The Last Inferno

by Michael Cross

  I let myself in through the gate and into the backyard. This part of the house has changed since my childhood. Gone is the swing set and other playground equipment my brother and I used to play on. And in their place is a gazebo, tall screening bushes around the perimeter of the yard, keeping the prying eyes of the neighbors away, and a wooden deck with a barbecue and table that seats six. He must do some entertaining.

  But what I’m back here for is underneath the rear deck. It was the way I remember sneaking in and out of the house when I was a kid. I quickly descend the stairs and find myself at the door that leads into the basement. It had never been wired when I was younger. I’m banking on my father, a creature of habit, to have never given it much thought after I left.

  I slip my lock picks out of my back pocket and make quick work of it, a satisfied smirk touching my lips as I hear the click of the door coming unlocked. I slip my picks back into my pocket and grip the door handle.

  “Moment of truth,” I mutter.

  I push the door open slowly, expecting the worst, but nothing happens. No alarm sounds. I grin to myself. He never had it wired. The Deputy Director of the CIA can’t even properly safeguard his own home. There’s something ironic about that.

  I walk into the basement and close the door behind me. I leave it cracked just a bit in case I need to make a quick exit. I walk to the stairs and ascend, opening the door carefully and pausing to listen. Not hearing anything out of the ordinary, I cross the threshold and pull my sidearm from the holster at the small of my back.

  Moving quickly, I clear the first floor of the house, then take the stairs to the second floor and repeat the process. By the time I get to the rooms on the third floor, I’m confident the place is empty. I walk to the door at the end of the hall and push it inward with the barrel of my sidearm. This was always my father’s office when I was younger. I nod. It hasn’t changed. Like I said, a creature of habit. Even when he’s living in a big ass brownstone all by himself.

  I turn on the desk lamp and look around the large, spacious office. Not a lot has changed, really. The computer and furnishings have all been updated as is befitting a Deputy Director of the CIA, of course. But his decorations haven’t changed much— save for one thing that was never here before.

  I walk over to the shelf that’s mounted above his liquor laden sideboard. On the shelf are pictures I’ve never seen before. There’s one of me and my brother, standing with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. There’s one of my brother and I standing with our mother, all of us smiling and wearing our Sunday best. There’s another of all four of us on a beach in Hawaii.

  My father, as best as I remember, was never a sentimental man. He was a very much in the moment sort of man. I remember that he was coldly logical at all times, always demanding actual proof in lieu of emotional pleas or anecdotal evidence. It’s as these memories come back to me that I realize my father and I are a lot alike. The difference, though, is that I worked hard to be a better man than he ever was. I made a conscious decision to not be like him.

  I always sought to be a better husband to Mandy than he was to my mother and to be a better father than he ever was to me and my brother. I know I came up short many, many times over the years, but I always tried and never stopped trying to better myself. My father, as much as Mandy, had always inspired me to be a better man and a better father.

  I don’t know why, but I find seeing these photos on the shelf in his office strangely moving. It doesn’t erase the years of torment and abuse. It doesn’t erase the fact that he is responsible for the deaths of both my brother and my mother. And it doesn’t erase the fact that he tried to have me killed. That his actions are responsible for my wife and son’s deaths.

  There is nobody else who could have ordered my burn notice but him.

  The sound of a car pulling to a stop on the street outside catches my attention. I flip off the desk lamp and go to the window. There’s a black SUV in the middle of the street, and when I see my father slip out of the back seat, I feel my heart and stomach lurch simultaneously. The grief as well as the rage bubble up inside of me. I have to take a deep breath and consciously focus as I let it out to calm myself.

  I see two massive men, one black and one white, shadowing my father up the steps to the front door. That’s probably why he never bothered to wire that door in the basement. He’s got round the clock attack dogs-slash-human shields following him around.

  I step to the door and listen to the sound of the locks being disengaged and the front door being opened. I hear my father’s voice and feel my blood turn to ice.

  The endgame starts now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I hear the electronic beeping of the alarm being disengaged as he punches in his code. He continues to talk, and I presume he’s on the phone. My insides are churning, and I feel that white-hot surge of adrenaline flowing through me. I’m ready to get this going so I can be done with it.

  “Stay right here, sir,” a deep and gravelly voice intones. “Let us clear the house.”

  “Make it quick,” my father says— ever the charmer he is.

  I duck back behind the door to the office and wait in the darkness. I hear feet coming up the stairs, first going to the other end of the hallway, moving away from me. I hear doors opening and closing as he checks and clears the rooms. I quickly screw on the sound suppressor and press my back against the wall as the heavy footsteps draw closer.

  The door swings inward. The light flips on. The adrenaline rushing through me intensifies. My heart is pounding, and my breathing is labored. At the same time though, a sense of calm descends over me. I’m filled with a grim, steely determination to see this through. I raise my weapon and take a step forward at the same time the mammoth man turns and looks behind the door.

  His eyes widen in surprise. I level the barrel of my weapon and squeeze the trigger. There’s a soft popping sound, and a neat hole appears in the middle of his forehead. A spray of red and dark matter bursts from the back of his head, splattering the picture frames with gore on the other side of the room.

  He pitches forward, and I brace myself, catching him before he can hit the floor, which would alert the other bodyguard— and my father— to my presence. I lay him down gently, then step over his body as I move swiftly down the hallway. Keeping a wary eye out below me, I move to the second floor towards an open doorway near the end of the hall.

  I hit the second-floor landing and sidle to the open doorway, keeping my back pressed flush to the wall. I hear a door inside the room open— he’s checking the closet in what used to be my mother’s painting studio. I quickly turn the corner and am right behind the second bodyguard before he even realizes I’m there. I press the barrel of my weapon to the back of his head and pull the trigger.

  It’s awkward, but I keep him from falling and lay him down gently in a spreading pool of dark crimson. I turn and duck out of the room and stand at the second-floor landing again. My father’s voice, deep and authoritative, resonates against the ground floor. I fight the surge of emotions swirling around inside of me. I’m struggling to keep them in check at the exact moment I need the most control.

  Ever since I woke up from that coma with no memories, I’ve dreamed of this moment. I’ve wanted nothing more than to stand in front of the person who burned me and murdered my family and ask one simple question—why? It’s all I’ve thought of. All I’ve worked toward. All the things I’ve done these past months, all of the blood and sweat I’ve shed, have all been to get me to this point.

  And right now, I feel rooted to my spot. Unable to move. Unable to seize this moment, I’ve wanted with everything in me for so long now. I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that this path would lead me to my father. Or that I would learn the things I’ve learned along the way. I never expected to be here in this house— where it all started. And I never expected that I would need to kill the man who’d helped give me life.

  And yet here I am.

  I swallow hard, t
hen take a deep breath and let it out slowly, gathering my wits and courage. I have to do this. For Dalton. For my mother.

  For everyone this scumbag has ever hurt or killed. I have to do it.

  For Mandy and Ryan.

  I force myself to take the first step. And when my foot hits the tread, it seems to break the paralysis in me. For the most part, anyway. As light on my feet as I’m able to manage, I move down the stairs.

  My father’s voice is coming from the front sitting room. I can hear the crackle and pop of a fire going in the fireplace and hear the clink of a bottle hitting the rim of a glass. As I imagine him in there having a drink, not a care in the world, I think about all I’ve lost in this life. All I’ve had taken from me.

  I summon the images of Mandy and Ryan in my head, drawing my righteous rage into my body, letting it fill every single cell inside of me. And when I feel my fury build to a fever pitch, I turn the corner and step into the room, my weapon raised and trained at the back of his head.

  As if he senses me behind him, he turns around with the phone pressed to one ear and a glass of scotch in the other. He stares at me blankly for a moment. The only sound in the room is the crack and pop of the logs burning in the fireplace.

  “I’m going to have to call you back,” he says and disconnects the call.

  He drops the phone on the sideboard and takes a drink from his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. He looks much the same as he does in my memory. He’s tall and well built, still in terrific shape for his age. His dark hair and goatee are shot through with gray, and he’s got the same eyes I do. His face is largely unlined, and he’s got a healthy, vibrant glow about him. There is so much about him that’s familiar, but I can’t say I know this man. He’s a stranger to me.

  “I assume Reggie and Marcus are dead then?” he asks.

  He’s got a slight, muddled accent. That confirms it. He was the man on the other end of that cell phone. He’d known who I was all along.

  “Sit down,” I tell him.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” he asks.

  “Sit the fuck down,” I repeat, my voice cold. “Now.”

  He drains the last of his glass and looks unconcerned as he pours himself a refill before taking a seat in one of the large wingbacks in front of the fireplace. As I stand there, in that room, I’m battered by waves of nostalgia so deep; they threaten to pull me under. I remember having Christmas mornings in here. I remember being snowed in and playing board games with Dalton in front of the fire. I remember sitting in front of that fireplace as my mother told us scary stories on dark, rainy nights. And I remember us sitting on the floor here, eating the candy we collected trick-or-treating on Halloween.

  There are a thousand good memories I have in this very room, and yet the man sitting in the chair, his one leg folded over the other, sipping his scotch as he eyeballs me, wiped them all out. There could have been a million good memories. But after Dalton died— after he killed Dalton— the good memories stopped. And from that day forward, there was nothing but sadness stacked upon misery.

  When I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name, adopting my mother’s maiden name. I wanted nothing to do with the man sitting before me. After that, I left home and enlisted in the Army. That was how badly I needed to get away from this man. And I haven’t spoken to him once in the years between then and now.

  But I have to say, my overdeveloped sense of duty and protectiveness probably started here. Because of him. I recall feeling so powerless and unable to protect those I loved when I was younger, that I probably overcorrected along the way. I built my career on the idea of protecting everybody. On never feeling powerless again.

  So in a way, my father, and everything I endured growing up, shaped me into the man I am today. For the good and the bad.

  “Welcome home, Ezra,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

  “Home? This used to be my home,” I say. “Until it wasn’t.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This has always been your home,” he replies. “You’ve merely chosen not to come back.”

  “You tried to kill me. Several times, in fact.”

  “I didn’t try to do anything to you,” he says, sounding genuinely offended.

  “Why did you burn me?”

  He takes a sip and sets his glass on his knee, the epitome of the sophisticated and genteel gentleman.

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  Never taking my weapon off him, I drop down into the chair across from him. I rest the butt of my weapon on my knee, watching him closely, looking for the slightest movement that will justify me putting a bunch of holes in him.

  “You can’t lie to me anymore, Logan,” I say. “I have my memories back.”

  “Do you now? I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Because Temperance didn’t know,” I say. “I never told her because I figured out that she’s your mole in the Tower’s hierarchy. Is she not?”

  “That’s such an ugly word. She’s not a mole,” he replies. “Molly Wilcox— your Temperance— and I simply have an understanding about certain things. We share certain philosophies, and we work well together from time to time.”

  “Well, she’s going to be as dead as you soon enough,” I tell him.

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  He is so cool and collected. Like the fact that I’m pointing a weapon inches from his face is the least of his worries. Like it’s not a worry at all.

  “You murdered my mother.” It’s a statement, not a question. “And you used the Hellfire Club’s influence to keep your ass out of prison. The same way you did with Dalton.”

  “My position comes with certain— perks.”

  Hearing him speak of it so casually, so nonchalantly, like he’s discussing something as trivial as the weather, stokes the fires of rage already burning within me. He speaks of it with a certain detachment and distance. Like he is so far removed from the event that it doesn’t matter. That it never happened. He’s dismissed my mother as easily as he dismissed my brother. His son. As easily as he dismissed me.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t intend to kill her. We argued one night, and your mother always had a way of pushing my buttons,” he says. “She really did. And that night, I just— snapped. I did not mean to, but I pushed her down the stairs. And she died as a result. It was an unfortunate accident, but an accident nonetheless.”

  I hear a note of what sounds like genuine remorse in his voice. But it’s short-lived. Maybe there’s some small piece of him deep down that’s sorry for what happened, but it’s a very small piece.

  “It doesn’t make me feel better, you piece of shit.”

  He sighs.

  “We tended to fight a lot after your brother— died,” he says.

  “Another death that you’re responsible for.”

  He looks down into his glass and frowns. He swirls the amber liquid around, staring at the bottom of his glass as if it holds the answers to all of his questions. And for the first time, I see some small shred of humanity in his eyes. It’s not much. He quashes it ruthlessly, but it was there— and then it’s suddenly gone, replaced with that same cool detachment.

  “You’re right. I am responsible for Dalton’s death. And that was most regrettable,” he admits. “There is not a day that goes by—”

  “Save it,” I spit. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses or phony remorse.”

  “I assure you it’s not phony,” he replies softly.

  “Right.”

  “Your mother and I fought often following Dalton’s death.”

  I scoff. “Gee, I wonder why that is.”

  “Why are you here, Ezra?” he asks. “I assume you’re here for something, or else I would be lying dead on the ground already.”

  “I want to know why you burned me,” I say again. “I want to hear you say it.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, to undoubtedly deny it and tell me more lies, but he
surprises me when he closes it again without saying anything. He drains the last of his glass and looks longingly at the residue at the bottom. Finally, he sighs and looks up at me, an expression of resignation on his face.

  “I assured the Club that I could bring you into the fold. You’re practically an Agency legend, son,” he says. “And I thought your talents would be a terrific addition to the Club’s roster.”

  “Except for the fact that I’m not an elitist prick like you,” I snap. “Except for the fact that I’d rather work with people than rule them like some tyrant king.”

  “Yes, except for those things. I admit, I underestimated your commitment to the common man,” he says, a wry smile on his lips. “And when it was determined that you could not be brought into the fold, I had to make the decision to eliminate you. Believe me when I say it was not an easy decision.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you agonized over it,” I say. “So you decided to take me out. Just like that, huh?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the way the calculus worked out. I was not lying on the phone when I said I wanted to work with you. Not against you. But if you won’t work with us, I can’t have you working against us,” he replies. “I know how talented you are, Ezra. I always kept tabs on you, even though we operated in different Directorates.”

  “So just because I didn’t want to work with your team, you burned me and put out an order to have me killed?”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s because you were going to work for the other team, and I could not allow that. As I said, I know how talented you are,” he says. “And so yes, I had no choice but to put out your burn notice. Obviously though, that order failed.”

  “You murdered my wife and my son,” I hiss. “Your men killed them when they blew up that fucking carnival.”

  He sighs, and his eyes shimmer with tears. “I was apprised of that. Believe me; I have never stopped feeling guilt or remorse for it. Not for a moment. That was never intended to happen.”

  “Intended or not, that was the end result.”