, and finally to Atlanta. He rented a vehicle and traveled to south Georgia, and now he was driving back to the city. A four hour drive in total, though Luke felt no exhaustion. He was actually excited, because he was going to lay eyes on Christian tonight. He’d seen his old partner a few times over the past two years, but each had been fleeting and unfulfilling.
Tonight, he would have longer to look at Christian. To see the scar that had grown over his face.
Luke never felt at home, though he never felt displaced either; but perhaps for the first time ever, he felt a sense of returning. Not quite to home, but close.
As Luke headed to Christian, Charles watched his workers unpack boxes. Five teams of five were using crowbars to open them, and Charles looked on as weapons were revealed—shining black like oil underneath the lights above.
Charles looked at the guns, though his mind was far into the future. What was being asked of him would not be easy, and there was a large chance that Charles would be caught or killed. He had to be diligent in his preparations, if he was to make it out of this relatively unscathed.
A lot of people were going to die. The death didn’t bother Charles at all, only the difficulty such a thing created when it came to recruitment. The higher the chances of death, the higher the prices per head. Titan wanted numbers by the end of the week, but Charles already knew them. For most
people, the final tally would have been prohibitively high, but Charles believed Titan could find the cash.
Funding would be there, and Charles needed to provide the war … but he could do it. He had a pipeline of mercenaries.
And that’s what Luke Titan wanted.
All out war on the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The strategy was the key to this. It would need to be quick and ferocious. Something that took place over a few days, inflicting the maximum amount of carnage, and then Charles’s army would disappear.
What was left of it anyway.
Chapter 5
Christian pulled Luke’s Tesla into the driveway. He’d been driving the vehicle for a year and a half, but he never thought of it as his.
Waverly had made sure Christian got it. For years, Christian hadn’t driven, rather taking ride-sharing vehicles. When he left the hospital this last time, he’d asked Waverly for the vehicle.
“I want Luke’s car. Is it impounded?”
Waverly’s brow had furrowed. “I’m not sure.”
“Can you get it for me? Assign it to my department?”
Waverly stared without speaking for a few seconds, clearly judging Christian’s question. He finally nodded, and the car had arrived at the Atlanta FBI office three days later.
Christian stepped from the vehicle and went to his mailbox. There were a few pieces of mail, but no decapitated heads, which was always a blessing. Lord, if he stopped and thought about all the things he’d seen, he might never be able to start moving again.
He didn’t agree with Tommy’s plan, and he didn’t agree with Waverly’s decision on it, either. He might be the leader of his unit, but in the end, there were orders to be followed. At one point, Christian might have shirked those duties, those orders, but no longer.
He and Waverly had sat in the hospital while Christian debriefed on everything that had taken place with Luke inside Mackenrow’s house. Christian spoke with a knife hole carved deep in his face, and his guts nearly yanked out the side of his body. The FBI Director didn’t waiver, though—not in the slightest. He looked Christian dead in the eye for hours, then retired to the lobby when Christian needed rest, only to return the moment he was summoned.