by MB Mooney
The man in the cashmere sweater crawled past her and picked up the body of the dead child. Valerie watched in horror as he held the little girl, all dressed in her little nightgown and ready for bed, and he rocked her with his left arm, sobbing softly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.” He kissed her long, black hair, matted with blood and pieces of her skull.
Don’t look, Valerie thought to herself, don’t look at him and the dead child, don’t think that if you’d just checked the upstairs first, you could have stopped him, you could have saved them all, could have saved the little girl. She sadly turned her attention back to the tall man, who was obviously now the Postman, and the anger raged inside of her. “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You’re gonna get the chair for this, I swear to God, you will.”
The Postman smiled at her, gazing at something behind her, past her, something …
“Oh, shit,” she said aloud, turning with her revolver in front of her and pointed at the door.
-----
The Postman watched with pleasure as the man in the doorway fired twice from his shotgun, one immediately and professionally after the other. He wore dark pants tied at the ankle over his combat boots and a black sweatshirt, and the slugs from the shotgun lifted the policewoman with annoying bleached-blond hair and dropped her two feet from the Postman. The Postman stood up, cringing in pain from the wound in his shoulder, and grabbed the .38 revolver from the unconscious cop. He stumbled over to Andrew Franklin, still holding and rocking his dead daughter, and emptied the revolver into Andrew’s head.
When the fifth and final shot tore through the lower half of Andrew’s face, the Postman expected to feel a little better than he did. He had killed them all dead by his hand and his wrath. But it wasn’t enough. Somehow, someway, it wasn't enough.
He wanted more.
He threw the empty pistol away from him and turned to the man who had stepped into the master bedroom of the Franklin home and held the shotgun, still with one shot left, pointed in the Postman's direction. The man had dark skin, and his eyes were tight and locked on the Postman with spite.
“All right, my friend,” the Postman said. “You may take my life, and take it quickly.”
The man shook his bald head. “I didn’t come here to kill you or anyone,” he said, glancing over at the cop, lying face down on the expensive carpet. “You’re coming with me.”
The Postman laughed. “And what if I don’t want to go with you?”
“Then I will kill you.”
The Postman nodded, pausing to think. “What if I want to die?”
“Then you'll get your wish. But let me give you something to think about: your father’s already in the custody of the FBI. Those geniuses finally figured it out. If you die or stay here, then either way you’re screwed. There’s no way you’re ever getting out. But if you come with me, there might be more to do.”
“More?” the Postman asked.
“Yes, the jig isn’t up yet, asshole. You’ve killed a lot of people today, but there are other survivors, people connected to those responsible for your brother’s death.”
“Other … survivors?” He heard the sirens in the distance. “Who?”
“If you come with me, I can help you, but I’m leaving right now. I’m not waiting another second on your ass.”
The Postman massaged his shoulder, the blood smearing on his hand, and looked down at the dead father and daughter. He gazed once more at the two dead on the bed. He looked over at the man who held the shotgun on him. “You have a car?”
Chapter 13
The Postman had a difficult time keeping up with the man as they raced down the hall and the winding stairs. They darted across the front lawn towards a car that the Postman hadn't seen when moving around the property earlier. The man stopped at the car, hurriedly opening the car doors. “Get in,” he said to the Postman.
“Nice car,” the Postman said, rushing to the passenger side and ducking his head into the black BMW, his ass sliding a bit on the leather interior.
The engine roared to life and screeched on the concrete before the Postman got the door closed on his side. “Don’t worry,” the Postman said. “The policemen in this town can’t hurt us.”
The man shot a glance at him. “Your father is in custody with the FBI. You don’t have the pull you used to.”
“I never used my father's pull for any of it.”
The man huffed at him. “You mean he never helped you, covering up the evidence and that kind of thing?”
The Postman shook his head. “He was on the case, of course, but he didn’t help as much as you might think.” The Postman looked out the window. They rode north now, towards the perimeter of the city.
“Well, all that’s gone to shit, ‘cause they know who you are, now.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I just saw you put your hands all over that dead kid in there, and your prints are all over that revolver you threw away.”
“Oh, that. Well, I suppose they might be able to get some prints from something I left behind. This time I was pretty careless. I didn’t have time to worry about fingerprints. I had to think about those hired guns from Daddy Franklin.” The Postman looked over at him, and he continued to massage his shoulder. It hurt like hell.
“Since you obviously know my name, I think it’s only fair that I know yours.”
“Shade. G. W. Shade.”
The Postman nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Watch it, asshole! You're getting blood all over the seat!”
“Sorry.”
There was a long moment of silence. Shade spoke finally. “Where were you trained? What branch?”
“Army Rangers, huah. How did you know?”
“It’s my job to know. Any other training?”
“Well, after a few years in the Army, I decided I needed to learn some other skills. My specialty was computer hacking. But as usual, the government pays a lot of money to learn and teach two steps behind. I had to go do contract work to learn the new stuff.”
“So that’s how you did it with the power? Computers? Or did your dad help you pay off one of the workers.”
“I don’t have that much money, Mr. Shade.”
He grunted. “Shade, just call me Shade.”
“Okay, fine, just Shade it is then.” The Postman rolled his eyes and looked out the window. “I didn’t pay anyone on the inside. Computer viruses are cheap, if you know the right people, and they can be very specific. Local city systems are designed like crap. A chimp in a tutu riding a bulldog could build more secure systems. You can get in and out of them as easy as screwing a whore. And it actually costs less.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, there are some pretty cheap whores in this town.”
Shade shot him a sideways glance. “Funny. That took care of the security system, too?”
“There was a generator on property, but it took two minutes to turn on and kick in. Those friggin’ idiots didn’t know that is an eternity.”
“And no one expects you to shut a whole city down to infiltrate one house.”
This man is a pro, the Postman thought. He spread his right hand in front of him and lowered his head in a bow. “Exactly.”
“And the explosion was a diversion.”
“It also took out two guards. Did you see it?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I was down the street staking out that cop that almost blew your ass away.”
“Yeah, that damn cop. Dad told me she was too nosy for her own good. He was right. I’m glad you killed her.”
Shade didn’t respond.
The Postman nodded. “Well, I’ll thank you after I find out what you need me for.”
“You killed all the guards. Impressive work.”
“In moments like that, chaos is your friend. I know a little about chaos.”
“Me too.”
After another moment of silence, the Postman could take no more, because not
talking meant he had to think about the pain in his shoulder.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?”
“We’re going to an apartment on the south side of town. Cops are gonna be crawling all over this side of town all night. We have to get you away. Plus you have to meet someone there.”
“Who?”
“You'll meet him soon enough. We’ll get you something for that shoulder. You have a busy week ahead of you.”
“I do?”
“If you're lucky enough to be alive, you do.”
“Are you going to kill me, Mr. Shade?”
“If I have to,” Shade said. “I will.”
“That’s what I thought. What does G. W. stand for?”
Shade frowned at him. “It stands for George Washington.”
The Postman chuckled under his breath. Shade’s glare silenced him.
They pulled up to an old, rundown apartment complex on the south side of town, just as Shade had said. The Postman had never come to this side of town, even when he lived in Atlanta, but he knew how dangerous this part of town was. The Postman laughed at himself softly.
You just murdered fourteen people, and you’re worried about the safety of this neighborhood, he thought.
The apartment that Shade led him to sat on the corner of the main building on the back of the complex, fairly isolated and private. Shade inserted the key from his pocket and opened the door wide, allowing the Postman to walk in before him.
The apartment was small and barely furnished, but a short, thin, middle-aged man stood from the couch facing the door, stepping around the small coffee table. The short man extended his hand. “Brian Stuart, I presume, how very pleasant to meet you.”
The Postman took his hand, feeling the strength held there, wondering if this short man could crush his hand with those abnormally long fingers. “Hi, how are you?”
“I'm doing well. How very nice of you to ask. You may call me Mr. Smith.”
“Mr. Smith? Is that your real name?”
“People genuinely ask me that, and I always tell them that it is. So you understand that I must be consistent and tell you the same.”
“Sure.”
“Now, please sit with me. We have much to discuss.”
The Postman nodded. “Sure, but ... could I just take a few minutes to clean up? I’m really hurting, here.”
Mr. Smith shook his head at him. “We do not have time for that.” The Postman turned his head at the sound of the door closing behind him.
“We don’t?”
Mr. Smith stepped even closer to the Postman. “No,” he said, and then the short man reached out with both hands. The Postman momentarily cringed.
“I will not hurt you, Mr. Stuart.”
“Brian. You can call me Brian.”
“Yes, Brian. I will not hurt you, I assure you.”
The Postman's forehead creased as Mr. Smith’s hands grasped his injured shoulder. He cried out in sudden pain, but then, just as suddenly, the pain was gone.
His shoulder was numb. He could move his arm freely. The wound was gone. “Wha-“ the Postman stammered. “How ...”
“Sit, Brian.” The Postman sat. Mr. Smith joined him on the small couch. Shade remained standing. “There are many unexplained things in this world that I could spend hours and days attempting to get you to comprehend, but there are better subjects to occupy our time, is there not?”
The Postman looked deep into Mr. Smith's eyes. Were they blue? They almost seemed violet. A word came to his mind.
“Revenge.”
Mr. Smith smiled. “Yes, revenge. It is a sweet fruit for the tasting, is it not?”
The Postman nodded, still gazing into those violet eyes.
“Yes. Shade said there were others.”
“Of a sort, yes. Do you know the name ... Samuel Doss?”
“Yes, that was the bastard that started it all. He killed my brother!”
“Of course. A sweet child, your brother. How old was he when he died, fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, fifteen years old, such a tender age, and such a sweet boy, no?”
“He never hurt anyone …”
“Of course not. Of course not. The devil himself would never have touched that boy, but Samuel Doss did, correct?”
“Yes, but he’s dead.”
“He is dead, and I hate that for you. You have been robbed of your revenge, your true revenge, yes?”
“Yes, my true revenge.”
Mr. Smith took a manilla envelope off of the coffee table, old and ugly, that sat in front of the couch. “But not really.” He handed the envelope to the Postman.
“No?” The Postman opened the envelope. In it was a series of pictures.
They were pictures of a boy who looked about fifteen.
Mr. Smith spoke in a calm voice. “That is Samuel Doss’s son. What better vengeance than to take his son from him, as he took young Kevin away from his father? What better way to hurt a man? Even his soul will weep for his legacy, the only thing that holds him to this world. Do you understand?”
The Postman looked up into those eyes, those deep-set violet eyes that peered at him as if he could really care. “Yes, I understand completely. But why are you helping me?”
“Do not ask silly questions, my friend. Just know that we are helping each other.”
The Postman looked at the pictures of the young boy. The boy was on a date with a beautiful blond, eating. They looked happy. “What is his name?”
“Does it matter? He was adopted and very hard to find. His name is Matthew Walker.”
The Postman said the name aloud. “I know this area, the school.”
“There is an address, but he may be difficult to find.”
“I’ll find him,” he said. He thought he had an old buddy from the Rangers that lived nearby, one of the perks of being in the Band of Brothers.
The violet eyes flashed at him. Mr. Smith produced a sword in a scabbard and handed it to him. “When you kill him, you must not leave anything to chance. You must separate his head and limbs from his body.”
“With a sword?” It looked like one of those samurai swords out of a movie.
“An old keepsake of mine, if you will.”
The Postman gazed down at the pictures of the boy and the sword in his hand. It was a Japanese sword, a katana.
“If you do this for me, Brian, a new car and one million dollars will be waiting for you here at this apartment, as well as things such as new identification and passports that will get you into any country in the world. You must leave the country after this is over. I am afraid that your father is just too much of a liability at this time, and this action cannot be connected to me.”
“Yes, I understand. When do you want me to do this?”
“Tomorrow night, and remember, you never saw me.”
“I ... never saw you. But why not tonight? Why can’t I take his life tonight? He’s just a kid. I can take him quickly tonight.”
Mr. Smith patted his numb shoulder. “Not tonight. Day is almost upon us. You must get cleaned up. Come.”
Mr. Smith led the Postman to a standing position, and the Postman was immediately surprised at how much taller he was than this other man.
“There are towels in the other room, as well as a fresh change of clothes. Do not worry, they are not mine. I believe they will fit you.” Mr. Smith smiled at him warmly.
The Postman began to walk past the shorter man and back to the bathroom, only feet away in this small apartment. “All right,” he said. “I am getting kind of tired.”
“Oh, and remember one more thing, Brian,” Mr. Smith said, and the Postman turned to face him. “This young man is not ‘just a kid,’ as you prefer to say it. In fact, he is very far from being so. He will surprise you if you are not ready for him.”
The Postman glanced at the sword. “I’ll be ready.”
Mr. Smith smiled. “Good. That is very good.”
-----
“So, Shade, do you now know why I did not ask you to perform this task for me?”
"You know how much I hate killing kids."
A pause before he replied. “Yes, there is a definite sensitivity there. You will learn to accept that death is a part of life, even in a child. Or you will die. Whichever comes first.”
“I’ve killed children before.”
“And you hate yourself for it.”
He didn’t answer Mr. Smith, because his boss was right, of course. Even though it had been years ago, those images haunted him. A forgotten village with dead children strewn about among the huts. Forgotten to everyone but Shade. It was the moment he decided to work for himself instead of the whims of corrupt governments. But even working for himself, he found his life wrapped up in despicable situations, like the current one. Morals were not conducive to his line of work. But he wasn’t good at anything else.
Mr. Smith waved a hand in the air. “It is of no consequence, Shade. This serves my purpose greater than you ever could. Think of it, the irony. This man hates these people, is willing to dedicate his life to killing them, destroying them, because they killed a boy who had no family. I just convinced him to do exactly the same. Do you understand a little more about humanity now?” Shade stayed quiet. “Do not answer. I know. You think it is despicable. This man disgusts you.”
“He killed a whole family, brutally, without question. It was ... inhumane.”
“Careful how you use that word. I have seen humanity in its many forms, and brutality is more humane than compassion.”
“All I know is this guy is beyond crazy.”
Mr. Smith grinned. “Granted. But I need someone who will go after this young man with more vigor than someone like you could muster, Shade. You would meet resistance and flee because the fee is not great enough, or you will discover your conscience, such as it is. This man will not stop until he is done, until his work is finished, until he has killed this young man, and maybe his family and friends as well. He will not stop until he feeds the violence within him and it destroys him. That is what I wish to accomplish.”