Black Water

by S. D. Rudd

  “Oh, so you do talk,” Sylvain said. “Perhaps I should have calculated your speaking at that particular moment, no?” He ran his hand across his mouth. “Would it surprise you if I told you I did? That I knew exactly what to say to get your lips moving?”

  If he doesn’t strangle me, his babbling might put me in a coma.

  “Ok, I did.”

  “What do you want from me!”

  He thought about it. “Actually, you have nothing I really want. You are useless, futile, ineffectual, inadequate, a complete waste of life and time. Something should have killed you long ago but for some reason you survive. Did I use enough descriptive terms? I can expel more if you’d like.”

  “Then why do you hold me captive? Why not let me go? You said yourself I’m worthless.”

  His hesitation was on purpose, she sensed. “Actually, I said you were ‘useless, futile, ineffectual, inadequate, a complete waste of life and time’ but I’ll give your synopsis an A. You do understand synopsis, hmm? It’s my understanding that you’re a writer? Stories? Novels?”

  How does he know so much about me?

  “An A for effort…or is that the letter E? That would mean A was for Alan and E must lead to an execution. But you tell me; you’re the English scholar. My area of focus is trigonometry. Calculus.

  “It would be vain for me to believe for one split second that I would know more about the English language than you…although I do expel more vocabulary than the strands of hair I may pull out of your head for shear entertainment value alone.”

  “Oh, this isn’t happening,” she muttered.

  “Oh, but it is,” he said.

  Sylvain leaned back in his chair, holding his glare, and drove his hands inside his pockets. Her eyes seesawed between both pockets as she wondered which weapon he would use to bring her excruciating pain. The knife in his right…or whatever was in his left. She made the mistake of showing her fear by saying, “are you going to kill me now?”

  Sylvain’s laugh was so genuine it made Monica jerk away, her back smacking against the concrete wall. When the laughter had subsided he asked, “is that what you want, little lady? Me to kill you? Get it over with?”

  Monica wasn’t sure whether to answer him or not. Her knees trembled, the blood drained from her face. The room felt dreamy. She was losing it. All. “No,” she whimpered.”

  He shot her a confused look. “I’m sorry my hunter’s knife failed to understand you.”

  “No!” she shouted, realizing that Sylvain had heard her the first time but he just wanted to hear the quaver in her voice. He was starting to break her down. “I don’t wanna die,” she said.

  Sylvain laughed harder. Like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life. Still laughing, he jumped up—Monica squirmed to the side—and left the empty steel chair sitting there in front of her as he casually walked over to the stairwell. Laughing.

  He paused at the top step and faced her. “You are indeed useless to me,” he said, calm now. “However, you are not useless to the cause and I think you’ve calculated that much, seeing how you chose such audacious words when you’re actually in no position to speak anything at all.”

  Another pause was to let it sink in again.

  “You’ve been in my possession nearly seven days now,” he said.

  Seven days! Where’s Alan? I have to get out of here!

  “That being said, if I wanted you dead I would have left you in that burning restaurant.” He turned to leave. “With your lover.” Sylvain took his first step downstairs. All she saw was the back half of him, the other half being blocked by the stairwell wall. Monica heard “Mister Nichols has three days to find Alan” echo off the stairwell walls. “If he fails, you will die.”

  Then he disappeared behind the wall. Monica finally broke down. No matter how hard she fought it she could not stop the tears. It wasn’t long before she gave in to full fledge wailing. Three days?

  Three days.

  She hoped to God Mathias would find Alan in three days. And she hoped Alan was smart enough to not give up his secret before he’d had the chance to remember how to use it again.

  FIFTEEN

  MATHIAS NICHOLS WOULD love to kill again. Not on these terms, at the beckon of some weakling posing as a viable threat to him, and certainly not while interrupting his much anticipated plans to spend a month in Tahiti.

  Tahiti.

  That’s where he needed to be, away from the lure of death, away from the decaying notion that he did not need to look over his shoulder with every step.

  Like it was for him at home; home sweet home.

  People were after him but there was no fear because the ones with a bounty on him didn’t have a face to put with the head. Didn’t even have an accurate description so that meant Mathias was a ghost and his pursuers used primitive devices to locate him.

  Either way, he was the best hitter.

  He knew the tricks; he’d mastered the trade.

  The elimination of concern did not erase precaution, though. Everything Mathias did, the circling of the block two times, the starting of the car’s engine via remote from a safe blast zone distance, was just precautions. One thing he’d learned over the years was to never underestimate his enemy. That and the Shaka Zulu theory: never leaving an enemy behind less they rise up against you later.

  So he spared no victims and when an assistant grew too confident he eliminated him without warning. Only Sylvain Ambrose thought on similar levels yet with a minor handicap…he trusted his goons too much.

  Mathias trusted no one.

  He didn’t trust the Glock 19 strapped to his side underneath his suit blazer. So he kept a 9 millimeter on his ankle in case his Glock jammed or got pulled from his side, which has never happened as of yet.

  And even then, he always kept a flash grenade close by.

  No one expects a hit man to carry a flash so when he drops that during a struggle, shielding his eyes, he immediately has the advantage to take each of them apart while they stagger around hoping to regain their sight.

  Bottom line, Mathias trusted no one.

  And he was always prepared.

  Sure the goons sitting in the darkened SUV on the far opposite end of the a recently demolished restaurant did everything he told them to do. But he had a bullet with each of their name engraved on it for the day Mathias was double-crossed.

  Even if that day never came, when he was through with this mission of locating Alan, he would retire each of them point blank.

  But Alan…whoever this Alan was that Ambrose assigned to Mathias the hit, was going to be his priority.

  Yet it was a bad day for killing and Mathias knew it.

  Because, if he killed today, there was a better chance of being linked to the Samuel assassination a few days ago. His families too. Unless he did it another way.

  Made this one look amateur. Crime of passion.

  Multiple stab wounds. Strangulation. Something.

  Either way he had to simulate an intense struggle, even though few could ever overpower his tactics. Still something about this hit seemed odd.

  Ambrose.

  The dude was unnoticeably petrified.

  None of his goons could detect it but he could.

  Maybe it was something about Ambrose’s tone back at the warehouse or his unusual demeanor that swallowed some of Mathias’ rebuttals without retaliating that gave him away. But it was clear.

  It was crystal clear.

  This Alan kid was dangerous…thus the reason for Mathias calling the goon squad.

  He sat lazily behind the wheel of a darkened luxury sedan, windows limo tinted yet legally since he had the “for hire” tags on his car, he fantasized over methods, running scenarios in his mind…killing scenarios.

  Just when he got deep enough into the thought process to lose conscious of his surroundings, the LED screen on his phone came to life.

  Mathias never used a ringtone or the vibrate feature. He just never knew what s
ituation he would be in and that vibrate would be the reason as to why a bullet found his forehead.

  Not on his watch.

  He checked the screen and swore.

  “What,” Mathis said, not even a hint of sugar on this coat.

  “You need to already be there,” he heard the thin voice of Shawn Ramsey say through the Bluetooth earpiece.

  “And what makes you think I’m not, small man?”

  “It was merely a check in Nichols, no need to get defensive.”

  “If I were defensive you would never know it.”

  Mathias heard a short pause before, “are you finished making threats?”

  “I don’t make threats, boy.”

  Now Mathias was on the receiving end of a longer silence. He loved to control every situation with unnecessary passive aggression…but he never smiled about it.

  He never smiled at all.

  “So we’re all checked in. Now why am I talking to you? Oh wait, let me help you out since you like to check in and give orders. Have my men ready to go…”

  “Your men?” Shawn said, “since when did they become your men Nichols? They work for me, not the other way around…”

  “And you work for me, you idiot, so that makes them my men. You do what I say, when I say it and the moment you even think you have control over the situation is the moment you’ll be found floating face down in the Potomac with as much body deformation inhumanly possible.”

  That got under Shawn’s skin which was the point. Shawn had nothing to say.

  “You still with me, Shawn? Or do you need a few baby wipes?”

  A short pause and then, “I’m just in it for the money, man, geez,” crept out.

  “So that’s a yes, you need a new depends.”

  “Are we finished here Nichols?”

  Mathias thought about further being a butthole but he was satisfied enough with the previous effort. “Yeah, I think we’re good here.”

  “I cannot thank you enough,” Shawn said, oozing with disdain, which ignited Mathias’ blood but he suppressed the urge to comeback. They didn’t have time for this right now.

  “So, where were we…oh yeah, that…have my men in position. This needs to look like a lost motorist who’s run into someone from the past expectantly.”

  “I thought you said Sylvain wants him alive?”

  “He does but only for a season and a short-lived one at that.”

  “What does he even want with Alan?” Shawn said. “I don’t get it. Ian has already delivered the documentation to Keith Solomon.” Shawn paused. “Keith Solomon is the weapon’s specialist for the…”

  “I know who the devil Keith Solomon is,” Mathias interrupted, growing weary of this guy’s thin high-pitched voice. “And I don’t know what this animal wants with Alan. I pulled up his file, he’s just an average loser with no special skills.”

  “No special skills. Is that why you called the goons?”

  For the first time Mathias was stuck. He knew that Shawn had hit the nail on the head. He would, however, keep his finger pressed firmly on the point. “No apparent special skills,” he corrected.

  “Yet, there is something about him, isn’t it Nichols?”

  No truer words were ever spoken. As Mathias checked his watch, he felt an uneasiness settle into his bones. He didn’t like this, something was not right.

  “I don’t know anything about this guy,” Mathias started, “but what I do know is I have to get him to Ambrose before me and my men can mutilate his flesh. After that, I already know what’s going to happen next.”

  “You’re gonna kill Sylvain, “Shawn said.

  Mathias reached up to his earpiece and held it with his thumb and index finger. “I’m gonna kill em all, Shawn. Every last one of em, I’m gonna kill em…I’m gonna kill em…but not until after I learn what’s so special about this kid.”

  “Then you’re gonna wire me my take?”

  Mathias pushed the button on his Bluetooth headset to end the call.

  He never responded to Shawn’s question.

  SIXTEEN

  IT WAS LIKE Star Trek.

  One moment Alan sat on the window sill of the old wooden house contemplating the abandonment of all escape attempts, the next he was pulled through a beam of light at an incredible speed.

  Many colors so vivid, so rich, shot pass him on all sides resembling the northern lights but only in a more concentrated form. And brilliant. Centered. Like a highway. But the highway was light and the light was his vehicle. A vehicle he had no control over for it yanked at him without manmade devices to moderate speed or direction.

  Just light.

  Everywhere.

  Bright. Not even a hint of darkness. No shadows. No shading. Everything, including his limbs, shown with same intensity of the vortexes brilliance. It was almost as if the source of the light were actually Alan and not the vortex at all.

  As he was propelled through it, he looked down at his hands and marveled. Every finger glowed. The light had invaded every inch of his body and shown straight through it.

  His fingernails.

  They were impossible to make out for the light made it seem as if the finger and the nail were one unified component, without separation and without distinction of pigmentation.

  Wow, he thought. Just like heaven.

  Felt like it too. While being projected, he had the most sensational feeling envelop his body. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry out in joy, he wanted to sing and dance all at the same time. Healing rejuvenated his bones and the soreness around his wrists had washed away. Alan wouldn’t be able to tell until he arrived at his destination, but he believed his thermal heat sensor had been restored.

  The trip had to have lasted about fifteen minutes but he enjoyed it so much that it seemed like it was over in seconds. A fading thought before he hit the earth was of Camille, her vulnerability, her fear and her strong love for him, although Alan did not know why.

  Then he thought about Monica. It was as if the further he got away from the house, the more he could remember…the less. It wasn’t long before he impacted the earth with a force that should have killed him.

  But he was not hurt.

  SEVENTEEN

  “ALAN.”

  He heard a gentle male voice that soothed him. His muscles relaxed at each ripple, baritone, yet soft and breathy tone. When he first heard his name Alan’s stomach fluttered. Then it hit him. He knew this voice. But how?

  “Alan,” he heard again. His body twitched, coming to life. Blood began to flow into his toes and his fingertips, bringing warmth and feeling. His nostrils popped with an air that filled his lungs and stimulated his mind. Fragrance. The fragrance he now smelled was of frankincense. He didn’t know how he knew that but he was familiar with this experience too.

  As he lay there on the ground, he assumed, his eyes remained shut out of exhaustion. The vortex had sapped every ounce of his strength. Yes, it was the most exhilarating field trip of his life, possibly of any he would experience ever again. But it left him drained and, like jetlag from an inbound flight from Honolulu to Dulles after an eight-day retreat, he was determined to lay there for a while.

  If possible.

  “Alan,” the male voice said, more melodic this time. Yes, he knew this voice; he was sure of it. “Alan. Alan, can you hear me?”

  I can.

  “Do you trust me?”

  I do.

  “How long will you love me?”

  Forever.

  “And always?”

  Even in death.

  “Then get up!”

  His eyelids snapped opened, mind suddenly conscience. The voice he knew called out to him and he sprang up from the ground and started walking. Not even knowing to where. Just walking. It was not until he took his focus away from the voice of indescribable peace that he realized he had stepped out of his body. And into thin air. What was he walking on?

  He didn’t know. But he heard the voice again and he hastened
to what looked like a white lion. As he came up to the image he saw that it was a white lion. His façade was fierce, his eyes were as a blazing inferno that pierced through his heart, making him feel naked, and his fur shown with such brilliance Alan had to wonder how he was able to see it without going blind.

  A lion, he thought.

  Then the lion spoke again. “Alan.”

  His teeth gave the obvious statement of a predator yet he could not fear because of the voice. He had never heard it…but he knew it. Never recognized it but he knew it was of his Father. There was such tranquility in its tone, such love, even its eyes were filled with love.

  Alan felt foolish at the very thought of being afraid.

  The white lion turned and took a few steps before glancing over his shoulder, as if leading the way, and then continued. Alan did not have to be told to come.

  He just did. The same way he followed…Camille.

  Alan started to forget about her and the house again. The thought alarmed him for the first time. Or was it the third? No, he had to remember. He would make himself remember because he had to go back for her.

  Soon.

  The lion walked beside him as if it was a trained pet but the two were kin. They walked without exchanging words for what seemed like an hour until they came to a river spilling a few hundred feet over a large embankment into a calm lake with no end. The shore was grassy, vibrant and blanketed with lilies and exotic flowers, all colors, even some that Alan did not know existed.

  It was a perfect getaway from a hectic week.

  The white lion gazed up at him with a hint of a smile—as best his incredible jaws would allow, which wasn’t much—and a twinkle in his eyes. It returned its focus back towards the current and stepped out onto it, neither sinking nor being towed away. The lion glanced at Alan again and Alan joined him. His right foot touched the water and, in an instant, Alan was on dry land.

  Whirling around, he saw that they were somehow teleported to the other side. Once there Alan was a bit surprised to see the land so dry.

  Brown.