Messiahs

by Matt Rogers

  Partly because she was hooked.

  When she went a day or so without Bodhi, she became edgy, reactive, riddled with anxiety. Brandon — and the rest of Mother Libertas — told her it was a subconscious desire for further enlightenment. She’d seen withdrawal symptoms before, and there was nothing enlightening about them, but it wasn’t enough to be aware that the stuff was terrible for her. Addicts know they’re destroying their bodies and brains, but they do it anyway.

  So she went back for Bodhi again and again, and dulled the side effects with follow-up doses.

  The stuff was so damn good that she’d stopped feeling guilty about her silence. She had to be one of the only disciples aware of Bodhi’s true purpose — the rest of them thought it was Gaia’s nectar from Mother Maeve’s tit. But if she truly enlightened them as to what they were doing to themselves, they either wouldn’t believe her or would turn on her in their own denial. She was smarter than them all, so she could fake her devotion to survive.

  But not for much longer.

  Brandon tore her away from her thoughts when he said, ‘There’s Wyatt.’

  The big man stepped out of his tiny corner office at the end of the motel, his belly swinging as it drooped over his belt. Under the fat he was solid as a lumberjack, but his knees were going and his face sported a new permanent wrinkle each time she saw him. Refusing to hire help might seem noble and stoic day to day, but in the long run it was obvious the sixteen-hour days were wearing him down.

  Brandon got out of the pickup and gestured for Addison to follow.

  She stepped down to the concrete and waited for him to round to the truck bed and take out a few items.

  He handed her a bat.

  She tried not to look at it, like denial would make it disappear.

  They crossed the street through the fog hovering under the tepid streetlights and walked right up to Wyatt.

  He handed Brandon a key labelled “46.” They handed him his payment and his lifeblood.

  Two glass vials of cloudy golden nectar.

  An observer might shudder — two hits in exchange for the life of an innocent woman. If the observer did shudder, it meant they hadn’t tried Bodhi. Nothing could resist it. All willpower wilted in the face of its wrath.

  Brandon moved away and Addison followed him. Wyatt retreated back into the privacy of his office, where the first vial would remove all traumatic thoughts about what he’d done. The two disciples moved to the correct door, coated in shadow at the end of the building. The frilly curtains were drawn, but lamp light glowed within.

  Brandon mouthed, ‘You unlock it. My hands are full.’

  He had a six-speed revolver in one hand and a hessian sack in the other.

  Addison slotted the key into the lock with dainty finesse. Poor Karlie wouldn’t hear a thing until—

  ‘Now,’ Brandon whispered.

  Addison twisted the now-unlocked knob and shouldered the door open. Her frame was small, but adrenaline lent her strength. Brandon had taken a half-dose of Bodhi an hour prior, so adrenaline — coupled with the flood of chemicals — made him lose all concern for his physical wellbeing. He nearly twisted an ankle in his haste to barge into the room.

  Karlie didn’t have time to scream.

  Brandon was at the foot of her bed in the first second, and had the revolver aimed at her head in the next. Karlie was a plain girl, pasty and chubby, with greasy hair and acne. Her soft eyes were overwhelmed with terror. She sat on the mattress, her back against the headboard, a faded paperback still gripped in her fingers.

  Addison closed the door behind her, sealing them all in.

  ‘Now, Karlie,’ Brandon said. ‘Don’t you make a sound or I’ll have to use this piece here. None of us want that.’

  ‘W-what do you want?’ Karlie stammered.

  Brandon said, ‘I’m going to put this bag on your head. Then we’re going to take a little trip.’

  ‘Is this about Jack?’

  Brandon cocked his head and feigned confusion, but Karlie saw right through it. She closed her eyes to hide the tears. ‘Please just tell me my brother’s okay.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ Brandon said, relenting. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  Her eyes stayed closed, so she didn’t see him round the bed and open the mouth of the sack. He yanked it down over her head and lowered her to the bed so she lay horizontal, sobbing into the coarse fabric.

  He nodded to Addison.

  She thought about running away from it all.

  Then the half-year of conditioning and brainwashing combined with the physical Bodhi dependence. It all rolled over her in a wave, and she accepted her lot in life.

  She walked over to the bed and swung the bat into Karlie’s skull.

  It connected with the crunch of cracking bone and the big girl went limp. Addison slammed the bat down twice more, an invisible anaesthetising wall separating her from her guilt. They dragged the body out of the motel, keeping away from the streetlights. They got her across the street without the interference of pesky witnesses and manhandled her into the truck bed.

  Addison’s stomach flipped end over end.

  She got back in the cabin beside her brother and a groan escaped her lips before she could stop it. It was an inhuman, alien sound, signifying the loss of humanity.

  She had nothing left.

  But she could still feel good in an empty husk of skin and bones if she activated certain receptors, so she split another vial of Bodhi with Brandon and they drove away in unadulterated bliss.

  They kept the silence at bay by reciting the mantras of the cause.

  1

  Nassau

  The Bahamas

  In a bare room gutted of furniture, Jason King seized Will Slater’s right thigh, yanked it up above the man’s hip, then stepped in with his lead leg and kicked hard.

  Slater’s left foot was the only point of contact with the wrestling mat beneath them, and when King kicked it aside he toppled over. All two-hundred and twenty pounds of King came down on top, but Slater bucked with the motion, utilising inhuman hip dexterity, and the pair rolled.

  Slater ended up on top, and he sliced a leg through to full mount so he straddled King’s stomach. King bucked, but he’d missed the window of momentum, and although he outweighed Slater by twenty pounds he went nowhere.

  Slater simulated a pair of elbows, stopping them inches short of the bridge of King’s nose.

  Sweat poured off them.

  King exhaled through pursed lips, sending perspiration flying, and gave a final animalistic effort.

  He bucked again, this time twisting to his side in an attempt to send Slater toppling off-balance. Slater moved with it in the way only a jiujitsu black belt could, aware of every subtle ounce of balance and poise. With King bucking like his life depended on it, anyone else would have been hurled aside by the force, but Slater made sure to leech every last drop of energy out of King’s muscles by rolling with it, staying composed in the face of King’s aggression.

  King ended up flattened out, sprawled on his stomach, with Slater now straddling his lower back.

  And Slater was fresh.

  King was heavy with lactic acid, still a force to be reckoned with, but vulnerable in the unforgiving realm of the black belt. Each subliminal mistake was amplified tenfold, and now Slater reached down and smacked a palm into King’s ear, reflexively sending his face to the other side for protection, whereupon it met Slater’s other arm.

  Slater looped the crook of his elbow into King’s exposed throat and locked the choke tight.

  He didn’t squeeze.

  He didn’t need to.

  King tapped out of courtesy before it became a war of machismo. Grit and toughness are paramount in the field, but utilising the traits every day in training led to the accumulation of wear-and-tear.

  Slater slid off King, pushing his face into the sweaty mat to accentuate the defeat.

  King wiped strands of hair off his forehead as he got up. ‘Lucky.’<
br />
  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Slater stopped short of rolling his eyes.

  They reset three feet from each other, legs slightly bent, hunched over in the precursor to a wrestling bout, and King’s abdomen distended with a giant breath. He was sucking air in great gulps, hoping to feed his dead muscles with as much oxygen as possible.

  Slater sensed blood in the water.

  He shot in for a lazy double-leg, convinced he had King on his last legs.

  King defended it with ease, and his laboured breathing vanished. An efficient bluff, because now Slater was out of position, scrambling to get back to steady footing before—

  King got his hands locked behind Slater’s back, giant shoulders around his waist, and picked Slater up like he weighed nothing.

  Dumped him down, came down on top of him, and this time when Slater went to roll he was a little more flustered.

  He left his arm out like it was on a silver platter.

  He realised, but by then King had pounced on it, seizing Slater’s wrist in a double-handed grip and feeding it between his legs. He locked in the armbar by extending the limb straight, then inched it past its physical limits, finally levering it into a position where the slightest pressure in the wrong direction would snap the whole thing like a flimsy twig.

  Slater tapped.

  They rolled away from each other, panting, sitting on their knees with their fists on the mat. Muscle sinew rippled, abdominal walls heaved, and the thin coating of sweat covering their bodies condensed at the ends of their elbows and jaws and dripped to the mats.

  Slater said, ‘Leave it at one apiece?’

  King said, ‘You should be a comedian.’

  On his knees, Slater scooted over to his smartphone on the edge of the mats, connected wirelessly to the strap around his chest that measured his heart rate. He scrolled through metrics, taking note, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘We’re good. Twenty more minutes and we’ll be overtraining.’

  ‘I only need one minute.’

  ‘Sure you do.’

  King charged.

  Slater fed him his leg deliberately, then reversed it and threw him down to the mats.

  They grappled like their lives hung in the balance.

  It was a perfect simulation of the real thing.

  2

  Violetta reflexively reached for the coffee grinder.

  She stopped short of gripping its rubber-coated handle.

  She was still in the first trimester — it was only the seventh or eighth week of her pregnancy — but she figured there was no point putting off the sacrifices that would be necessary down the line. Now was as good a time as any to quit caffeine, and she’d braced for the headaches that would follow. With most of her work in her role as handler and co-ordinator involving deep focus at her laptop or desktop computer, coffee had become a staple of her routine. She used it as her anchor — when she made an espresso, it was time to get down to business. Rigorous analysis of intelligence documents followed, and now she’d have to substitute the black brew for water or decaffeinated tea. The very thought made her shiver.

  In truth, she didn’t have to quit cold turkey, but King and Slater were rubbing off on her.

  It was either all or nothing, so she chose nothing.

  The two men came through the sliding doors into the kitchen.

  Sweat coated their bare chests, and their workout shorts were soaked. King went straight to the Italian coffee machine and switched it on, bringing the water to a boil as he ground beans into the metal portafilter, then pressed them down with the tamper.

  Slater went to the fridge and pulled out a clear gallon jug filled with water tinged blue by electrolytes. He downed half of it, his Adam’s apple convulsing with each swallow, and returned it to the shelf. Then he watched King use the machine to drip scalding hot water through the portafilter, culminating in an espresso you could put on a magazine cover.

  He jerked his chin toward Violetta and said, ‘Real considerate of you, King.’

  Violetta rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not going to go insane if someone drinks coffee in front of me.’

  Slater shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced. He’s a terrible boyfriend. I think you should dump him and raise the kid on your own.’

  King smirked as he sipped the crema off the top of the espresso. He turned to Violetta. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s mad that I got the better of him.’

  Slater fetched a bowl down from one of the cabinets and went back to the fridge for one of his prepped meals of grass-fed beef and collard greens. ‘That’s objectively false.’

  Violetta said, ‘Does it look like I care?’

  ‘You should,’ King said. ‘If I beat Slater any worse there’d be talk of kicking him off the team. I mean, honestly … pathetic performances recently.’

  Slater said, ‘I finished up 2-1. You want to make it 3-1 right here?’

  King finished the espresso, put the empty glass on the kitchen counter and beckoned with a Come on gesture.

  Violetta said, ‘No.’

  Slater pouted like a child.

  King said, ‘You’re no fun.’

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t want four hundred pounds of muscle coming down on my belly.’

  ‘We’re not that stupid,’ Slater said.

  Violetta cocked her head. ‘Debatable, Will.’

  He said, ‘How are you feeling?’

  She shrugged. ‘No different yet. It’s a little surreal. It’ll change things. Forever.’

  Slater straightened up, realising he was positioned between the couple. ‘I think we need to discuss the next nine months. We’ve been putting it off.’

  King jerked a thumb at Violetta and said, ‘We’ve talked. You’re not privy to all our conversations.’

  ‘That’s a conversation I need to be privy to,’ Slater said. ‘It affects me.’

  Violetta nodded.

  King said, ‘I never thought I’d be a father. I’m taking it more seriously than you might think.’

  Slater said, ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I’m thinking about going on hiatus for the next year. We both are.’

  Slater turned to Violetta. ‘I’d be mad if you still wanted to carry on with business as usual. But him?’

  King said, ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  Violetta said, ‘We’ve discussed this at length in private. Trust me, it’s for the best.’

  Slater said, ‘You expect me to do this on my own?’

  ‘If you and King go out to fight,’ she said, ‘and you get taken, or wounded… I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d go after you. I’d put the baby in danger.’

  Slater shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t be that stupid.’

  ‘Maybe it’s stupid,’ she said. ‘Maybe I love that man beside you too much. But I can’t change the fact that I do. I wouldn’t sit back and let him get tortured and killed if I could do something about it.’

  King said, ‘So we’re both out for the duration of the pregnancy.’

  Slater shook his head. ‘No you’re not.’

  King said, ‘Will…’

  Slater looked at him. ‘Trust me. I know you better than anyone. You see someone in trouble, you’re not going to be able to sit back. It’s the same as retirement, and look how well that worked out for us both.’

  King said, ‘It’s not retirement. It’s a break. It’ll be easier to cope with if I know I’ll be back in less than a year.’

  ‘And then you’ll jump back in with a newborn at home? I don’t think so. The same logic applies with a kid. You get compromised in the field, Violetta comes to save you, you both die. Then who looks after the baby?’

  Violetta said, ‘You do.’

  Slater didn’t respond.

  Violetta said, ‘I trust you and Alexis with my life. We both do. If something happens to us, we’d be honoured for you and Alexis to be his parents.’

  A poignant silence elapsed, but Slater couldn’t shy away
from the questions.

  ‘What about right now?’ he said. ‘Alexis is out there, doing work. What if she comes back with something?’

  ‘Then you’ll chase it up,’ King said.

  ‘What if it takes the both of us?’

  King didn’t answer.

  A footstep sounded on the villa’s porch.

  They all turned.

  Alexis stepped inside, her skin a deep bronze. She wore a loose sundress, and her black hair flowed down past her shoulders.

  She said, ‘Mickey Ream.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘That’s his name,’ Alexis said. ‘He’s going after Dylan Walcott’s empire.’

  3

  Slater looked pointedly at King and Violetta, if only to hammer his point home.

  They didn’t react.

  Alexis took in the room’s atmosphere and said, ‘What’d I walk into?’

  Slater said, ‘Actually, you came right on time. Better to discuss this now.’

  She grimaced as her mood shifted. He could see the disappearing pride in her eyes, the satisfaction of successfully acquiring intel now dissipated by the dead mood in the villa.

  They’d been tracking the aforementioned Mickey Ream for the past week. All they had to work with were scraps of information — an Australian expat causing trouble in Nassau, having fled his criminal past in Queensland to start anew in The Bahamas. Violetta had already found data from his past life in Australia. His real name was Raymond Doyle, but he wasn’t using that identity over here. He was a ghost. He’d come onto their radar almost as soon as they’d touched down in Nassau because he’d gotten reckless. As far as they knew, he was a small-timer running an extortion racket out of coastal bars along the shoreline, with no fixed HQ. But he’d sensed a power vacuum at the top after news of Walcott’s demise spread.

  Now he was hunting for the throne.

  ‘Tell us what happened first,’ Slater said.

  Alexis said, ‘He’s a good-looking guy, which helped. It was clear he’d never had trouble with the ladies before — I barely had to look at him before he came onto me. If he was less confident, he wouldn’t have approached, and if I did all the work he would have been suspicious. So I did everything we planned. Sat across the table at his regular brunch spot, ordered the same thing he always did. That was what he first commented on. Our mutual affection for egg burritos. We chatted, he asked if I wanted to sit at his table, I said yes. We chatted some more. I got flirty. He told me his new name, offered to take me to some lobster restaurant tonight. I said it was out of my price range, he said I didn’t have to worry about money, he had plenty. I started prying, but I kept it flirty. He gave away too much. Said he was already very successful, but had something in the pipeline that’d take him to another level. He said he’s moving the pieces into place over the next few days. Said if he pulled it off he wanted to take me to every five-star restaurant on the island. I took him up on the offer, and agreed to a drink tonight at one of the bars he frequents. The one on Bay Street that’s made to look like a speakeasy.’