The Overseer

by Conlan Brown

  John could feel the urgency from the next room.

  Dalton Waters standing, duffle bag in hand. A bulletproof vest and rifle inside the bag, along with ammunition, a mask, and various other items.

  Going to the door.

  Leaving. Heading for…somewhere.

  “You have to let us go,” John Temple said, standing in the middle of the hotel room, stepping toward Vince.

  “No”—Vince wagged a finger—“not a chance. You’re staying here. Things are going to play out naturally. No interference from you two.”

  “We know there’s going to be an act of violence,” John snarled. “We have to do something. We have a moral obligation— or it’s the same as killing that man ourselves.”

  “No, we don’t,” Vince rebutted. “We don’t have to get involved. It’s not our fight—and some things simply have to be allowed to play out. This is one of those things.”

  “John’s right,” Trista said from her place on the couch. “I don’t know the extent to which each individual should be expected to take care of everyone else, but we’re called to this. This is something that we have to do. Otherwise John wouldn’t be getting the visions he’s getting.”

  “No.” Vince shook his head. “Devin Bathurst was called to this, and he put it on you to finish it for him.”

  “But someone was called,” John said.

  “Yes,” Vince agreed, “but he chose a different calling and left this one.”

  “Fine.” John could feel the situation coming together, time slipping through his fingers.

  Dalton Waters and his associates making their way to their respective places—bags filled with weapons and scads of ammunition.

  John turned toward the door of the hotel room. “I’m leaving.”

  “Whoa!” Vince ordered, stepping in front of John, the other three guards getting up from their places. “You’re not going anywhere. Do you understand?”

  “Or what?” John stepped up to Vince, eyes focused on the other man’s pupils. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  Vince pushed his sport coat open and put his hand on the grip of the pistol he’d tucked in his pants. John took another step, and Vince pushed him back with his left hand, reaching for the pistol with the other.

  “Back!” he shouted, pistol pointed downward but ready to be raised.

  John glanced at Trista, sitting on the edge of the couch, then back at Vince. “I can shout and scream at the top of my lungs,” he said smugly, “and when the neighbors complain about the noise—”

  “They’ll call the room,” Vince interjected, “and I’ll tell them it was my kids and that I’ll keep them quiet.”

  “But when the noise doesn’t stop, they’ll send someone.”

  “By then”—Vince shrugged—“it’ll all be over, and we’ll all just go our separate ways.”

  Dalton Waters getting into a van, tossing a bag of guns onto the floor. The driver starting the engine.

  “How long have we been friends, Vince?” John asked, looking him in the eye.

  A sudden look of sobriety crossed Vince’s face. “A long time.”

  “Kind of a stupid thing to end a friendship over, disagreeing on whether or not to let a United States senator be assassinated.”

  Vince shook his head, sincerely apologetic. “I’m sorry, John.”

  “I’m sorry too, Vince,” John said sadly. He lunged forward and punched Vince in the nose.

  Shouts of confusion and protest erupted from the other guards as John ripped the pistol from the man’s hand, taking him hostage.

  Men in the lobby bathroom stalls, pulling on ski masks and jamming magazines into automatic rifles.

  “We’re going!” John announced, motioning to Trista with his head.

  Vince touched his bloodied nose, trying to pull away from John. “You wouldn’t shoot me,” he blustered.

  “Really?” John asked, the guards pointing their weapons at him from their places around the room. “Have you ever killed anyone, Vince? I did, once. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night. Which is why I won’t kill you”—he jammed the pistol into the back of Vince’s arm—“but I will blow your elbow away if I have to!”

  “Let him go,” one of the guards barked.

  “Trista.” John turned to her. “Get out of here and run.” He ignored the guards as he spoke over their demands. “Don’t go anywhere near where the assassination is supposed to be.” He wrangled the squirming Vince. “Run!”

  She stood, moved past them, toward the door, opened it.

  John shoved Vince and followed Trista out of the door.

  Devin sat perfectly still, watching Angelo across the aisle.

  Their eyes locked. The bus shook, hitting some kind of imperfection in the street. Their gaze didn’t break.

  “You’re here to stop me,” Devin stated, still tense and prepared.

  Angelo’s eyes, dark and intense, seemed to look right through Devin. In a fraction of a second his eyes darted down, and when they came back up, the intensity was gone. “No.” Angelo took a quick look at the few people in nearby seats, apparently trying to determine if they were being listened to. He whispered, “I’m not well.” He articulated the statement with more lucidity than Devin thought possible.

  “I know,” Devin agreed.

  “There’s too much going on in my head,” he whispered, looking as if he might cry. “The human mind isn’t supposed to endure this much information from conflicting sources. It’s confusing and distressing.”

  Devin listened patiently, then spoke. “What do you need, Angelo?”

  Angelo wiped his face with the back of his black coat, dark hair shifting. “I’m not well,” he repeated, “but I do have the ability to reason. And I can see that my attempting to stop you won’t prevent you from trying. Or the others, for that fact.”

  Devin leaned closer. “Why are you here, Angelo?”

  “I am a reasonable person,” Angelo said again, his lucidity starting to slip, “and I hope that you are too.”

  “OK,” Devin accepted. “What do you have to say to me?”

  “The reckoning,” Angelo stated with sudden stability.

  Devin frowned. “What?”

  “When the Firstborn are removed, the reckoning will come, and the Firstborn will be destroyed. And then,” he sighed, “the truly bad things will happen.”

  “What things?” Devin asked, watching Angelo slip toward confusion again. “Angelo, what things?”

  “It’s in the prophecy of Alessandro D’Angelo.”

  “What prophecy?” Devin demanded.

  “It’s hidden,” Angelo muttered.

  “Where? Where is it hidden?”

  Angelo’s head hung for a moment, stringy hair covering his face, then looked up, eyes tortured. “I’m still a man,” he said, face pained. “I know you can’t let them kill innocent people. But if you interfere—even if you fail—you’ll doom the Firstborn and countless others.”

  “How?”

  Angelo shook his head. “I don’t know how. I just know that when I see the future I see your interference—and then I see what they did to me. I see”—Angelo winced as he said the word—“pain.”

  “Who?” Devin asked. “Who caused you pain?”

  Angelo shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  The bus stopped.

  “This is your stop,” Angelo conceded, eyes darting toward the hydraulic doors as they opened automatically.

  Devin stayed sitting. “You’re really going to let me go?”

  Angelo looked back at him. “I won’t stop you. I know better than to try. But,” he added, “you’ll have to live with the consequences of whatever choice you make. You can trust that I’m not completely out of my mind, and let a man be executed and others hurt, or you trust your conscience and intervene.”

  Devin blinked, not certain what Angelo was doing.

  “Go!” Angelo blustered, standing, pointing toward the door. “Hurry! There�
�s isn’t time!”

  Shock hit Devin like a breaking wave. Had Angelo suddenly lost faith in his own ability to see outside of the confines of time? Or had he suddenly gained some strange confidence in Devin?

  “Get out of here!” Angelo growled, something flashing in his eyes that had only seemed to be there in muted tones up to this point. Something irrational, flawed, self-destructive, and alone—humanity.

  The doors started to close.

  “Wait!” Devin shouted toward the driver. “This is my stop!” The doors cracked open again, and he moved toward them, left the bus—

  —and ran.

  One of the guards who had chased after John and Trista walked back into the hotel room.

  “Where is Temple?” Vince asked, bleeding into his hand as he clutched his nose. Temple had slugged him right in the nose and hit him harder than he’d first realized.

  “We didn’t see. We’re going to have to track them down before—”

  Vince’s phone rang in his jacket, and he removed it with his free hand, trying not to bleed on himself. He checked the caller ID—Clay Goldstein. Vince flipped the phone open. “Mr. Goldstein?”

  “Let it go, Vincent,” Clay said with the casual ease that characterized him.

  “What?”

  “John and Trista; let ’em go. This is something they think they’ve got to do.”

  Vince stepped into the hotel bathroom, spitting a glob of blood into the sink. “I’m Overseer,” Vince protested.

  “You’re only Overseer because I say so.”

  “I’m not your puppet,” Vince growled, washing blood down the drain.

  “The agreement was that you did what I said and I’d support you as Overseer. It was supposed to give me distance and keep me safe—not give you license to harass our people and let senators die on national television.”

  “I’m still Overseer,” Vince argued, pulling tissues from a box.

  Clay spoke firmly. “I made the calls, Vince. I’ll have your job by this afternoon—and if you want any place of authority in the restructuring, then you’ll do what I say.”

  Vince closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll call them off.”

  Trista ran down the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her. John caught up and rushed past her to slam through a door. He held it open for her as they ducked down another hallway, through another door, then exploded into the sunlight.

  They were at the back of the hotel, near a loading dock. “Where now?” Trista asked, looking around.

  John turned to her, a look of shock on his face. “No,” he said, “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

  “What?” she asked, mind racing.

  John took the gun he’d grabbed from Vince and put it in her hand. “Take this. Stay safe.”

  “John,” she argued, “I’m coming with you.”

  He grabbed her by the upper arms, holding tight. “Listen to me, Trista! Angelo warned me!”

  “About what?” she asked, knowing that every single moment they wasted was another moment closer to massacre.

  “He told me that the Thresher wants you dead. And I can’t let that happen, Trista!”

  “What?” she stammered, his strong hands holding her arms tight, bright eyes looking deep into hers. The whole world seemed to be spinning.

  “I know I’ve said it all before, but this may be my last time to say it ever again.” He nearly shook her as he spoke. “I have to do this, Trista. I have to go, and you have to stay safe.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, shaking her head, sorting through the dizzying spiral of thoughts.

  “If anything ever happened to you,” John said, eyes red, “I’d go crazy. I’d go completely crazy. I can’t let that happen. I’ll die before I let anything happen to you!” He stopped and looked into her eyes with his own soulful gaze. “I love you, Trista. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire—”

  She kissed him before he could finish. Long. Passionate. As if it were the last time she ever would. As if it were the only time she ever had. John tried to step away, but she held on to him. He returned to her, embracing her with strong arms—then tore himself away.

  John backed away from her, slowly at first, eyes still locked. Then he turned and ran.

  Trista felt something tear at her heart. She had always aspired to control her heart, to be the master of her feelings. But there had always been one thing that took every weakness in her and turned her into a slave to her heart. She hated him for it. And yet…

  Trista watched as John disappeared around the corner of the hotel.

  “I love you too, John,” she whispered.

  The journalists set up outside of the hotel just at the front doors, filling the sidewalk with tripods, cameras, and bustling people. Television and print journalists alike formed around the area, making a pocket for the senator when he arrived through the glass doors ahead of them. There was a podium with a dozen or so microphones set up in the middle of it all for the senator to make his statements.

  A cameraman wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched as the senator’s security approached, asking to see the contents of their bags. It was ridiculous, he thought. He’d never seen this kind of security for a senator before.

  “Three minutes,” an aide announced, letting them know that the press conference would begin shortly.

  Security might be tight, the cameraman thought, but at least it made sure they were all safe.

  John Temple ran toward the street, staring out at the cars—then saw the cargo van with tinted windows.

  There.

  He could feel it. Dalton Waters was in that van.

  John ran, rushing as fast as his body could carry him, watching the vehicle roll along at thirty miles per hour. Just fast enough to see the vehicle going out of sight.

  The van came to an intersection filled with cars and stopped at the red light. John pushed himself, feet coming down in a steady patter of lightning-quick steps.

  Just ahead.

  He dodged between a set of cars and came up beside the van— this was it. He could feel it. The guns, the masks, the men, the plan.

  John grabbed the side door handle, opened it, climbed into the backseat, slamming the door shut. The two men sat in the front, a black bag between them.

  “What the—?” the driver shouted, shocked and confused.

  Dalton, wearing a sport coat over a bulletproof vest and a pulled-back balaclava, turned to see. “John?”

  “You can’t do this!” John stated with firm resolve.

  “Who is this?” the driver demanded, turning to Dalton.

  Dalton ignored the question, swiveling in his seat. “What are you doing?”

  The light turned green, and traffic began to move. The driver looked confused for a moment before driving forward.

  “I know what’s going on,” John said, “and I’m not going to allow it.”

  “Get this guy out of the van!” the driver shouted, before releasing a string of panicked profanity.

  A small yellow walkie-talkie in Dalton’s hand crackled. “All teams in position. Are we a go?”

  “You’re compromised,” John said to Dalton, still focusing on him. “The plan is compromised. Tell them to abort!”

  Dalton lifted the walkie to his mouth. “All teams”—he focused on John as he spoke—“we are a g—!”

  John lunged forward, reaching for the walkie-talkie, trying to rip it from Dalton’s hands. Dalton bashed the radio into the side of John’s head and pulled a gun, shoving the pistol toward John’s face.

  John stared down the muzzle and froze.

  Senator Warren Foster walked out of the glass doors of the hotel and stepped up to the podium, cameras clicking in a loud volley of sound. There was chatter from everyone in the crowd, all trying to get their questions answered.

  He gestured to everyone to be quiet. “Thank you for coming today,” he said with the smile he’d been practicing, the one that his people told him made
him a potential candidate for the presidency someday. “If you’re all patient, I’d like to get to all of your questions this morning.”

  A flurry of hands raised.

  “Yes, you,” he said, pointing to a reporter, signaling that he would accept their questions—and the conference began.

  Devin thundered down the sidewalks. The hotel was ahead. A tall building with bright lights for signs and floodlights illuminating its sheer walls. Green glass and gold etchings covered everything, art deco across every visible surface.

  He could see it. Feel it. The future was arriving at a breakneck speed—driving his burning legs to catch up with the very force and time. Against the very momentum of inevitability.

  His vision seemed to blur as he pushed himself forward—the impact of each footfall reverberating up his legs and through his body.

  Closer and closer.

  Devin shoved through the doors of the hotel and stopped. He was at the wrong end of the building.

  To his immediate right were the stairs to the overhead monorail train. Ahead and to the right was the casino. Directly ahead—down a promenade lined with shops, stores, restaurants, and bars, expensive polished surfaces and trinkets of outrageous price—was the lobby. That’s where the press conference was taking place.

  Brightly lit with an incredibly high ceiling, marble floors, and gaudy architecture lined by colored lights and flat-panel television advertising the sights and the shows. Like a museum of ludicrously expensive designer baubles.

  Devin took a step forward toward the sporadic patches of people.

  “Get out of the van!” Dalton ordered.

  John stood his ground, staring into the gaping void of the gun barrel. “No!”

  “Just shoot him!” the panicky driver shouted. “We’re almost there. There’s no time. Shoot him now!”

  Dalton pulled the black balaclava over his face, hiding his identity but still revealing conflicted eyes. “John, I’m only going to ask one more time, and then I really will shoot you—please, get out of the van!”

  John looked at the speeding traffic around them, wondering if he was expected to jump and take his chances.