Behind the Hands That Kill

“I was wrong about you, Izabel,” I whisper near her ear; the pain engulfing my insides. “I am the ticking time bomb. I am more unstable than I ever could have imagined. You are discipline, and I am rage. And the only way I know to control the chaos inside, is to eradicate the things that control me.”

  The room begins to blur and fade in and out of my vision; unfortunately this time not from a drug injected into a vein in my neck; sweat drips from my forehead, tears from my chin, love from my heart, light from my darkness—how did I get on the floor? I do not recall the moment when my legs failed to hold up my weight; I am on my knees on the stones, Izabel clutched to my bare chest, the ceremonial knife still pressed against her jugular.

  “Kill her, like you killed me,” Artemis says nearby, but from where I do not know, because I do not care. “It’s the only way out of this, Victor; it’s the only way to save yourself, from yourself.”

  “Please, just do it,” Izabel says in a soft voice, and it rips me apart.

  I squeeze her tighter, enough that I hear her gasp for air and feel her muscles stiffen beneath the power of my arms. A reddish-black fog covers my eyes, swirls around behind my closed eyelids, and suddenly everything goes silent: Artemis’s taunting; Apollo’s deafening smiles of satisfaction; the guard’s hands gripping tightly to their weapons; my raging, spinning thoughts; Izabel’s sweet voice.

  I feel the warm blood oozing from my hand, dripping down my wrist. And then suddenly I can hear a faraway sound amidst the monumental silence, but I cannot make it out. For a moment, I listen more closely, trying to understand the sound, to understand what I have done, but I am denied the answers. I wrench the knife tighter, press down harder, and another gush of blood seeps through my fingers. Blinded by my own rage and insanity, I scream out into the ether, trying to drown it all out. “NOOO!” My own voice frightens me—or is it the desperation bleeding from it?

  I hear the knife clink against the stones, thunderous in my ears, and I open my eyes; the gash across the palm of my hand is deep.

  Izabel is sitting on the floor feet from me, her back pressed against the cage bars, her hands still bound behind her, a look of astonishment consuming her beautiful features.

  I look down at my bleeding hand again. Back up at Izabel again.

  “VICTOR!” Artemis shouts.

  Izabel and I remain locked in this moment of eternity.

  “Goddamn you! Kill her!”

  “They’re coming, Artemis,” Apollo says. “We have to leave! NOW!”

  “No! I’m not leaving until he slits that whore’s throat! KILL HER! KILL HER NOW!”

  I do not move from my knees on the floor; I do not look at anyone but the woman I love and would rather die for, than kill.

  “Why won’t you kill her?” Artemis screeches; desperation and pain in her eyes. “Victor…why can’t you kill her…like you killed me?” She is crying.

  Finally, I look away from Izabel and see only Artemis. “Because I love her too much,” I say, and feel a heavy weight leave my body.

  Artemis stiffens, her features stunned.

  Then suddenly I glimpse movement behind Izabel—fast, but painfully slow at the same time—and the flash of another blade. I freeze; I cannot move anything, not even my eyes; I scream out, but I cannot hear my own voice.

  “I love you, Victor,” Izabel mouths, and then blood pours from her throat.

  “No—NOOO!”

  From the bars, Artemis’s left hand is wound in the top of Izabel’s hair, the right, slowly, horrifically, moves away from Izabel’s throat, a knife, stained with Izabel’s blood, clutched beneath her fingers. Izabel’s eyes roll back, and the whites come into view; her body slumps sideways. I still cannot move. It seems as if some invisible force stronger than my own will forbids it.

  Dead. I am dead inside. This is how it feels to be dead.

  After seconds that stretch like hours, in a rush of emotions, I feel my knees trudging across the floor, carrying my trembling body toward her. It feels like an eternity, but in seconds I am struggling to get her into my arms, my hands covering the gash on her throat, trying to stop the blood flow. “Izabel!” I cry out, my voice straining through the tears. “I am so sorry, Izabel! I am so sorry! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP HER! FUCKING HELP HER NOW!”

  My pleas go unheard.

  Everything becomes a blur, every sound and movement is chaotic, whirling around me and inside my head like debris tossed by a tornado. People running, guns firing, boots pounding against the stones, screams, more gunfire. “Forgive me,” I whisper to Izabel, ignoring it all, as if I were in the eye of that storm where everything is calm, rocking her limp body in my arms. “Forgive me…”

  Niklas

  Two weeks later…

  My brother’s seat at the head of the table has been empty since he came back from Venezuela. He and I still aren’t on the best of terms, but I can’t leave our organization without some kind of structure in his absence—it falls, I fall too, that sort of thing. So here I am. Standing where my brother usually sits, looking out at a few familiar faces, and a couple new ones, too, all sitting around the meeting table. Nora, on my right, taps her nails against the tabletop, from pinky to index, again, and again, and again. Fredrik sits to my left, across the table from Nora; he’s as quiet as ever, staring off at the wall; probably got that serial killer he’s been hunting with the government, on his mind—hell, he hardly talks about anything else. James Woodard sits to Fredrik’s left, looking healthier these days; got himself on a Vegan diet, or some such shit; lost a few pounds, and is feeling like a new man.

  Izzy’s seat is empty.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pinky to index. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  The contents of the table shake when I slam the side of my fisted hand down on it. “Do you mind?”

  Nora snarls at me in response, but her fingers go still; she leans back against her chair, crosses her legs, and leaves her arm stretched out on the table.

  I still sleep with her every now and then; it’s a mutual understanding we have: there’s nothing special between us other than work, and that we like to fuck—we’re not even friends. And if something ever happened to her, I couldn’t be bothered to give a shit, really. Might even give me some relief, to be honest. Nora isn’t exactly on my List of People I Trust, and she never will be.

  “So where is this guy, anyway?” Nora asks, glancing at the double-doors that lead into the meeting room. “Twenty minutes late—not a good first impression.”

  “I doubt he’s coming to impress us,” I point out.

  “You know,” Fredrik speaks up, “I don’t recall being briefed on what exactly he is coming here for.”

  “And without Victor,” Nora adds with a wary, sideward glance.

  “Victor is who arranged it,” I say, and then look over at Fredrik. “And all I know is that you’re supposed to give him the same respect you’d give my brother.” That’s how I know that what we think of our visitor, no matter how unimpressed we might be, won’t make a damn bit of difference to Victor.

  “You mean that we’re supposed to give him,” Nora corrects me. “You too—not just us. And I don’t like where this feels like it’s going.”

  “Neither do I,” James Woodard seconds. Then he lowers his eyes. “I-I mean, not that it matters what I like or don’t like.”

  “Grow a pair, will you?” Nora says, shaking her head.

  The other two operatives—new to the Table, and probably temporary—just sit and listen. The woman, uptight and suit-clad, has this annoying habit of chewing on the inside of her mouth, with her mouth open—pop-click-pop-click-pop; the man, long-faced with small black eyes and a gourd-like nose, breathes too loudly for my tastes; he sounds like a fucking Chinese pug going up a flight of stairs—heave, hisss-sooo, heave, hiss-sooo.

  “I hope this doesn’t take long,” Fredrik says. “I have to get back to my investigation.”

  “I think this is a little bit more important than that psychopath you’ve got a hard-on for,” I say.
“Don’t you even care what happened to Izzy?” Please don’t say something to piss me off, Fredrik; I’m not in the mood.

  Fredrik looks right at me, straight-faced, unemotional.

  “I do care,” he says, “but what’s done is done, and we have to move on.”

  OK, I guess that just barely hugged the line between acceptance and a fist in his face. Besides, I can tell the guy is downplaying the way he really feels—he cares more about Izzy than he cares for anyone.

  “Who is he, anyway?” Nora asks.

  Everybody looks at me now, waiting. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Pinky to index. Pop-click-pop-click-pop. Heave, hisss-sooo, heave, hiss-sooo. I’m going to lose my shit in a minute.

  “I don’t know,” I say, irritated by the noises and the truth. “Victor gave him the code to enter the building, informed all the guards that he was not to be frisked, and if he has a weapon he gets to keep it.”

  “I don’t like this,” Nora says. “Why would Victor do this? Especially after what happened. What if he’s losing his mind? Like this whole thing has finally pushed Faust over the edge. This mystery guy could be anyone, friend or foe—or worse, he could be just like any one of us.”

  “Then I guess you better hope he’s more like James,” I say.

  James looks up, red-faced; I laugh a little inside.

  “Where is Victor?” Fredrik asks. “He had to tell you that much, at least.”

  I nod. “He’s on his way to Dina Gregory’s as far as I know.”

  No one says anything, knowing what that means.

  The sound of shoes tapping against the floor outside in the hallway becomes evident, and all eyes turn to the doors; guns come out of our pants and boots and such, fixed in our hands, ready to fire if needed. I admit, even I’m holding my breath a little. Because Nora could be right about my brother finally being pushed over the edge. I also have to agree with her about not liking any of this, or where it feels like it’s going. Hell, I pretty much agree with Nora one hundred percent in this whole ordeal, but I’ll be damned if I give her the satisfaction of knowing it.

  Voices exchange words outside the door, and then seconds later, one side of the double-doors opens into the meeting room. A tall black man with short black hair walks in, dressed from shoulders to toes in a black-and-gray suit and black shoes; diamond-and-silver stud earrings shimmer against his semi-dark skin. He looks about my age, maybe a little older. Nora seems to be covertly checking him out—good, maybe he can take her off my hands. And my dick.

  Holding out my empty hand, I offer the man a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Have a seat.”

  He nods, and then sits. Only after he sits do I follow suit. I keep my gun in my hand.

  “I’m Niklas Fleischer, Victor’s brother.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” he speaks up, and already he’s pissing me off. “I know who all of you are. Victor briefed me well before sending me here.” He raises his arms, elbows propped on the table in front of him, and folds his hands together; silver-and-diamond cufflinks shine demonstrably on the wrists of his dress shirt poking from the ends of his jacket sleeves.

  Sucking on the inside of my mouth, I say bitterly, “I wish I could say the same about you. Victor told me your name is Osiris, but not much more than that. In fact, the only thing I know about what happened in Venezuela is what happened to Izabel. It’s been two weeks and I don’t know shit, so you’ll have to excuse the fucking chip on my shoulder because you know more about my brother than I do.”

  Osiris smirks. Motherfucker.

  He unfolds his hands and rests his back in the chair, puts his hands in his lap.

  “I’ll just get right to the point,” he says.

  “Yeah, that’d be the wise choice,” I come back.

  He ignores my attempt at provoking him.

  “My brother and sister are responsible for what happened in Venezuela,” he says, looks at us all one by one, and then continues. “And I was hired by Victor Faust to help track them down, capture them, and bring them to him alive.”

  Niklas

  I set my gun down on the table, but keep it well within my reach. “I see,” I say, aggravated and suspicious. “But that doesn’t mean shit to me. I can do all that on my own.”

  “I didn’t come here for your approval, or your permission,” Osiris says. “I’m here to recruit”—he looks only at me—“and to tell the rest of you about my brother and sister, Apollo and Artemis, so you’re not blindsided by them if they happen to show up here. And they likely will, to finish what they started.”

  “And why should we trust you?” Nora asks. “This is your family we’re talking about.”

  Once again, I agree with Nora.

  “She’s right,” I speak up. “Everybody knows I’ve had my differences with my brother, but I’d never work with someone against him, no matter what he’s done.”

  “I never got along with my other siblings—except for Hestia—so you can say they’re as much my family as they are yours.”

  “That still doesn’t give us reason to trust you,” Fredrik says.

  Osiris leans forward and folds his hands atop the table.

  “A long time ago,” he says, “I was the one who commissioned The Order to take my family out. Victor happened to be the assassin handed the job. My hatred for them hasn’t changed—I want them dead as much as Victor does.” He backtracks a little, shrugs, and adds, “Well, after what Artemis did to Victor’s woman, it’s possible he wants her dead a little more than I do—common ground.”

  I remember now. Something about the name Osiris did feel somewhat familiar when Victor told me on the phone about this meeting.

  I look across the long table at the man. “You’re Osiris Stone,” I say. “You and my brother, from what I understand, aren’t the best of friends.” My brother never told me the full story about the Stone family, and his involvement with them, but he did tell me that Osiris tied him to a chair and beat him—all the more reason not to trust this guy.

  “No, we wouldn’t be friends,” Osiris admits. “I was sort of forced to…push Faust to his breaking point, I guess you can say. It wasn’t my choice; The Order made what I did to him, mandatory per my contract.”

  “And what exactly did you do?” Nora asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Osiris says. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because Victor asked me to be.”

  I still can’t believe this shit. “You expect me to believe that my brother hired you to do a job for him?” I ask with disbelief.

  Nora laughs. “Yeah, that’s like Picasso hiring you to paint him a picture”—she stands up, throws her hands in the air—“Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit, Niklas.”

  I stand, too, and begin to walk the length of the table, ignoring Nora, but always quietly agreeing with her.

  “OK, Osiris,” I say, “so Victor needs your expertise because you know the targets better than he does; does that about sum it up?”

  He nods. “Something like that.” Then he stands as I get closer, and I realize how much taller than me he is.

  “So you’re going to tag along with him and me on the hunt,” I assume.

  “No,” Osiris says, and that provokes a few raised eyebrows in the room, including mine. “Apparently, Victor is sitting this one out, from what I gathered in my meeting with him. Of course, he didn’t tell me what he plans to do, but he isn’t leading this particular mission. He’s paying me and my sister to do it for him.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?” I ask. “You said you came here to recruit.”

  “Not you,” he says. “Victor told me to get with you about recruiting two of your best operatives who’ll be going with us.” He glances around the table. “I’m assuming they’re here?”

  “Yeah, they are,” I say, and then point at myself. “If this is to hunt the ones who hurt Izzy, then one of them will be me.” I point at Nora. “And that blond over there.” If I’d known what this was about befor
ehand, I never would’ve chosen those two noisemakers!

  Osiris shakes his head. “The blond I can accept,” he says. “Victor said you’d probably volunteer yourself, but he needs you here.”

  Why isn’t Victor going after these people himself? If Izzy was my woman, I sure as hell wouldn’t leave this up to someone else; I’d hunt them into their graves. And why isn’t my brother here for this meeting, either? What the hell is going on?

  Fredrik stands; he leans over slightly, propping the tips of all ten fingers on the table in front of him.

  “It appears our leader is taking a leave of absence,” he says, practically reading my mind. “He’s leaving the most important mission of his life up to someone else; leaving his renegade brother in charge of his organization—such surprising and reckless actions can only mean one thing: Victor Faust has finally fallen. I wonder how long it’ll take him to get back up again.”

  Leave it to Fredrik Gustavsson, the one person in the room most intimate with his demons, to know when another man has been defeated by his.

  Fredrik leaves his chair and walks past us, heading to the exit. “I’m at your disposal, Niklas, whenever you need me for an interrogation,” he says, slowing his pace. “But please keep in mind my other duties, primarily with my current mission.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, Fredrik, I’ll try not to pull you away from your weird fetishes if I can help it.”

  “I appreciate it,” he says at the door, then pushes it open and leaves.

  I turn back to Osiris, and everyone else in the room.

  “OK.” I nod, thinking to myself. Then I pluck the cigarette from behind my ear, a lighter from my pocket, and set the end aflame. “Aside from me, the blond is the best operative in the First Division—”

  “We both know which one us is the better operative,” Nora cuts in snidely, and I continue to ignore her.

  I point briefly at the suit-clad woman.

  “Agent O’Hara will be your second recruit,” I say. “And if something happens to one of them”—I grin at Nora—“then Agent Asthma over there can take her place.” I take a drag and inhale deeply, then say to Osiris with smoke in my lungs, “You said Victor hired you and your sister?”