“Thanks, Viv,” Osteen replied. In some ways, he reflected, the conversation could only have ever gone this way. He knew she wouldn’t be on board with pushing ahead, not with what would end up at stake. “I’m going to think about what you said, I promise. Just make sure you get some rest.”
“Will do, dad,” Vivian answered in jest.
Chapter 29
Micah walked into a pub a few blocks away from La Cantina Sucia. Tucked away behind some side streets and cookie cutter housing developments, it was exactly the hole-in-the-wall place he had hoped to escape to. At least for a bit. Taking lives wasn’t the sort of activity to make him question his morals. He had long gotten over the terrible feeling that used to inhabit his thoughts when taking a life with his own hands. He never relished in the opportunity to play executioner. It was simply a means to an end.
Though, if he were honest with himself, Micah would admit that there was something about the act which pulled him toward it. A calling, almost. As though the simple act of pulling a trigger would somehow bring him one step closer to a realization, one he hadn’t known he was searching for. Of course, he often reasoned, he could also be on the verge of a mental breakdown. The dreams of another life, through eyes he wasn’t sure were his own, kept propping up more frequently.
How can I have a memory of someone else’s life? The question popped up with more frequency, but he was no closer to an answer now than when the first dream manifested itself.
The pub was nearly empty, just a handful of people milling about on the periphery and a very drunk man failing miserably to woo a beautiful woman at the end of the bar. Micah approached an empty stool away from the pathetic display of machismo and fiddled with a square coaster. It was brown, with rounded edges and a picture of a large oak tree. It had the feint appearance of movement, as though a powerful gust of wind were assaulting its branches. A multi-colored pile of leaves rested at its trunk. Shaking Oak Tavern emblazoned in a circle around the battered hardwood.
“What can I get ya?” Micah hadn’t noticed the bartender at first. “You ok, pal?”
“Yea, uh, sorry,” Micah said. “I’ll take an old-fashioned, on the rocks.”
“Coming right up,” the stocky gentleman responded. The bartender had a handlebar mustache and an expression of pained indifference. Something about it seemed so familiar, but Micah wasn’t sure why. He was certain he’d never seen the man before.
Unaffected by Micah’s curiosity, the bartender retrieved a tumbler from a pantry below the bar. He had grown accustomed to awkward stares from patrons long before Micah ever stepped foot in the door. It was often best to just act as though he was none the wiser. Sugar and bitters found their way into the glass, mixing with a hint of water before a long pour of bourbon joined in, creating a heavenly mixture certain to aid Micah in his desires to forget about everything for a while. The bartender placed the tumbler in front of Micah, twisting the rind of an orange before casually releasing it into the concoction.
“Thank you,” Micah said. He drew in the wonderful citrus aroma, mixed with the hint of vanilla, and took a swig. The taste was even better than he had expected, like a hint of the forbidden fruit in the garden where humanity had been doomed to a life outside of paradise. With a bit more of an immediate burn for effect. He took another drink and stared at the bar top. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the woman from the other end of the bar walking his way.
Guess Macho Man gave it a rest.
“Long day?”
“You could say that,” Micah said, setting down his drink. He turned around and fought hard to keep his jaw from dropping. She was tall, with curly brown hair. The way she stood, so clearly comfortable with herself, absolutely radiating self-confidence. It was no small wonder the other man failed to be a worthwhile suitor. Micah wasn’t certain he was even up to the task, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Care to join me?”
“I’d love to,” she answered, sitting down next to him. “What’s your name?”
“My friends call me Micah.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Micah.” She placed a small handbag on her lap and adjusted herself to a more comfortable position on the barstool. It was too soon to tell if this gentleman would prove to be a worthy suitor, and she wanted to be ready to bolt if he failed to live up to her lofty expectations. “I’m Valerie. Mind if I get you a drink?”
“Not at all.”
“Frankie, could you please get Micah here another glass?”
“I hope you’re not planning to make me drink all on my lonesome.”
“Who says you get to have all the fun?”
Frankie returned to the couple, placing another old fashioned in front of Micah, and a strange combination of liquids in front of Valerie. Her drink looked like oil struggling to rise through the Caribbean Sea. Micah felt a bit more on edge, but he hoped the second drink would put him at ease.
“What do you do for work, Micah?”
“I’m a contractor,” he said, looking off in the distance before returning his gaze. He wasn’t a fan of lying, but sometimes it proved necessary. It wasn’t as though he could tell her he killed people for money and hope to walk out of the bar without more blood on his hands. “How about you?”
“I run a few salons around town. The shops in Bal Harbour and Brickell City Centre are my pride and joy. It’s nothing too exciting, but it pays the bills.”
“You kidding me? What’s not exciting about being in control of how much of a jackass these people look like when they leave your salons? They piss you off, you make them look like a complete bum,” Micah said, laughing. “And with the money they have, you just convince them it’s a new style that’s all the rage at the country clubs. They’ll be coming back for more in no time.”
“I guess you’re right,” Valerie said, chuckling. “It’s not exactly what I went to school for, so I sometimes feel as though I’m wasting all those years of formal education. The stress levels are incomparably low, though, so it’s not without its perks. Not that running a hair care empire is easy, mind you, but it’s a different type of bullshit to deal with. There is a bit more fun to the entire operation as well.”
“What’d you want to do originally?” Micah finished his glass and, noticing Valerie’s was similarly dry, motioned to Frankie for another round.
“Back when I had a different view of the world and the way it operated, when I was naïve enough to think the rules applied to everyone, I wanted to be a lawyer.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I had a case once, the type that every lawyer dreams about. Well, the ones who sign up for the job because they want to do some good rather than latch onto a multi-million-dollar settlement and occasionally show up to work.”
“Funny, you struck me as the latter,” Micah joked. He could see a vein bulge in Valerie’s forehead and immediately regretted crossing that line. “I’m sorry, Valerie. It was a joke. A stupid joke, but that’s, well, kind of my specialty.”
“It’s ok,” Valerie replied. Truth be told, she found it tough to stay upset with that sort of brutal honesty. Most men would have committed to the bit, pushing forward with the jest they were too foolish to see hadn’t landed as intended. This one seemed different. Genuine. “I believe you.”
“That it was a joke, or that I’m stupid? I’m kind of at a loss at this point,” Micah said. He chuckled and took a sip of drink number three. The liquid coursed through his body like the flames of Hell, yet he found himself increasingly interested in reaching his limit.
Valerie looked at him pensively, as if she hadn’t given the notion much thought. She smirked. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Micah laughed. It appeared he had avoided disaster for the moment. “So, about that case…”
“Right,” Valerie said. She took the last sip from her glass. Frankie came back with refills as she considered how much she wanted to tell this stranger. She hadn’t expec
ted him to be legitimately interested in anything outside of the fleeting possibility of sex. This could all be an angle, but she found herself increasingly disinterested in whether it was. “The case dealt with a police officer who had used excessive force to subdue a suspect. My client had been minding his own business, waiting for a cab, when the cop approached him and mentioned a warrant.”
“I’m guessing the warrant didn’t actually exist.”
“Correct. But that didn’t stop him from taking things a step further. He told my client to put his hands behind his back. Never produced a warrant, never gave my client any reason as to why he was being held up. Just waited for the look of confusion to cross my client’s face before body slamming him to the ground, asphalt mind you, and leaving his mark. Several of them, in fact. My client ended up with a busted jaw and a couple broken ribs.” As she told the story, Valerie became visibly upset. She could feel her temperature rising and her eyes watering, but she pushed on. “Not only did the warrant not exist, but the officer in question wasn’t even responding to a call. He just saw my client standing on the side of the road and decided he wasn’t okay with it.”
“What happened?”
“He got off,” Valerie said. They both took a drink and ordered another round.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Turns out he’d been a member of a local police union. Had been for quite some time and was cruising toward a nifty little pension. His department simply pulled him from the street and put him into a little desk gig. Last I heard, he had been a good enough boy to get bumped up to detective for however many years he has left. My client, meanwhile, became a pariah. Tons of death threats from people who didn’t have a reason to put that into the world outside of an absurd abundance of hate. He ended up changing his name and leaving the city.”
“All because the system failed him.”
“Yes, we did.”
“No, Valerie. That sort of situation, there’s not much you could have done. You went to bat for him when the deck was stacked against you. Surely that’s got to count for something.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, taking another gulp of her drink. It had been so long since they started, she had lost count of how much they consumed. She dreaded the thought of moving from her seat. But the alternative was far more enticing. “I don’t know what it is about you, Micah, but you’re different from most of the guys that come through here. A lot different. I like that.” She placed a hand on his thigh, both aware and unaware of her movements all at once. It was a strange, out-of-body experience that threatened to force her to make an offering to the Porcelain Goddess if she wasn’t careful.
“Want to, uh, go back to my place and… discuss hairstyles?”
“More like ways to destroy one,” Valerie answered, a sly grin on her face. She stood up and immediately drifted into Micah, feeling a warmth in his embrace. He kept an arm around her and placed a pair of hundred-dollar bills on the bar top, mumbling something incoherent to Frankie as they walked to the door.
Chapter 30
Ross Sheridan sat alone inside a cold, steel box. His head hurt like hell. For a moment, he wondered if a pair of wild gorillas were fighting to the death beside his brain. Barreling into it intermittently with blatant disregard for his well-being. Why that seemed plausible in the moment was the least of his concerns. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how he ended up sitting on the plain steel chair in front of the equally plain, steel table. The last thing he remembered was taking some nondescript, white pills. Everything after that was hazy.
When he had first woken up inside the room, he found the lights to be uncomfortably bright. So much so that he felt certain Death had come for him in his slumber. The dull ache in his wrists and ankles seemed to thwart that prospect, but it wasn’t until the headache announced itself as more than a mild nuisance that he knew for certain life hadn’t escaped him. A plethora of thoughts rolled through his mind, most of them making little to no sense. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the once obnoxiously bright bulbs. His head continued to ache. The distant sound of knocking at the one door in the room was the one thing capable of disrupting the cacophony within his mind.
“Come in?” Sheridan said, confused. He watched as a thin, albeit muscular, older gentleman entered the room. A manila folder in hand, the man sat down in front of Sheridan and combed through the contents without averting his gaze toward his new companion. Eventually, he placed the folder down and slid it over to Sheridan. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s a rather unpleasant way to greet your boss, Mr. Sheridan.”
“My boss?”
“Yes, I,” he tilted his glasses down and stared hard at Sheridan, as though analyzing him for a reason unbeknownst to anyone else. “They really did a number on you with the sedatives. I’ll have to connect with Dr. King’s team and tell them to scale things back a tad on that front. This is a situation I’d prefer to avoid in the future.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sheridan found it increasingly difficult not to be frustrated, and he certainly had no desire to be pleasant.
“Hurst. Jacob Hurst,” he said. He stretched out his hand in Sheridan’s direction, but pulled it back when met with the air. “I’m the Director of the Organized Crime Agency. The Agency to which you’re currently employed.”
Reality slowly pieced itself together for Sheridan, the unknown suddenly becoming known. One moment, he wasn’t sure who the hell he was. Just that he existed on some level and felt the slightest bit of control over his own wellbeing. The next, the world crashed down around him. A fog had engulfed him and restricted all that he could grab hold of. With the mist vanquished, threads of life roared back to him. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself sitting in front of the desk in Hurst’s office, speaking with him at length about why he alone was uniquely qualified for the role. The words came out as gibberish, as though he were hearing them through the ears of someone for whom the English language was not a known quantity. He watched as the men shook hands and parted ways, a look of supreme confidence on his own face.
“Making sense now?” Hurst looked at him like a parent trying to impart wisdom on their young one.
“Sort of. I remember meeting with you. Talking about this but, I,” Sheridan trailed off. His mind continued to roll in reverse, though each step back wasn’t as incremental as he may have hoped. In a strangely paced manner, he could see multiple threads along the plane of his memory. Some linked directly to his existing at this very instant. Others seemed to belong to another life. The view was his own, but the recollection had a hazy, dreamlike quality to it. He continued to think back, to find a reason for his decision to take the job. The more he considered it, however, the more his head throbbed. He grabbed hold of his forehead with his right hand and slammed his left fist onto the table.
Hurst seemed unbothered by the display. He simply motioned to someone outside of the room. Moments later the door opened, and a young woman walked in with a pushcart. On top of it sat a carafe of water and two tumblers. She placed a glass in front of each man, filled them up, and placed the carafe onto the table between them before walking out. Sheridan’s mouth felt dry almost instantly. He wanted nothing more than to quench his thirst, but he was reluctant to take a sip. He’d had enough euphoric experiences in recent memory to last a lifetime.
As if sensing his hesitation, Hurst picked up the glass nearest him and drank half. “It’s safe for consumption, as you can see. If you’d like, wait a few moments to see if I keel over before deciding to take a sip for yourself.”
Sheridan sensed the man before him was telling the truth, so he took a sip. It was magnificent. His mouth had taken on similar qualities to the Sahara since, well, he couldn’t quite put a finger on when, but he was certain it had been a while. “What is it I’m supposed to do here, exactly?”
“Should I assume that you’re still on board with completing your role in the mission?”
&n
bsp; “I don’t recall what my role entails, but I’ll hazard a guess that I have little choice in the matter.”
“There’s always a choice. That’s the glorious thing about this country,” Hurst said. A sinister smile widened across his face. “We Americans take great pride in our personal freedoms. It’s one tenet which makes us unique among the rest of the civilized world. However, the various freedoms we hold dear, aren’t inherently free. You’re free to speak your mind to me, but that doesn’t protect you from my potentially not taking kindly to what you declare. Much in the same way, you’re free to choose the path of resistance regarding this post. Reaching the determination that the mission isn’t what you signed up for. That’s fine. It doesn’t protect you from repercussions, however.”
“A simple, no would’ve sufficed.”
“Answering succinctly as that would’ve been a touch dishonest, don’t you think?”
“Look, I really don’t feel like sitting here arguing about empty platitudes,” Sheridan said. He grabbed the glass with both hands and stared longingly at the remaining liquid. “Just tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”
“It’s simple, really. You’re to infiltrate the Medina criminal organization. Do some work for them, earn their trust. Whatever it takes to get in, to curry favor, you do it. No questions asked. Once you’re in, work your way close to the boss, Carlos Medina, and take him out. The specifics of the job are here,” Hurst said, tapping the folder.
“Wouldn’t removing this Medina character from the picture just force someone else to take his place? Can’t imagine they’d be enough trouble to warrant your attention now, yet fall apart when their leader is dealt with.”
“Getting to him will not be a simple task. It’s likely you’ll have some collateral damage along the way. Spark defiance amongst the ranks subtly. Cause them to question their own decision to obey. To fall in line like good little soldiers. By the time you cut the head from the snake, the rest of the body should crumble upon itself.”
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