IA: Invincible Assassin Page 5

  “That’s more like it,” says Naz.

  “School’s not gonna be a problem, but what exactly do you mean by ‘gang initiation?’”

  “I convinced the Incubus Apostles to let me join their gang. They wanted me before. I figure for whatever reason, maybe they still do. I told ’em I’m the one that took care of Roffio.”

  “You what?!” I almost drop my controller and glare at him.

  “You heard me.” Naz continues looking at the monitor. “Maybe that’ll draw out this so-called Boss.”

  “You think that was smart?” I return my attention back to the screen after taking a bullet to the shoulder and losing some of my life force.

  “Be careful.” Naz moves with the players on the screen. “Yeah, you beat the leader, you become the leader.”

  “Not always. They may want restitution.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “So how do I fit into all this?” I regain my life back on the game and go ahead of Naz, carrying a trash can lid as a shield.

  “That’s not gonna to work.” Naz shakes his head. “You don’t … fit in. I’m telling you about it because I know you’ll show up anyway, so I’m saving you some trouble. Somehow, you seem to know where I am, probably the General.” Naz looks at me suspiciously and then takes his man on the screen around the back way, apparently trying to introduce the element of surprise. “Anyway, when you get there, stay out of the way. This ain’t Dill and Denali or some of those other wannabe bullies at Lincoln. Most of these guys are all bigger and older than us, and they carry weapons that they enjoy using.”

  But it’s too late; when Naz surfaces again, I’ve taken out all of the intruders single-handedly. “I can take care of myself,” I offer.

  “Uh-huh.” Naz purses his lips, pauses the game and then looks at me. “Yeah? In four days, it’s not gonna be a video game.”

  I smirk. “How’d you manage to get this room anyway?”

  He looks at the bag of money again.

  “No, I mean without a credit card or ID? That little hair on your chin still doesn’t make you look like an adult.”

  He laughs and tries to find the hiding hairs on his chin. “I have my ID.”

  “I don’t think a school ID cuts it.”

  “It’s something about paying twice the amount for the room in cash that makes people stop asking questions. Plus, I think the lady behind the counter thought I was cute.” He’s found the hairs on his chin.

  I shake my head.

  Several hours fly by, and working together, we crack several more levels in the game. We don’t talk about his plans anymore. We talk a lot about Hailey and D, and Soul and Coach, and the season and Lincoln, but we avoid the topic of Meri and the Incubus Apostles altogether.

  I suggest we get something to eat and he accepts, almost seems excited about it. For a minute it’s as if the day before Thanksgiving with Meri didn’t happen, as if the burning church house, Roffio, and Ham never took place. But it did.

  As we leave the room, I take one more stab at it, pulling Dr. Gwen’s card out of my back pocket and attempting to hand it to him. He knocks it out of my hand, and it flutters to the floor on the crimson carpet in the hallway. I beat back my anger and remember my place.

  It’s a mild Saturday afternoon in January, and we spend it like old times. We walk the downtown streets people-watching, strategizing about ways to crack the next level of the game, and laughing about Coach and Soul.

  I send a text message to my father, who has returned from his overseas mission. I’m not sure Naz will continue to wear the jacket I planted the device on, so I ask for another one. I don’t ask my father for much, so he meets us by the river, where he hands me another small envelope. Naz shakes the General’s hand with a raised eyebrow. I imagine the contents of the envelope being a flash drive with pictures of me and my mother and father just in case Naz’s most lethal gift is in effect: the power to read minds. I instructed my father to do the same in my text. Before the General leaves, I pull him to the side.

  “Dad, when Mom was here I noticed she had bruises on her wrists. You know anything about that?” I’m sure he does, and I’m confident he’ll tell me the truth.

  “Some scumbag mugged her at gunpoint on the train,” he says with no emotion.

  “At gunpoint?” I echo in disbelief and horror.

  “Yeah. So help me God if I ever get my hands on that punk,” he adds, still without expression.

  But I know he’s hot with anger inside. I see red from the thought of someone putting their hands on my mother, holding a gun to her—

  “Forget about it,” he says as if it’s that easy. And then, “She had no business on that train, especially out here.”

  “So now what?” I ask.

  “Now nothing. It’s over. She has to be more careful … Is there anything else?” he asks as if he’s back to business as usual.

  I clear my head, and we rejoin Naz. My mom being mugged will be a tough one to let go of, but I will. What’s done is done.

  The General salutes us both and is gone as quick as he came. We buy a few more games and head back to the hotel before dark. The news of my mother still lingers. I fight the anger that has waxed inside of me, and soon it begins to wane.

  Room service becomes our best friend as we sample almost everything on the menu. Initially, I was conflicted, knowing the source of the money that provided our feast but ultimately decided to partake. Consequentialism prevails and the idiom of the day is, ‘the ends justify the means.’ In short, this is the most expedient way to get Naz to open up to me, and it’s working.

  Naz gives enormous tips. I worry that his contributions will tip someone off as to his Sherwood Forest escapades, but he assures me everyone is more concerned with sharing in the profits than seeing justice served. I assume he’s read a few minds to come to that conclusion. Plus, we’ll be gone in the morning, long before the authorities can mount a thorough investigation.

  We pass out mid-game and mid-feast in the early morning, Naz on the floor in front of the chair and me on the sofa. Unbeknownst to Naz, I set my watch to wake me in three hours, when I know he will be dead asleep. When I wake up, I plant the other tracking device on the back of one of his boots with ease as Naz lies in a comatose state.

  It’s after noon when we rise and finally leave the hotel.

  The doorman asks if we enjoyed our stay in an accent so severe I can hardly understand. But then he bids us farewell by saying, “Please come again, Mr. Andersen and Mr. Young.”

  It takes me only a few seconds to process and then I ask Naz, “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “What the doorman said?”

  “Sounded like gibberish to me?”

  “No, he called us by name.”

  “Impossible,” Naz says. “I gave them a fake name, and you didn’t give them any name at all, right?”

  “Right. But he clearly said both of our names. Come on.” We’re almost a half block away when I decide to turn around and investigate.

  “Wordsmith,” Naz calls as he catches up to me. “He could barely speak English. You’re hearing things.”

  A minute later, when I get back to the hotel entrance, he’s no longer there. I ask the current doorman in his place about him, even describing the two things I remember—sunglasses and dreadlocks—and he sort of laughs. I look at Naz, and he’s laughing, too.

  “Wordsmith,” says Naz, “I think it’s time for you to go home and get some rest,” he continues in a jovial mood.

  “Whatever! I know what I saw. I know what I heard.”

  We catch the Helix back to Marshal Park together. You wouldn’t know Naz had been through hell and back by his attitude. We finish off a bit of junk food as the train comes to a full stop in Marshal Park. Before we part ways, I take one last shot.

  “See you at school tomorrow,” I say over my shoulder.

  He doesn’t respond.

  THE FIRST THREE days of school are b
usiness, or should I say, school as usual minus Naz. Naz has added a fourth to his triangle of hangouts. It looks like a high rise several sections away in Aquinas Grove.

  It’s Wednesday, and I wait on pins and needles, hoping when the call comes, I’m in Coach’s last-hour class and can dip out without too much trouble. I should be so lucky as Naz sends me a text message during second-hour social studies class just as we start a quiz. Dumb luck. It’s multiple-choice, so I guess on all twenty questions and raise my hand in less than a minute. Mr. Rush summons me to his desk.

  I hand him my paper. “May I go to the restroom?”

  “Harvis,” he says. “Are you sure? You can’t possibly have had enough time to finish the quiz.”

  “I studied all night, Mr. Rush,” I lie.

  He nods toward the door, and I hurry out as if I’ve been holding it for hours to complete the deception. There are only two security guards to watch the many doors at Lincoln, so I pick a door no one is watching and dip out.

  The Cage is a good distance from Lincoln, almost a mile, near Union High School, and I get there in less than fifteen minutes. It’s deserted and cold like the weather today. I pull the collar up on my coat and go inside the fifteen-foot high, fenced-in outdoor basketball court. It’s obviously too cold to play. I hear gangs come here often for turf wars or just to squash differences.

  Did I get it wrong? I look at my watch and Naz is close by, maybe a block away, but he’s not moving. Maybe I should meet him. But then he’ll know I’m tracking him. He probably already does. Feeling like a sitting duck, I decide to leave the court and wait across the street in the parking lot. Before I can make it out, a red Challenger—similar to Coach’s car only newer and not as sweet—pulls into the parking lot. Four of the most unsavory-looking characters I’ve ever seen get out. I know right away I’m in over my head. They all have on skullcaps and all-black clothes with combat boots. Two of them have beards, and one has a tattoo on the entire right side of his face.

  They notice me in less than a second as one of them puts his hand inside his jacket but doesn’t pull it back out. Several boys not much older than me, maybe five more, come from the same direction I did at a hurried pace. One of them is massive, not tall but wide as a tank. He must be Skinny. That makes at least nine, and I have the feeling I’m in trouble.

  I back into the courts and show my best courage. I turn one corner of my mouth up and scoff. I mean to stand my ground no matter what. But I must admit I’m wondering—where is Naz? Has he set me up? No way! I resist looking at my watch again, feeling it will give them an impression of doubt, fear, or at least the fact that I’m waiting on someone else, which I am.

  I’m standing almost in the center of the Cage now, and the gang—I’m assuming that’s what they are—walks right over to me without hesitation.

  The one with his hand in his jacket, definitely the leader, approaches just ahead of the rest. I look him directly in his eyes, not to intimidate but as a show of respect. He’s a little shorter than me and about the same build. He has facial hair but in patches all about his face, even high on his cheeks. I’ve already found a major weakness: his eye. One of his pupils is almost white. It doesn’t dilate, and it doesn’t move as the other one does. It dances around nervously, searching the area in back of me (another weakness). He’s blind in his right eye, which means he’ll never see the crescent kick that knocks him out. I sense fear in his one live eye, even more than my own.

  I never take my eyes off of him, but in my peripheral, I’ve counted an even ten. I’ve never faced this many attackers during sparring sessions in the dojo. Where is he?

  “S-So, you offed R-Roffio,” the one-eyed gang leader says.

  I even sense fear in his voice, which he tries to cover up with false bravado. I give no words, opting for an arrogant smirk instead.

  “That ain’t him,” says the giant in back of him to his right. “The dude I talked to looked like a little weasel.”

  I hope this little insult brings Naz out of hiding, but there’s still no sign of him. Skinny’s remark does, however, alarm the one-eyed gang leader in front of me. He finally pulls his hand out of his coat as if he’s a magician, revealing a 9mm Luger: a Sig Sauer P229 Legion Compact, to be exact. Last check, the General had two in his collection and considers this killing tool a work of art. I’ve fired it a few times, and the cool metal always puts me in the mind of Wolverine’s adamantium.

  Some of the leader’s henchmen are making their way behind me as he brandishes the gun like it’s a toy. But for some reason, he hasn’t pointed it at me, yet—a mistake on his part. The Legion has no safety, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t shot himself in the foot, chest, or somewhere in between. He’s close enough that I can disarm him with relative ease. It’s the other nine thugs now surrounding me that I’m worried about. I say a prayer. It’s only been thirteen years, but I’m prepared; I saw both my mother and father this past weekend.

  I go through tactical in my head. I’ll stun him with a palm to the nose and then grab his gun to take out a few of his buddies and at the same time use him as a shield. That might work in the dojo and on the video games, but all I need is one slip, and I’m toast. Just the same, if I’m leaving God’s green earth today, I’m taking a few Apostles with me. I steel myself.

  “Y-y-y-you got one chance, p-punk,” he says, “to tell me who you are? A-and wh-wh-whoooo is N-N-Naz Andersen?”

  At first, I thought this clown was just nervous, but he actually has a stuttering problem. I wonder why he hasn’t turned the gun on me yet when I notice he’s straining, and there’s a drop of sweat running down his forehead. He’s more than nervous; something’s holding him. Several of the henchmen behind me are in place to attack, but I know they won’t make a move without a signal from one-eyed Bart here.

  I look over his shoulder, and that’s when I see Naz. But apparently, no one else does. It’s about time, and the time is now or never. Naz sits as still as a statue, crouched on top of the fifteen-foot fence like a black raven in search of prey. I change tactical in my mind, and I’m positive the thug in front of me never sees what hits him as my right foot whacks him on the left side of his face, utilizing a tried-and-true crescent kick.

  The kick lands flush, dislodging his 9mm and sending him crumpling to the ground in a heap. I catch his gun and prepare to return fire. The safety-less Luger has become a blessing in disguise. I snap kick my victim on the ground in the face, making sure he’s down for good, and then I go deep into my stance. The clatter and clank of various weapons echo around me, and I brace myself. Now would be a good time, Naz. I catch him in a flash out of the corner of my eye, still frozen. What is he waiting on?

  Then, the gun flips from my hand as if someone’s snatched it. It hurls through the air along with the guns, knives, chains, brass knuckles and other weapons the gang members held seconds before. They fly into a corner of the Cage as if a magnet has drawn them to one point.

  That’s my cue; I use Naz’s misunderstood gift as a distraction and go to work. I find Skinny first and attempt to take him out with two kicks to the face. This seems to only stun him, but it has the same effect on the other eight still standing and waiting. I sweep two off their feet immediately and disable them with snap kicks to their heads. Skinny is on me in a second, and I slow his assault with a side kick to the solar plexus. I grimace as my knee buckles a bit from the force. He takes a step back, but his size alone causes me to fall as if I’ve kicked off a brick wall. I’m on my feet immediately with a kip up. I duck, evading a telegraphed punch by a lanky character and then come up throwing one of the smaller thugs over my head and onto his back as he tries to rush me.

  My feet are the keys to my success; it’s the one, well, two weapons I know they cannot withstand the force of, except Skinny. I do a mental check of my knee; I’m OK. Two come at me in perfect position for double snap kicks. Speaking of Skinny…

  “Harvis!” Naz yells.

  There’s a pounding in my head,
the back of my head. I open my eyes to bright, blurry light. It hurts. Everything hurts. I blink several times, willing my eyes to focus. When they finally do, I’m still at the cage, and Naz is crouched next to me. He’s eating something. He breaks off a piece and hands it to me. He’s scanning the perimeter.

  “It’s a Snickers bar, well, half of one. I got another one in my coat.” He reaches for the other Snickers when I don’t take the piece he offers me.

  I put my hand up to stop him and take the piece already in his hand.

  “It’ll make you feel better,” he says.

  I don’t believe him. The back of my head continues to throb. I’m afraid to actually feel back there. “A Snickers bar? Where’d you hear that?”

  “From a movie.”

  “Figures.”

  “Well, it can’t hurt.”

  “What happened?”

  “Skinny happened. Did you really think you could turn your back on him like that?”

  “I didn’t turn my back on him. I took my eyes off him for a second because I thought I had some help.”

  “Help?”

  I don’t respond because it’s just occurred to me what he’s trying to do. But it’s too late; I’ve already taken the bait.

  “I thought you said you could take care of yourself?” He dusts his hands off, knocking away loose candy bar crumbs.

  “Didn’t learn anything from Coach about team … family?” I finally get enough courage to feel the back of my head. It’s a lump almost as big as a tennis ball.

  “I told you before. This ain’t about team or family. It’s personal.” He finally looks at me. “You, OK?”

  I nod, not really sure. At the very least, I probably have a concussion.

  “I was giving you about one more minute to wake up before calling an ambulance.”

  “I’m OK,” I stand up and stumble but refuse to fall. “How long was I out?”