IA: Invincible Assassin Page 7

  “I got you,” he says.

  “No,” I say. “Let me go. I’ll be all right.”

  But he doesn’t let me go. He smiles and says, “No scratches, right?”

  That’s when I know that not only can he read minds, he’s just read mine. He grimaces and starts pulling as hard as he can. I grab his other arm, so he doesn’t have to worry about losing his grip. I hold on tight. He growls like a wounded animal as he pulls with all his might. When my hand reaches the roof, I’m able to help, and we finish the awkward job together.

  Once on the roof, we lie on our backs, temporarily exhausted.

  “Wordsmith, you’re going to have to cut down on the double school lunches.” He swings his arm over and smacks me in the gut.

  “Whatever! That’s granite.”

  “Come on.” He jumps up and walks up to the summit of the slanted roof.

  I follow. There’s a nice sized hole in the roof and ripped up shingles around it.

  “You did this?” I ask.

  He nods, admiring his handiwork. I take a peek inside, but there’s only darkness. I feel like this is déjà vu only from a different vantage point. He goes in feet first and lands on something. I can still see the top of him, just nothing down below.

  He looks up and beckons me inside with his hand. I lower myself in and place my feet on the beam he’s standing on. It’s weird seeing all of this from this angle. He picks up a red can from the beam and takes a swig. It’s a Coke. He extends it to me.

  “You know I don’t drink soda,” I say.

  “Suit yourself,” he says and takes another swig.

  “So what’s happening here?” I get down to business.

  “Twenty-one questions,” he answers.

  “What?”

  “Twenty-one questions, only they won’t know I’m asking the questions, and more importantly, they won’t know they’re answering them.”

  “Sweet! So now what?”

  “We wait until they show up.”

  “And you’re sure they’re—“

  “They’ll be here. Give me the rope.” He holds out his hand.

  I pull off my pack and pull out the rope. When I try to hand it to him, he just looks at it.

  “Looks pretty flimsy. Will it hold a couple hundred pounds?” he asks.

  “Easy. It’s military-grade.”

  “The General strikes again.” He’s looking at a pulley on one of the beams to the left. “How long is it?”

  “‘Bout thirty feet.”

  “Can you make a knot on one end, like a noose?”

  “A noose?!”

  “Not a noose, a loop … a knot.”

  “What kind of knot?”

  “You know, like one that can trap an animal by the leg and hold it.”

  “What are you gonna do, Naz?”

  “Can you make it or not?”

  “Of course I can … a slip knot.”

  “I knew I could count on you, boy scout.”

  I construct a bowline knot instead, not wanting the rope to slip off whatever or whoever Naz is planning on tying it to. I make it look harder than it is, wondering if he knows I actually used to be a boy scout. I hand it to him, and he puts it on the pulley so the length is about equal on either side. Then he bunches it on top of the beam, so it doesn’t fall loose or hang down. I can’t lie and say that I’m not curious but resist asking him what he has in store.

  “I need you to stay out of this.” Before I can agree he adds, “I promise not to kill anybody.”

  Before I can reply, he puts his index finger to his lips, stopping my words before they escape. Someone’s coming. He mouths the words ‘stay put,’ steps over the pulley and then moves farther down the beam just below and behind a horizontal metal pole holding a broken light. He knows the layout well. It’s hard to determine how many people enter below, and I can’t make out what several male voices are saying. The only light on the floor is from the hole Naz has somehow created in the ceiling until…

  There’s a rolling metal sound like a garage has opened, and light floods the room. Naz doesn’t hesitate. He jumps and grabs the metal pole, hurls his body around it, tucking to avoid his feet hitting the ceiling. I have a flashback of younger Naz at a park once doing the same stunt. Then, he releases the bar and descends. But he doesn’t fall with gravity; he slows down—I think. That’s not possible. I shake my head quickly, not letting myself blink. Either he just played with gravity, or my concussion is playing with me. He does something that resembles an aerial spin like a gymnast to either impress me or propel himself near the wall where he lands in a perfect three-point stance. The thugs in front of him jump and gasp.

  “What the…?” one of them says.

  “Surprise.” Naz appears like a center on the line in a football game, and the eleven Incubus Apostles in front of him represent the other team. It’s one against many.

  I instinctively move to help and then hear the General’s words, ‘Don’t engage’ in my head. I stop. Naz takes them by surprise. He’s almost against the wall, and I wonder is this lesson for me as I recall Naz’s advice at the cage that I should’ve put my back against the fence. Or is he just following his own advice?

  He casually rises as if he’s supposed to be there and has just arrived late.

  “Who are you?” One of the Apostles steps forward aggressively.

  I’m at an angle where it’s still hard to see, so I move down the beam a bit to get a better view.

  “Ivan, from the AG Killers.”

  Hearing the name Ivan causes the thug to freeze.

  “What happened to our deal?” Naz continues the charade.

  “What deal?” the same thug asks, slowly moving closer to Naz. “Roffio’s gone. There is no deal.”

  “What are you guys scared of?” Naz moves to the side and lowers himself slightly.

  They don’t know what’s coming. He’s asking them questions and reading their minds for the answers. When he has what he needs, he’s going to thrash them.

  “The boss said the deal’s still on?” Naz continues.

  “What boss? Whose boss? There is no boss.” The thug in charge looks back, and the Apostles close ranks behind him.

  I will not engage.

  “That’s not Ivan,” one of them says.

  “He’s right,” another voice chimes in.

  “You got me,” Naz says. “I work for Skinny.”

  Skinny? I bristle.

  Naz lowers a bit, and I know what’s coming next. “They call me Ass—”

  “Skinny’s a rat. Get ’im,” somebody says.

  I hear metal clanking and sliding, and I know he’s disarmed them.

  Naz gets even closer to the wall and lower. He doesn’t reach out; they come to him, and he dispatches them one at a time. It’s like watching a video game where your man has a force field around him. Naz only uses elbow strikes and low kicks to the ankles, shins, and groin area. He’s trying to take them out of commission but not permanently—encouraging.

  It’s hard to see what’s going on, but I know Naz is hard to get to. The gang members are falling over each other in a vain effort to engage him. Naz doesn’t waste any motion. Even his blocks resemble strikes as the gang members drop like flies. Is this what Soul and I couldn’t see on the night Roffio died in the fire? Only, Roffio put up a fight, evidenced by the beating Naz took at his hands. But these guys are no match for Naz, and I laugh at myself for thinking he needed my help.

  “Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted.” Naz steps over one of the defeated gang members. He looks up and stops when he’s under the pulley and rope. “They call me Assassin.”

  Assassin?

  “That’s right! Assassin,” he repeats.

  Is he answering my thoughts?

  “But you can call me Invincible.” He reaches up high in the air and snatches down as if he’s pulled at something invisible.

  The two ends of the rope fall from the rafters, and he catches the
m without looking. The gang members on the floor gasp. Naz takes the end with the bowline knot, lets go of the other end, and goes after his prey. It’s the thug who spoke up first, apparently the leader. Naz grabs him by the leg.

  “Let me go,” says the leader as he snatches his leg and scoots away.

  Naz overtakes him again, punches him in the face, and says, “Shut up and be still.” He puts the thug’s foot in the loop I created and then summons the other end of the rope by raising his hand. It flies to his hand as if it’s metal to a magnet. He grabs it and immediately pulls down on it, lifting the leader up by one foot. It’s kind of funny and at the same time amazing; funny to see the thug swinging back and forth like a pendulum, whimpering in fear and moaning in pain, and amazing that Naz has the strength to lift him that way. He must be calling on some other force.

  He asks the thug swinging in the air, “Who … is the boss?”

  “You,” the thug answers.

  “No, you idiot,” Naz replies, clearly frustrated. “Who is the leader … of your gang?”

  “Roffio,” the thug whimpers, “but…”

  “But what?!” Naz yells.

  “You killed him,” the thug manages to get out.

  Naz looks at the rest of the gang members on the floor. “Who is your boss? Where is he?” Naz yells, again.

  No one answers.

  He looks up at me and shakes his head. His twenty-one-questions game has come to an end. He pulls on the rope until the thug is almost to the ceiling.

  “The IA that owns these streets now is me, Invincible Assassin. If I see any one of you out here again, this is what happens.” He lets go of the rope, and the leader plummets downward.

  I catch my breath, knowing Naz has truly crossed over to the dark side. But it is as if time stops and the thug freezes one foot before he hits the floor. He screams in a high pitch, probably thinking he skull has cracked and his brain splattered on the floor. A second later, the thug lands safely. He takes the rope off his foot as if it’s a curse that has finally released him.

  “Now,” Naz says calmly. “Get out of here and never let me see your faces again.”

  After the Apostles disperse, we dispose of their weapons and go our separate ways. But not before I make a request. I ask Naz to meet me at the Cage in a week after school, but I won’t tell him why, just him and me. I think he’s up for a surprise. He jokes about bringing Skinny, and I laugh.

  All is quiet for the next seven days. I call Naz during that time and surprisingly he answers his phone. There’s a distinct drop in his mood. He’s not getting what he hoped for in his quest, and it’s bringing him back down.

  When we get to the Cage, I’m 100 percent recovered—no more sensitivity to bright light, and my head is clear. It’s been a mild winter, and I can’t imagine a warmer day at the end of January, perfect for what I have in mind. I told Naz to dress in sweats.

  I get there before he does to stretch and warm up. Five little boys are playing twenty-one. I didn’t expect it to be this warm, and I hope the court doesn’t get too crowded. They don’t pay me any attention until I start doing martial arts forms. They laugh and point for a few minutes then go back to their game.

  I’m deep in a stance when Naz arrives.

  “Where’s the basketball?” he asks as he comes around the corner. “Perfect weather for it.”

  “Perfect weather for anything.” I take a deep breath and come out of my stance.

  “You didn’t get me out here to work on martial arts, did you?”

  “Of course. I might have to face Skinny again.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “My mother told me every day is a day to celebrate a success or learn from a failure. I failed out here the last time.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “What else? You said never allow myself to be surrounded by superior numbers, that I should’ve used the fence, put my back up against it. Is that what you did last week?”

  “Well, there wasn’t a fence.” He laughs.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Come on.”

  We walk over by the fence. Naz stands with his back a few inches from the fence and motions for me to do the same on his right side. He looks at me and then straight ahead. He bows and steps with his left foot over his right. Then, he steps with his right followed by an open hand strike with his right hand and an elbow strike with his left. It’s exactly what he used to dismantle the Apostles last week. I know the form well.

  “Naihanchi Kata,” I blurt out a little more excited than I meant to. “It’s the third form in Isshinryu Karate.”

  “If you say so.”

  I start doing the form with him, although I don’t remember it as well as he does. It’s amazing what he remembers and what he doesn’t. “It’s a form that teaches fighting in close quarters.”

  He nods. We keep going over the form, and the boys on the court start watching again.

  Naz jumps up exhilarated. The boys start clapping, and we both bow and then laugh. They go back to their game.

  “How do you know what form that is?” Naz asks.

  “Cause I studied Isshinryu,” I say with pride.

  “With me?” Naz asks.

  “Huh?” Taken by surprise, I’m not sure how to answer.

  “Did we study together?” he clarifies.

  “Yeah, in a past life,” I recover.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He’s starting to figure things out. It’s just a matter of time now. But if he thinks he can break me, he’s mistaken. I ignore his sarcasm and prevent any thoughts of our past from surfacing.

  After a few moments of silence, Naz gives up on his feeble attempt at coercion, opting for philosophy instead. “Legend has it that Samson fought within a valley so narrow that the thousand Philistines he annihilated trampled on each other to get at him. Those behind pressed forward and those forward were pressed back upon the weapons behind them. It was a storm of death.”

  “Samson?”

  “Yeah, you know, Samson in the Bible, Samson and Delilah.”

  “I know. Samson the Nazarite.” I laugh. “It’s just that you said legend like it’s not true.”

  He shrugs.

  We continue to do more forms and until we’re sweating. That’s when I hear the beating.

  Wait,” I say, stopping Naz with a hand on his shoulder in the middle of a technique.

  “What?”

  “You hear that?” It’s hard to make out with the basketball bouncing and junk-talk on the court, but it’s undeniably, “Juba Lee.”

  “Jubilee?” Naz asks.

  “No. Juba … Lee. Come on. He hates the cold weather. You would never catch him out here in January. It must be a special day.” I lead Naz out of the Cage and in the direction of the drums.

  It’s only a few blocks jog as the beat grows. Naz doesn’t question our destination. I think he’s enjoying himself and missing the company. Of course, he is. He’s weird in a lot of ways but normal in that respect. Plus, he loves to run, so I pick up the pace.

  I can see the Islander’s salt-and-pepper locks swinging from side to side as we approach, and he already has a sizable crowd watching. It’s still early, and people are taking advantage of this one day of good weather on the way home from work or school. As we arrive, Juba’s finishing a rendition of Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” but he never stops the beat—ever.

  “What’s so special about him?” asks Naz as he nods his head to the beat. “There are street musicians all over the Exclave.”

  “Not like Juba,” I brag. “He’s like … a prophet. And you never know where or when he’ll show up. Just watch ’im.” I’m hoping to bring some life to Naz’s life.

  Juba sits in front of Delman’s Electronics store right across the street from ABC Car Wash. A light mist floats over, making it colder now than it should be. I know the owner at Delman’s from career day at Lincoln. He’s probably ecstatic to have Juba out front today. Juba�
��s music can only bring good things, and that means business.

  Three little girls wait in anticipation. Apparently, they’re familiar with Juba.

  “People,” Juba starts in, “Check out my niece, Asia.” He beckons one of the girls, as he continues to beat on three huge, old African drums.

  She comes over to him and whispers something in his ear.

  Juba jumps up off his stool and yells, “Magnificent,” still not missing a beat. “Come, come,” he beckons the other two girls to join Asia. Juba instructs the two girls to stand on either side of him behind one of the drums and Asia to stand in front of the drums. He gives the girl on his right a simple beat to play on the drum she’s standing behind and then another simple beat to the girl on his left. When he adds his own rhythm on the drum in the middle, everyone really gets into it. Naz loves it. I can tell—until Asia sings. Then his mood changes to somber, almost withdrawn, especially when the other two girls join in. It’s an old song that I recognize but don’t know the lyrics.

  More people come. A family walks by that pulls at my attention, seems to slow time down. It’s five of them, soon to be six. The woman—hardly a woman she looks so young—is in her early to mid-twenties at best and pushes a stroller. She’s pregnant, about to pop. She fusses at identical twins who are taking up the rear and arguing with each other. But my focus is on the one who leads them. Barely ten years old, he reminds me of me, not only by his buzz cut but the burden he bears. He carries not only the weight of his toddler sister on his hip as she nurses a bottle and her feet almost touch the ground, but the weight of the world. They pass right on by, the waters of their world too deep to partake in the pleasures of the Jubilee.

  Juba’s voice cuts through, regains my attention, and brings time back up to speed. He catches my eye and gives me a wink. The trio has finished their rendition of the classic, and Juba does his thing.

  “Nothin’ in de world like tree part harmony

  Trifecta girls put ya ears true ecstasy