J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

“OK, but what about everybody else?” he asks. “Niklas, Nora, even James Woodard—not to mention, Izabel.” Obviously, he is very interested, and even somewhat anxious, to know anything he can about Izabel. As far as I know, he still has not spoken to her since Artemis. Gustavsson, as much as everyone else, I am sure, would like to know what is to become of her, whether inside, or outside, of my Order.

The only problem is…so would I.

“Kessler will stay partnered with Osiris Stone—the only mission more important to me than Vonnegut, is finding Artemis and Apollo, and there is no one better than Osiris and Hestia to do that. It is an outside job, and they are not members of my Order, but even still, Kessler will be working indirectly on the Vonnegut mission by keeping her eyes and ears open while with them.”

“You think Osiris Stone is involved with The Order in some way?” Gustavsson inquires.

“It is not likely, but possible, and I cannot risk leaving any stone unturned—not anymore. I admit, it strikes me somewhat peculiar that members of Vonnegut’s Order are who found us in Venezuela, in the same timeframe that Artemis and Apollo did. I also admit that, as I have stated, it is not likely that the Stone siblings have anything more to do with The Order than Osiris’s deal with them fifteen years ago. I am simply covering all of my bases, while at the same, doing whatever it takes to find Apollo and Artemis so that they can be…properly punished for what they have done.” Gently, I crack my neck, and pop my jaw; a distraction that I have found recently, helps to calm my blinding anger. My need for revenge. Never have I experienced such feelings of overpowering rage. Never have I sat alone, staring at four walls, imagining a scene so bloody and torturous that it could be taken straight from the mind of Gustavsson himself.

“And Niklas?” Gustavsson says.

“My brother—”

“Is present,” Niklas interrupts, as he enters the room. “You can talk about me with me here.”

I did not expect to see him—we are still not much on speaking terms, certainly not outside of our jobs. I did extend an invitation to this meeting to Niklas yesterday, but given that his response was, “I have to jack-off at that time, but thanks anyway,” this is the last place I expected to see him.

James Woodard enters the room seconds later.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, nervously.

I look at each person in the room, one by one, checking their names off in my head: Gustavsson, Woodard, and then lastly, my brother. It feels incredibly incomplete. But Kessler’s absence has nothing to do with that feeling. Not having Izabel here is affecting me more than I could have ever imagined.

I swallow, raise my chin, and get to the matters at hand.

“Until Vonnegut is eradicated, and I am in control of The Order, we will be scattered and divided as an organization from this day forth. We will stay in contact with one another through secure means, but we will see little to nothing of each other for quite some time. Too many of us in one place is too large a risk—like right now, for example. If one of us is captured or killed, all of us will be, and that will be the end.” I look at Gustavsson. “You will continue with your current mission, as we discussed, but you”—I glance at the others—“as with everyone else, will vacate your current residences, even the cities, and settle elsewhere. And you will need to lay low; either blend in with society and become more a part of it, or stay out of it entirely.”

“What about everyone else?” Gustavsson speaks up. “The two hundred plus recruits you have working for you.”

“They will be left in the dark,” I announce. “Only the three of you standing in this room, and Kessler, currently out in the field, have been informed of anything. Everyone else will continue as they are, but you are all to cut off communication with them until I say otherwise.”

“And what if someone has important information on Vonnegut?” Woodard asks. “Stiles and McNamara in the Second Division have been working on their mission for a year, and—”

“Is that really the fucking question that needs to be asked here?” Niklas cuts in. He looks right at me, an angry, blameful glare in his eyes. “Do you plan to leave Izzy in the dark, too? You know, I think it’s only the proper thing to do by telling us what happened in Venezuela, what exactly happened to Izabel, and what you intend to do to keep her safe. I know she’s your woman, but quite fucking frankly, you’re not the only one here who cares about her.”

I step forward, into my brother’s space, and stand toe to toe with him—I crack my neck. “Izabel is none of your business, brother.”

Niklas grits his teeth, and his nostrils flare as he inhales a deep breath.

I pop my jaw.

“You’re the reason,” he says, icily, “she almost died— brother .”

“There’s no time for this,” Gustavsson says. Then he looks at me and says with respect, “Niklas may have gone about it all wrong, but it doesn’t make what he said any less true—you’re not the only one who cares about her. All we want to know, Victor, is what you’re willing to tell us. Besides, considering the circumstances surrounding The Order, it’s pretty vital, in my humble opinion, that we know who from The Order saved Izabel’s life and set you free; we have a right to know how much they know, and how close they were—or are —to taking us down. It is the reason we will now be scattered and divided, is it not?”

Satisfied with Gustavsson’s input, Niklas takes a resentful step back. I do the same, not wishing to further this quarrel with my brother.

“I’d like to know as much everybody else,” Izabel says from the doorway.

Four heads turn in unison to face her; with difficulty, I manage to restrain the enthusiastic swelling of my heart.

“Izabel,” I say, and for a longer moment than intended, it is all I can say.

She is wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs tightly to her curves, a pair of black heels, and a black silk blouse, fully buttoned all the way up to the middle of her throat; a sheer black scarf is wrapped around the upper-half, perfectly concealing the wound on her neck. But no amount of fabric can keep the eyes of others in the room from zoning right in on the very thing she seems to want to hide. She is stunning, as always, but I realize that there is something quite different about her. It is not her dark auburn hair, shorter than usual, done up in springy curls that barely brush her shoulders, or the glittery black barrette that holds her bangs away from her face on the left side; it is not the long, black eyelashes that seem to sweep her face majestically when she blinks, or the light glimmer of her rosy cheeks. It is the power in the depths of her eyes, a fearless necessity, a darkness that can never again hinder or blind her, but will forever be her advantage—it is The Change. And it delights and troubles me just the same.

“It’s good to see you,” Gustavsson says, beaming at her.

He makes his way over and takes her into a hug, in which she happily returns.

Woodard does the same, moving more gracefully these days since he became determined to better his health.

“I-I hope you’re not offended I didn’t try to see you in the hospital,” he says, pulling away from her. “I-I just thought you might want time alone.”

She smiles faintly, and shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, then glances at the rest of us with quiet reprimand. “Actually, I appreciate the gesture.” She examines Woodard with a curious and impressed sweep of her eyes. “You’re looking good, James. I’m proud of you.”