by Loren Walker
* * *
Bianco was always with Theron now, even sleeping over, the sounds of his snoring coming through the walls. Tripwires were installed around the apartment. An armored car was ordered. Meetings were set up to interrogate various syndicate connections. Muscle would have to be thrown around, if it were to be seen as effective. It wasn’t Theron’s style, but there were rules to follow. There was no time alone to work on his plans; Bianco was always there, peering over his shoulder, ordering around the staff that now flitted nervously from room to room, patching over the horizontal rip in the wall, scrubbing every stain and smell from the hallway. Theron felt like a petulant child. Someone might as well just lift him by the arms and carry him to and fro, like a toddler. Even in his own bedroom, he felt eyes and ears just beyond the wall. It was too risky to do anything but lie in bed and try to figure out how to get rid of all these people. What if he took one of Bianco’s women as a lover? He had to gain privacy from that move. Then, when the doors were locked, he could pay for the girl’s silence, for her to go into another room and close the door. Make it a business arrangement.
And if she talked, regardless? And if she spied?
There was no way.
Theron spent long hours in the dark wondering if he should just give up and accept his role. There was a neat path to follow to make everyone happy, with all the advantages of luxury, splendor and stimulation. Why not just take it? It would be easy. True, something inside of him would shrivel up and die, but at least he would be comfortable. He could have a wife, children, grandchildren. He could do all the things that men were supposed to do.
Maybe they would bring him joy in the end.
* * *
Jetsun’s law firm buzzed with activity: digital images from Lissomes hovering over cubicles, hushed voices making threats. But, as usual, everything slowed down, and everyone quieted as Theron headed for his cousin’s corner office. Every eye was fixed on him, some directly, most keeping him in their peripheral vision as they pretended to adjust their lapels or flip a page. He was tempted to do something unexpected. Yell at the top of his lungs, do a cartwheel, even smile and say good morning. It would all have the same effect: surprise and fear. The only option was to keep his stride, and enjoy being unaccompanied for once. Bianco let him be whenever he went to his cousin’s office, and the bodyguards stayed by the elevator.
As he approached, Jetsun appeared, her tight smile greeting him. He braced himself for the familiar lecture: that he should just focus on the matters at hand, leave the NINE business for another time, it would still be there in a year when things had settled and everything was in proper control, especially with this new threat looming over them. He had the feeling, though, that if he abandoned this routine, if he didn’t take at least one small step forward, any hope he still held onto would be swept away and lost forever.
For once, though, Jetsun didn’t hiss at him on his approach, or make some kind of sly joke. Instead, her smile remained tight, and her eyes swept the space behind him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Come in," she told him. "I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
As he entered her lush office, a second blond head swiveled. For once, Theron was thoroughly shocked. “Renzo.”
“Hey,” Renzo Byrne nodded at him.
As the door closed behind them, a flurry of emotions sparked in Theron’s brain: anger, confusion, suspicion. He cleared his throat. “Are we - are we here to make a deal?”
Renzo said nothing. The man’s gaze had a wary intensity that made Theron uncomfortable. “Well?” he prodded.
“You all right?” was Renzo's response. “I heard about what’s been going on.”
Theron bristled. “From who?"
“Rumors. I almost cancelled, but Jetsun assured me it was safe.”
“Of course it’s safe,” Theron said. “It’s part of the business. Now why are you here?” A thought struck him. “Are you alone?"
“Just me today,” Renzo said. “CaLarca’s back on the Arazura."
The sound of Cyrah CaLarca’s name made Theron want to throw a chair across the room. That NINE woman was still there, under their protection? Theron burned for specifics. But he couldn’t. Time was limited. The blinds were drawn, but anyone could walk in looking for Jetsun, and cause trouble. He had to temper down his anger and remain cold.
Renzo shrugged and crossed his arms. “So you’re looking to mass-produce HALOS. What do you need from me? A signature?”
Theron blinked. “Yes, that, and I’ll buy you out at whatever price you name.”
Renzo shrugged again. “You helped me with the Arazura, and so many other things. So take the HALO design. Take sole ownership. I won’t contest.”
Was this some kind of negotiation? “You don’t mean that,” Theron challenged.
“I have enough to deal with.” The man’s gaze remained steady, and piercing. “Besides, I’m not so sure where your rana comes from these days, and if I’d keep it in the end. No offense,” he added.
Yes, the man had a point. There was always the possibility of scrutiny, with Theron’s name attached; additional paperwork, government take-back. Would Renzo want to get entangled? Of course not.
Theron had the sudden impulse to be honest with this man, with someone for once. “The HALOS will be legitimate,” he told him. “Separate from everything else, even from the Sava accounts. It’ll do good things against -”
He didn’t say the word NINE out loud, but Renzo nodded just the same. Theron smirked. They were a lot alike.
“You know, Renzo,” he added with a rush, “if things were different, and if I thought you’d agree, I’d ask you to be my partner in the business. See what else we could come up with, you know?”
Renzo’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That’d be something.”
Then something shifted in his face. “You really don’t look so good. I mean, can I - can we do something, or - ?”
“Thanks,” Theron told him, grateful for the attention, but still firm. “You should go."
"Take care of yourself, man.”
And with that, the man was gone.
Two minutes later, Jetsun’s blonde head peered around the doorframe. “I took him out the back way,” she confirmed. “Are we done? Did you make an agreement?"
“He made a proposal,” Theron said. “But I think I’m going to refuse."
“What? Why?”
Because it’s not right. I’m furious with him, with all of them, but it’s not right. There has to be a better way to go about this, a fairer way, a more collaborative way….
He couldn’t say any of that out loud, of course.
“I’ve made the connection. Let it be,” he told his cousin. “Then I’ll counteroffer.”
V.
The newest bodyguard, Kurtz, shuttled Theron through the rain, doing his best to hold the black umbrella over his head, but instead bumping him and blocking his vision. Annoyed, Theron swiped the umbrella from the man’s wet palm, and strained to see through the downpour, into the night, where only a few streetlights flickered. The meeting with Upper and Lower Lea bosses had ended with a cautious note. Nothing was said about the dead bodyguards. There were even a few nods of approval, some second looks, sizing him up. Perhaps they were finally beginning to trust him.
Kurtz had been offered up by one of the syndicate families in Upper Lea. Kurtz was huge, silent, and had a snake-like quality about him. When anyone even jostled Theron, Kurtz was there, shoving them back. Some noses were broken. Bianco loved him. Theron was already exasperated.
Kurtz popped open the passenger door, and Theron slid inside, brushing the water off his suit jacket. Soon, the transport began to crawl down the street. Theron stared at the gutters through the window. Flash flooding might be a problem; he could see streams rushing into the sewers.
There was a dull thud, and the transport lurched. Theron pounded on the driver’s partition window. “Why are you stopping?” he yelled.
/> “I hit something,” Kurtz shouted back. “I gotta get it out of the way.”
The bodyguard opened the driver’s side door and slid out into the darkness. The rain pounded on the car roof. The moist scent of the city wafted in, garbage and smoke. Theron took in breaths through his mouth, already sullen at the thought of replacing the man. If Kurtz hit someone with the transport, he was already drawing too much attention.
A minute passed. Theron craned his neck, opening the window, trying to see. “Kurtz!” he hollered. “Back here, now!”
There was no response. Looking over the divider, through the car windshield, Theron followed the trail of the headlights, breaking through the drops like a hazy moonlit path. Nothing but gray and concrete. The constant pounding of rain on metal made him disoriented.
A shimmer of movement outside.
Theron leaned forward, squinting.
Then he recoiled as the silhouette came into view, scrambling backwards until his back pressed against the opposite door.
In the sparse light, Theron saw that the person was shrouded and hooded in folds of red cloth, its face covered with a metal mask, carved with sharp, ugly features. The person lifted a hand, and drew on the passenger window with the edge of its index finger.
The slow, sickening shape of a heart, drawn in red.
In blood, Theron realized.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the creature was gone.
* * *
One of the minor families shuttled Theron to Jetsun’s brownstone building, and his cousin was there at the door to usher him inside.
“Are you sure you want me in here?” Theron deadpanned, sauntering through the foyer. “I’m not having the best fortune with those in my circle."
“Stop it.”
Theron glanced at his cousin. Were there tears in her eyes? Theron had never seen her cry before. Over Kurtz, really? Or was it more about the fear?
“Theron,” Jetsun told him. “You need to bring in Phaira Lore.”
Cold splashed over him, as if doused in ice water. He refused to let anything show, though. “For what?” he asked lightly. “I’ve had plenty of company lately."
“For protection, of course.”
“Don’t be ridiculous."
“Why is that ridiculous?"
“Because this is a private matter.” He emphasized the last words, as if speaking to a child.
“You don’t have the choice anymore,” Jetsun shot back.
“I always have the choice.” He said the sentence with a warning.
“When this gets out, everyone is going to panic,” she hissed. “They already fear that you’re losing your mind -”
Then her voice caught. “You’ll kill us all if you don’t do something.”
Coward. Jetsun’s words came back to haunt him. Wimp. Unable to speak up. Unable to do anything right.
“Not an option,” he snapped.
“You’re not thinking straight."
“Don’t insult me,” Theron shot back, a dangerous anger coiling inside him.
But Jetsun continued to push: “You don’t need more dumb muscle. You need someone who is smart. Who can outwit whoever is doing this.”
Annoyed, Theron went for the door. Jetsun blocked him. “Which is why you will put your little crush aside, and recruit any and all resources available,” she told him pointedly.
“I’m not ‘recruiting’ anyone,” Theron snapped. “Got it?”
He yanked open the door. For a moment, he expected a shotgun blast to rip through his chest; that everything so far had been a lead-up to this great, dramatic ending. But there was nothing but the minor family outside, peering up at him. He scowled at them. They averted their eyes.
“She owes you,” Jetsun said under her breath, from behind. “They all owe you.”
The notion of payback was a common one in Theron’s world. It colored almost every transaction, who owed what, who still had debt to resolve. Objectively, Jetsun was correct; the Byrne family did owe him an enormous debt. He was the one who disabled the bounty on Phaira. He paid off the officers in Honorwell to forget about Phaira and her mad escape with Anandi and Emir Ajyo. And her younger brother Cohen would have been lost or killed had he not interfered.
But even with all those facts, this was different. He’d done all those interventions for purely selfish reasons: to appease his foolish infatuation with Phaira. And even though he was bitter now, he still respected her brothers.
“The answer is no,” Theron said over his shoulder. “To all of it.”
* * *
When Theron told him of his decision, Bianco didn’t seem to register the words. So Theron repeated himself, speaking slowly and forcefully, as if to push the words into the old man’s brain and make him understand.
When Bianco finally spoke, it was a statement: “You cannot be alone.”
“Whoever is behind this,” Theron said. “He isn’t touching me. Only those around me. So I’m going to eliminate the targets and see what happens."
“I can’t allow that, son."
“I’m not your son, and it’s not your choice,” Theron reminded him. “I’ll conduct my business from here on out. No one is to stand guard, or initiate contact with me.” As he said the words, a little thrill went through him. Finally alone, finally able to concentrate on his plans.
“As your appointed advisor - ”
“That appointment is over,” Theron said.
Bianco’s eyes bulged. “Are you firing me?”
“Not at all,” Theron said. “I’m releasing you from your bonds. Go be with your family."
“You are my family,” Bianco said gruffly. “You, your cousins, your grandfather.”
The sentiment made Theron uncomfortable. He didn’t see it like that at all. Bianco was his grandfather’s friend and right-hand man, of course, but he had nothing to do with Theron and his cousins growing up. Maybe it was age that was making the man emotional, trying to forge a bond wherever possible. It just irritated Theron, the delay, the arguing.
“I have travelled for miles on your behalf,” Bianco continued, a strangled edge to his words. “Across lines, making peace, gathering supporters. Many of whom required a great deal of convincing. Without me, they will splinter.”
They would. That was true. Perhaps he was being too rash. Bianco was necessary.
No. He wanted nothing more than to be away from Bianco’s sticky fingers and posturing. And he couldn’t be bothered to make any more excuses. The old man should feel lucky that Theron was working to spare his life and keep him far from the danger.
“I won’t repeat myself,” he told his former advisor. “Go. And tell everyone to stay away.”
* * *
But, within the day, Jetsun sent Theron messages, asking if he knew where Bianco was.
Theron remained silent, working feverishly in his apartment, curtains closed, windows shut, papers and Lissomes around him.
Her warnings grew more and more frantic. Something is very wrong, she insisted. Why aren’t you responding to me? Stop ignoring me and say something!
He did nothing, though a tiny stone settled in his stomach, one that wouldn’t quite lift.
Instead, a hundred times that day, Theron thought about dying. Of just giving up his plans, opening the door, and welcoming the assassin inside to slit his throat. It was coming, wasn't it? This was all some kind of sick set-up, with Theron as the final target. Enough of surrounding himself with human shields. It would be a relief, in so many ways, if everything was to end.
But nothing happened. Night stretched into dawn, and noon until sunset, and no one came, no one broke in. No shadows crossed the windows.
Then Jetsun called him again the next morning, her voice thick with tears.
Bianco’s body had been found.
Dental records identified him publically, though the gold ring on his charred finger marked his true position. An accelerant had been poured on him, and set on fire. A slow, agonizing, screamin
g death.
The only piece of evidence was a heart scratched in the pavement next to the body.
* * *
Funeral arrangements were swift. The morning of the service, Theron bathed, put on a fresh suit, and attended. Every parishioner gave him a wide berth. He heard curses muttered, saw bright-red faces. Someone might have spat on the ground, but his eyes were so blurry that he couldn’t be certain. Instead, he stood by, and let Jetsun give the orders. Her face was veiled, but he could see the Lissome piece affixed at her jawline, heard the slow hush of her voice, giving orders.
Then Theron returned to his apartment in Lea, out of routine more than anything else. Not that he wanted to be there, but there was nowhere else to go, and it didn’t much matter if there were. If the assassin didn’t kill him, the rest of the Syndicate would, now that Bianco was dead. The fourth death in proximity to Theron. It was all over.
No one knocked on his door in the days that followed, not even Jetsun. Theron slept on his white chesterfield for thirty minutes at a time, his dreams growing more violent. Even worse, they lingered. He was having trouble sorting out his memories, what was real, and what was created. Every person in his head seemed to swirl together, taunting him, mocking him. He obsessed over those hearts left behind, one in blood, one in stone. Meant for him, but why? What did it symbolize?
And why hadn’t that red assassin come for him yet? They had already proven that it could reach Theron wherever he was, no matter who he surrounded himself with. Whoever this person was, they were destroying his reputation, turning the world against him, but leaving him alive. Why? Were there more targets?
Jetsun, he thought immediately. She is in the crosshairs, she has to be. Who else is left?
On the other hand, everyone in Lea adored Jetsun Sava. She was a far more public figure than he or Bianco; a philanthropic leader in Lea, well-known by every resident. There was even a charity event planned for that night, he remembered, in spite of everything that had happened.