IA: Invincible Assassin

by John Darryl Winston

  “Midget!” yells Shed.

  “That’s not my name!” the boy yells back over his shoulder.

  Naz looks at the little boy for a moment, apparently reading his mind and then says something that causes the boy to move quickly behind him.

  “Where’s your leader?” Naz stands slowly, looking past Shed, half his face shrouded by the hood he wears. He’s got some of the paint on his face, a new look, I suppose.

  “Hey,” Shed calls, trying to regain Naz’s attention. “I-I’m the leader.”

  “You?” Naz tilts his head, still not looking at the gang leader. “Shed is it … as in toolshed?”

  “As in Shedrick,” he barks.

  “You’re not the leader,” Naz scoffs. “You’re too scared.”

  “What?”

  “What are you afraid of?” asks Naz, just now turning to look at Shed and taking a step toward him. “You have me outnumbered, right?”

  Shed reaches for something under his shirt, but the object flies into Naz’s hand before he can get to it. All the gang members murmur amongst themselves, probably not believing their eyes. Some take a step back. Naz doesn’t look at the gun he now holds in his hand but points it at all the gang members and to no one in particular. They all take a step back, including Shed.

  “Does this make you uncomfortable?” Naz asks the Apostles as he stops pointing the weapon and examines it.

  Then, something else catches Naz’s attention, and he looks up into the rafters, just for a second, before he turns his eyes back to them. He’s scanning the area in back of the Apostles. He knows I’m here, and his next move will bear that out. He remembers his promise about not being careless again.

  Some of the gang members move to take advantage of Naz’s brief drifting, but Naz immediately focuses and points the gun at them again. As if ice fills their veins, they freeze.

  “Then why do you carry them?” Naz tilts his head again. “I have an idea. Your guns, knives, chains, brass knuckles, nails, spikes, whatever else you have, take them out … all of them and lay ’em on the floor.” Naz brandishes the gun.

  The Apostles look at each other.

  Naz points the gun directly at Shed’s head and yells, “Now!”

  “Do it,” Shed commands. “Hurry up; he’s not playin’.”

  Apostles pull out weapons of every form. From holsters, pockets, socks, and inside their pants, they pull guns, all manner of knives, stars, darts, and chains. It was as if Naz saw through whatever cloak they used to conceal them. He did. One gang member has something that looks like a box-cutter he had pulled from a pocket on the side of his ball cap. They slowly and carefully place everything on the floor.

  “That’s not all of ’em,” Naz says calmly.

  I shake my head, never ceasing to be amazed by the skills my haunted friend possesses.

  “Steve!” yells the leader.

  Finally, Steve pulls a gun out of the back of his pants and a switchblade from his sock and places them on the floor.

  “You can come out now,” says Naz.

  I guess that’s my cue. I give up my invisibility by appearing from behind the gang, walking between them. I nudge one of them with my elbow to make a bit more room for my entrance. They turn their heads to finally see me as I pass them. A feeling of fear radiates from them.

  “It’s the other one,” one of the thugs mutters.

  I walk up and stand right next to Naz, facing the opposite direction. “Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask in a way that only Naz can hear while he looks at the small boy.

  “I’m listening,” says Naz.

  “Hey,” yells Shed. “What are you gonna—”

  “Excuse me,” Naz snaps, silencing Shed. “We’re talking here.”

  I motion with my head for Naz to move back away from the gang for more privacy. Naz complies, keeping the gun trained on them. The small boy moves with us as if he were part of us now, on our team, if you will. Naz and I look at him and then back at each other with raised eyebrows. It’s only then I recognize him. He was carrying his sister that day when I took Naz to see Juba Lee, forced to be a man when no man was around. At least with the gang, there’s someone to look up to, someone to protect you when the bad guys come. In the Exclave, the bad guys always come. Maybe Midget thought it was easier to be a bad guy.

  “What’s all this?” I say, referring to the paint on Naz’s face.

  “What?”

  I use my hand this time, indicating his face, although I’m pretty sure he knows what I’m talking about. “I know you’re trying to find some answers … avenge Meri, but whatever your original goals, you’re completely lost now. Look at ’em.” I nod to the Apostles who stand in fear.

  Naz shrugs, lowering the gun and taking his attention away from the Apostles. Some of them notice and move to pick up their weapons.

  “Wait.” Naz appears to focus.

  Like reverse metal raindrops and hail from hell, every weapon on the floor flies straight into the rafters not making a sound. The little boy stands watching, his eyes and mouth wide open.

  “You were saying.” Naz once again gives me his attention.

  “Nice! Where’s your remorse … your guilt? I think you’re enjoying this a little too much,” I say.

  “We’re all guilty. Might as well have fun while I’m at it.” Naz bites his bottom lip.

  “What about him?” I nod, indicating the little boy.

  “We can take ’em,” says Midget.

  Naz and I look at our little friend from the day of Juba Lee.

  “You watch ’im. I got work to do.” Naz turns toward the gang.

  “I’m not here to babysit.”

  “Babysit?” the small boy protests. “I’m not—”

  “Quiet, kid,” I snap.

  “That’s exactly why you’re here, always here … to babysit. So make yourself useful this time.” Naz walks back to the gang, the gun he carries still leisurely pointed in their direction.

  Naz must have had a moment of consternation as he takes pause to study the gang—then again, maybe not.

  “Is this the problem?” Naz teases, brandishing the gun in front of them. Some of the Apostles are still looking up, apparently wondering where their weapons have gone. Naz lets go of the gun and then levitates the weapon in between him and the gang. The thugs stand in awe and fear, no doubt mesmerized by the floating firearm.

  “Wow,” says the small boy I’m now babysitting.

  Now you’re just showing off.

  Naz makes a throwing motion with his hand, and the gun goes hurling into the wall he had spray-painted. It falls to the floor with a clank.

  The Apostles jump as they watch the weapon crash into the wall. They look back to find Naz in a low, fighting stance.

  “Now it’s fair,” Naz taunts Shed.

  I don’t think so.

  “Fool! Get ’em!” yells Shed.

  Some of them rush in while others hesitate, making it way too easy for Naz to counter their attack. Naz steps to the side and trips the first attacker, causing him to fall near the little boy and me. Midget attempts to advance on the fallen gang member. I grab his arm, pulling him back, but not before he can unleash a vicious kick to the Apostle’s rib cage, causing him to ball up in a fetal position and cry out in pain. He looks up during his howling to see Naz take out two more gang members almost simultaneously with a two-fisted attack, never moving out of his crouched stance.

  “He’s awesome!” The little boy nods, kicking the victim at our feet once more.

  I pull him several feet farther away from the action. Three Apostles come at Naz but still reluctantly, and Naz makes them pay dearly—lethal but sloppy. He deflects a punch from the first attacker, grabbing the attacker’s flailing arm in the process. He holds him at bay with one hand and delivers a backfist to the temple of another with the other hand. He finishes off the trio by hyperextending the elbow he’s holding—ouch—and finally coming up from his stance and slinging the thug into th
e other two Apostles, sending all three of them crashing into a wall—ugly but effective.

  “Don’t just stand there!” yells Shed, seemingly stuck in place with a grimace on his face. “Get ’im … all of you, at the same time.” He looks over his shoulder at the Apostles behind him. Naz obviously holds Shed in place.

  It was definitely more than thirteen; it’s thirteen still standing, Shed notwithstanding—haha. But the number doesn’t matter; Naz relishes the challenge, if you would even call it that. He looks back at me with a demonic grin. And then he stands straight up, closes his eyes, and opens his hands, so his palms face upward. He mumbles something.

  Uh-oh!

  The Apostles look at each other with uncertainty.

  Tommy, the Apostle who had challenged Shed earlier, yells, “Now!”

  They all rush past the frozen leader and converge on an entranced Naz.

  “Shouldn’t we help?” asks the little boy.

  “Pfft. Help who; your friends?” I respond.

  “They’re not my friends.” The little boy struggles to free himself from my grip around his wrist.

  Not gonna happen. “Be still, kid.”

  “We have to help the Assassin.” The kid kicks me in the shin.

  “Ouch!” But I don’t release him. I cover my private parts just in case he gets any other ideas. “The Assass … trust me; he doesn’t need our help, and you’ll just get in his way, so stop!”

  Even though I’m left-handed, I manage to hold on to the wriggling boy by the wrist with my right hand and keep the thug, lying at our feet, out of the fray with a threatening left fist. I recall a picture on my bedroom wall of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston in their second fight. I add that look that only I can deliver as icing on the cake. I have my hands full in every sense of the word.

  The biggest Apostle—maybe even bigger than Soul—comes behind Naz and grabs him up in a bear hug. He must be Skinny’s brother. Naz doesn’t struggle. No surprise there. He instead leverages the thug’s size and strength against him, and springing off the floor, unleashes two powerful kicks to the jaws of two smug attackers who apparently thought Naz was contained. Ouch! Nothing but soup for weeks for those two.

  When Naz comes down, he uses his momentum and some other unseen force, to propel the giant over his head, freeing himself in the process. The Soul-sized Apostle crashes to the floor, and Naz, just now opening his eyes, is on him in a second. He disables him with a perfectly placed punch to the temple and then rises to a low crouch, clearly an attack position I’m not familiar with, his hand still on the giant’s chest.

  The ten remaining Apostles circle Naz while Shed watches helplessly, still standing in a posture of pain and confusion. Either he’s used up his words, or Naz has heard enough and is somehow preventing him from talking. Either way, it’s a good thing.

  Sirens wail away outside.

  “Naz,” I warn.

  “I hear it.” Naz smiles.

  Some of the thugs tilt their heads. They hear it, too.

  “I wouldn’t worry about them; they’re the least of your problems,” assures Naz. “And don’t even think about tryin’ to leave. I’ve barred every door in here, including your little trap door.”

  By the look on the Apostles’ faces, you would think they are outnumbered and surrounded by Naz. I suppose in their minds, they are.

  The sound fades as the sirens pass, and it’s only a matter of time before Naz springs into action. When he does, it doesn’t take long for him to dispatch the ten Apostles around him. With a series of kicks, punches, and throws, Naz makes quick work of what is left of the Incubus Apostles. They lie around him moaning, groaning, and writhing in agony.

  “That’s better,” Naz says as he slowly steps over the mangled mess of gang members to confront Shed once more. “Now … Shedrick?”

  The gang leader nods, sheepishly.

  “Who … is your leader, and where can I find him?”

  “Why … how … are you doing this?” Shed complains.

  “I’ll ask the questions, but I won’t ask again.”

  “I’m …” Shed stops talking and grabs his throat.

  “Let ’im finish, Naz,” I say.

  “He’s not saying anything.”

  The little boy must’ve noticed I was distracted. He snatches away from my grip and scampers over to stand next to Naz. “He killed that lady when we robbed the store. Do it.”

  Naz looks at the little boy.

  “Naz, let ’im go,” I plead. He’s come so far. He’d never forgive himself. He must know that.

  Naz looks back at the little boy with a furrowed brow and releases the broken gang leader. Shed crumbles to the floor in a heap. Naz kneels next to him. “You killed that woman in cold blood for … for what?”

  “What do you care? You killed Roffio.” Shed’s words take Naz by surprise. “H-he … was our leader.”

  Naz looks at the little boy and then back at Shed. He is clearly conflicted. “You … you’re gonna pay for what you did to that lady. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody does. She was giving you the money. Harvis, call the cops to come get this slime.”

  I use my phone to send a distress signal to the nearest squad car with this exact GPS location.

  “H-How could you know that … what I did? You weren’t there…were you?” Shed looks into Naz’s eyes, fearful.

  “Harvis,” Naz calls me again.

  I stand next to him, although he’s so focused on Shed I’m not sure he realizes it.

  “No … no I wasn’t there.” Naz taps the Apostle’s forehead with his index finger. “But I’m here now, always here inside your head.” Naz finally looks up at me as if he just discovered I’m here. “And you’re gonna admit everything you did, or I’m going to finish what I started, right here and now.”

  I understand Naz’s meaning, open the voice-recorder app on my watch, and tap record. I nod to Naz, indicating I’m ready for his coerced confession. I’m not sure it’ll stick, but it’s a start. Naz stands, and I take his place. He pulls the small boy back a bit and looks at all the gang members who are scattered on the floor, conscious but apparently too afraid to move.

  “You can start whenever you’re ready,” I say. I feel nothing for this scum who has just taken the life of an innocent lady. It makes me question my belief that all life is valuable.

  The thug looks to be gathering himself and says with a wavering confidence, “I’m not sayin’ nothin’.”

  I almost lose it but realize there’s an easy fix. I look back up at Naz and nod. He gives a demonic grin and does what he does best.

  Shed’s eyes grow wide. He grabs his throat and begins his fight for oxygen that is no longer available to him. His olive skin quickly fades to a lighter hue under the flickering lights. He reaches out to me with his other hand in a vain effort. I knock it away.

  “You better talk; I won’t be able to stop him soon.” I laugh.

  Finally, he nods and mouths the word, “OK.”

  “What?” I toy with him a bit, just not able to help myself. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you.” I move a little closer, turning sideways as if that will help. Am I enjoying this? I am, until I see something. A reflection from something on his jacket catches me eye. I tilt my head to get a closer look. It’s a button, no, a pin, identical to the one I gave my mother six years ago.

  “W-Where’d you get that?” I ask, indicating the pin. I attempt no emotion, beating back the rage simmering inside me. I put one hand behind my back and make a fist.

  He tries to answer, but Naz hasn’t completely released him yet.

  “Let him go, Naz,” I say calmly. “Where’d you get this?” I ask again with a slight, hopefully trusting smile on my face.

  “Why? What do you care?” Shed asks.

  A look back at Naz is all that is needed.

  “OK, OK,” Shed concedes. “I got it from some old Asian bat.”

  “When? Where?” I dig my fingernails into the palm of
the fist behind my back and enjoy the pain.

  “I don’t know … a few months ago on the train downtown. She was goin’ on and on about it was Alexander the Great and how her son gave it to her.”

  I’m pretty sure now but I want more. “Go on.” I make a bigger smile. “Did you use your gun?” I try to look excited, like I’m enjoying his story.

  “No, it was too many people around. I put it in her side when we got off the train, told her I wanted that pin. She wouldn’t give it up, even when I had the gun on her.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose at the sound of this. He gets into the story as if it excites him, and I don’t stop him. I want it all.

  “Too bad I had to rough her up. She was kinda cute for an old broad,” he continues. “She started screaming and fighting. I thought I was gonna have to shoot the bag anyway. I finally got the damn thing from her and ran.” He seems proud of himself.

  I nod. “Can I see it?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I immediately move to take it off him. He jumps at my movement but doesn’t resist, probably knowing the alternative. There’s blood on the inside of my palm from my fingernails digging in. “You know. I gave my mother a pin like this,”—I look at the pin now in my hand—“when I was seven. She told me she lost it.” I finally look at him, the smile erased from my face. The Harvis look in full effect.

  When I find realization in his eyes, I know he’s found the resemblance. With two fingers, I apply pressure to the carotid artery near his Adam’s apple, creating my own less-refined but no less lethal Naz-effect. Now instead of the oxygen he needs, I will cut off the blood to his brain altogether. I feel a rush I’ve never felt before, as Shed fades into …

  “Wordsmith!”

  I vaguely hear Naz’s voice in the distance. Now … you will die!

  “Harvis?!” Naz’s voice brings me back to reality … barely.

  I realize it’s not Naz who frees Shed from certain death but me. When I release Shed, he’s barely conscious. I must reassess myself, who I am and what I believe. How did I find myself on this path and land at this destination?

  I look up at Naz, put the pin in my pocket and shake my head, hoping to come to my senses.