IA: Invincible Assassin Page 11
I reset my watch and record his complete confession and then step away, making room for Naz, who kneels down in front of him again. I can see how easy it is to get sucked down into anger, hatred, revenge, and never find your way back.
Shed regains consciousness. “It doesn’t matter; she’s not the first old bag I’ve killed, and I’ll be back out before you know it,” Shed says to Naz.
I bristle.
Naz smiles and nods. We’ve somehow switched roles; he’s the cool one, clearly under control, and I’ve somewhat lost it.
Naz looks at the rest of the Apostles scattered on the floor and stands up. “Listen.” He points to the graffiti on the wall and pulls off his hood. “Get up!”
They grovel.
“I said, get up!” Naz kicks an Apostle in the butt who has obviously been faking his unconscious state.
Another Apostle gets up, rubbing his jaw while others rise to their feet nursing various body parts and moaning indecipherable complaints and protests.
“Shut up!” Naz continues, and they simmer down. “You may go, except for your fearless leader here. But if I see you…” Naz walks around them, making it a point to look at every one of them eye to eye. “If I see you out here, on these streets again, you will die. Tell every one of your friends about me. The Incubus Apostles are dead and gone … forgotten history!” he yells, causing some of the gang members to jump. “Consider it a prophecy,” he finishes calmly. He turns his gaze back to Shed, who looks defeated, still holding his throat.
“W-Where did our stuff go?” one of the Apostles stammers while several others look up into rafters.
“They’re not yours anymore, and you won’t need them. Now get out before I change my mind.”
They hurry back out the way they came in, not making a sound. When they’re gone, Naz returns to Shed, kneels down, and nods.
“I know you’ve killed other people,” Naz says calmly, as he attempts to straighten the ruffled collar of Shed’s black jean jacket. “In fact,” Naz grabs his collar forcefully this time and half-lifts, half-drags him to the graffiti wall, pinning him up against it. “I know everything about you,” Naz continues with a low, menacing tone. “And you better pray to whatever god you believe in they don’t let you out because I’ll know. And I’ll know right where to find you wherever you go.”
“You’re the devil,” Shed whimpers.
Naz raises his arm over his head and then slowly lowers it. All of the weapons come back down from the ceiling and levitate in sync, several feet from the floor. A handgun hovers just between Naz and Shed. “Take it,” Naz teases.
Shed shakes his head.
“Go ahead; I know you want it.”
“No,” Shed says, fear in his eyes.
“No?” asks Naz calmly. “I didn’t think so. Best move you’ve made all day. You’re a lot smarter than you look, but you’re wrong. I’m not the devil.”
Naz quickly raises his hand again. The weapons fly up straight in the air again, this time faster than before. There’s a crashing sound. Debris rains down from the ceiling, and we all cover our heads. He must’ve made them go through the roof.
“I’m worse than the devil, and my hell is the Exclave.” Naz slams Shed down on the ground next to the wall. “Now wait there until your ride comes.”
Naz walks over to us, surprisingly in good spirits while I’m still rattled and surprised at my loss of control. He leads us to another corner of the abandoned store. The little boy looks back at his former leader, concerned.
“Don’t worry; he’s not going anywhere,” Naz assures. “Are you OK?” he asks me.
I nod an apprehensive lie and then deflect. “How about you?”
He gives a slow nod, and I know he’s witnessed the chink in my armor. He lets me off the hook by focusing on the little boy. “I think we’re OK, kid.” We both give the little boy between us reassuring nods.
“Sorry about your mom,” Naz adds.
I nod, slightly embarrassed, and there’s a short pause.
“Did you call the cops?” he asks.
“They should be on their way,” I answer. “For whatever that’s worth.”
“What about the confession?” Naz twists a piece of his hair.
“Already sent to the police database.”
“Let them know all those weapons are on the side of the building.”
I send a follow-up message to the police, updating them as Naz had directed.
“What do we do now?” asks the little boy.
Naz shrugs.
“We wait,” I say.
“Am I part of your gang now?” asks the little boy.
“We’re not a gang,” answers Naz, laughing.
“Well, what are you? Superheroes?”
I look at Naz and laugh.
“What’s your name, little man?” asks Naz.
“I’m not little.” He pouts and stands on his toes pushing his height up an inch or two but still barely coming up to our chests.
“Well, what’s your name?” I ask.
“I’m the Firecracker,” the boy answers with his chest poked out.
Naz looks at me, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Firecracker?” Naz questions.
“At your service,” the boy says with pride as he bows in front of us.
“Well, Firecracker.” I grab a tennis ball out of my pack. “Can you play basketball?”
“Not really.”
I point to an area on the other side of the store. “Well, if you go over there and practice dribbling this, you’ll become a great ball-handler.” I dribble the tennis ball between my legs and then toss it to him.
Unprepared, he barely catches it. “I don’t know,” the boy says, unconvinced.
“If you practice squeezing it,” I demonstrate, squeezing an imaginary tennis ball, “you’ll get strong like him.” I point to Naz.
“Hmmm … I don’t think so.” Firecracker scrunches up his face.
“Hey … Fire … cracker,” Naz holds out his hand for the boy to toss the ball to him. When the boy throws it, Naz raises his hand, causing the ball to stop and levitate between them. Then, Naz twirls his finger, and the ball rotates like a spinning top.
“Wow!” The boy walks over to the ball.
“If you go over there and give us a few minutes, I’ll teach you how to do that,” Naz lies, still twirling his finger, adding to the effect of the spinning tennis ball.
The boy grabs the ball out of the air and shuffles away. “You’re a bad liar, Assassin.” The boy looks over his shoulder. “You can’t teach a superpower; it’s a gift.”
I feel like something has lifted. My friend is back, at least for now, and maybe I had to sacrifice a small part of myself to help get him here. My mother saw that coming. Oh, well. I reach in my back pocket and pull out Dr. Gwen’s worn business card. Something tells me Naz doesn’t need it to make the call, and this gesture from Dr. Gwen was symbolic more than anything. But he takes it anyway, acknowledging a small bit of closure. He looks at it and then sticks it in his back pocket.
“So, what happened to all the money?”
“I gave it back, like I told you I would.”
“Back to who?”
“Back to the people who need it.”
“Robin Hood?” I shake my head.
“That’s right, Superman.”
“So, are we done here?” I ask.
“Here … for now.” He smiles.
“Why change now … because of the Firecracker?” I ask.
Naz shakes his head. “To stop you from becoming me.”
I nod, finishing my earlier thoughts.
Lightning strikes. A battle is won.
A mind awakens. The war has just begun.
Something within elevates the evolution.
The ghetto’s got some problems; IA’s got the solution.
The pollution of the soul can send your life to hell.
There’s a higher calling. You gotta break the spell.
You’re a soldier, a warrior. The time is prime.
My brother in the streets, dreams piling up inside,
Hope dying on the curb, gotta leave your fears behind.
This hood is strong, but your spirit drives out the wrong.
Pick up some courage to make this city a home.
John Darryl Winston is a graduate of the Motion Picture Institute of Michigan, the Recording Institute of Detroit, and Wayne State University. He also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. He is an educator, coach, musician, and songwriter, but considers himself an author first—mainly because he believes that miracles and dreams live in the written word. He lives in Michigan with his daughter Marquette and intends to acquire an African Grey parrot one day when he conquers his irrational fear of birds.
Visit the author at:
www.johndarrylwinston.com