Joshua Graham - Terminus

“Oh, but you are.”

She touched his face, and he reacted—he wasn’t quite sure exactly how, but it disturbed him. If nothing else it reminded him of the emotions mortals could feel.

“Nick, if I were to send you back, just to bring me some information…”

“Is this a requirement?”

Her shoulders slumped a bit. She moved away and leaned against the window.

“No, it’s not. It’s just that…well, you’re not the only one looking for a change. If you could help me with the information I need, I might be able to impress my supervisor enough for him to promote me.”

“Can’t you send a simple request via interoffice?”

“It’s never that simple,” she said, her voice a dejected whisper. Something about her drew his sympathy. But nothing shy of showing himself to Tamara would get Lena what she wanted. All the information was in Tamara’s office—her mind. Going back was not an option.

Not so soon, anyway.

Nick spoke softly into Lena’s hair, which smelled like roses.

“Why don’t we see how this assignment goes? Then we’ll talk about all this other business.”

Lena nodded. “Of course. Forgive me…I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.”

“Desperation can make you do strange things.”

“Why is it so important?”

She shrugged and smiled, covering what he was sure was discouragement and a touch of annoyance.

“You’d best be off, Nick. You’ve got deadlines.”

“About that. You know, I still don’t—”

But she vanished before he could finish the sentence.

GETTING TO HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT would have been instantaneous had Nick simply concentrated on the image of the subject’s face and teleported to Long Beach. But he’d developed a certain taste for flying—not the way humans did, crammed in the bowels of an aircraft like sardines in a tin—but by himself through the sky with the wind in his hair, clouds misting his face, and flocks of startled birds exploding in every direction as he flew invisibly through their squadron at speeds only theoretical to humans.

A trip from New York to Los Angeles took him six exhilarating minutes. He arrived just outside the Aquarium of the Pacific, where the midday sun called for T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses. Not that anyone could see Nick, but he had them on too. He always blended in well just in case he had to interact with the humans.

A cool breeze blew gently against his neck, and for some reason the sensation seemed more tangible than usual. He rather enjoyed it. Taking in the warmth, the breeze, and the people—mothers and fathers with their children going into the aquarium and coming out—he further surprised himself by smiling. A refreshing change from the business of death, untimely or otherwise.

His smartphone chimed.

A text from Lena.

SUBJECT: Jonathan Hartwell, Long Beach, CA

ASSIGNMENT: Research routines, family, lifestyle.

Prevent subject from his daily studies and routines over the next two weeks.

Embedded in the text message was a photo of Hartwell, a good-looking bloke in his late thirties, dark brown hair, deep-set blue eyes, and the kind of smile that would make people want to talk with him about anything and everything over a cup of coffee. He looked as friendly and trustworthy as they came.

But Nick knew better.

He’d read the dossier.

The subject was a man of dangerous influence. Wildly popular in the media, invited often to the White House to open important meetings with prayer, a bestselling writer, popular talk-show guest. Unlike many a famous preacher before him, he was viewed by most Americans, believers or not, as a genuinely good person. But he would ultimately lead thousands astray, altering their future directly and even more indirectly.

Just then, a loud shriek pierced the air nearly causing Nick to drop his phone and become visible. Since his time in London at the beginning of the last century he’d been experiencing some difficulty on the invisible-to-mortals front. A sudden shock or stress could make him slip.

The shriek had been replaced by unbridled laughter. A little boy about five or six years old hung by his feet in the air, his father swinging him around upside down.

“Faster, Daddy! Faster!”

And the man swinging his son over the concrete? It was none other than Nick’s subject: Jonathan Hartwell.

His wife Elaine made a shushing gesture with one hand while pressing a shiny white phone to her ear.

“Honestly, Lisa, I wouldn’t pay him another cent! If you keep giving them what they ask, by this time next year you’ll be paying a hundred dollars a week just to have them mow your lawn. It’s robbery, and you don’t want to—”

Another shriek.

Elaine spun around. “Jon, would you please put Matthew down? Stop this foolishness now before you break his neck!”

Hartwell complied. Matthew whined.

“Aw, Mom!”

Elaine put the phone back to her ear. “Sorry, sweetie. Call you back? Love you, bye!”

Hartwell and his son gave each other a furtive smile Elaine soon wiped off their faces.

“Did you ever think what people will say if the media gets footage of you making a fool of yourself in public?”

“Come on, hon,” Hartwell said. “I get one day off to spend with my son, and—”

“You happen to be a celebrity. So what you do in public reflects on me, too.” She grabbed Matthew’s hand and dragged him off, leaving Jonathan by himself at the aquarium’s exit.

It occurred to Nick that Elaine could easily do this job for him.

IT WAS THE UTTER CALM THAT STARTLED YURI back to consciousness. Just how many hours he’d been out, he couldn’t tell—the face of his digital watch was smashed. The throbbing pain in the back of his head made him wonder if his skull had been too. He touched it, then looked at his fingers in the sunlight.

No blood.

And sunshine—The storm had passed.

He stood there for a long moment, feeling the knot that ran from the base of his head and into his left shoulder blade. A dagger of pain impaled his neck at the slightest turn of his head.

He let out a childish yelp. Hopefully Jonas hadn’t heard it, or Yuri would never hear the end of it until they arrived in Ensenada.

How long until then?

All around, the stench of dead fish engulfed him to the point of nausea. He couldn’t—

He saw the crate. Broken open and its contents missing.

The package.

Gone!

Despite the tense muscles that felt more like steel rods in his neck and spine, Yuri whirled around, his feet splashing in ankle-high water. Where was that suitcase? Could Jonas have broken into the crate and taken it? It made no sense for him to do that, but they were out at sea and he was the only other person on board.

The boat leaned slightly to starboard and creaked. He almost called out but instantly thought better of it. If Jonas had gotten greedy and decided to confiscate the package…

Yuri reached around his back for his gun.

It too was gone.

At least he still had a small knife strapped to his ankle, though he hoped not to use it. Knives were so much messier than guns.

He swore under his breath. Yuri’s contact in Osaka had assured him Jonas was reliable, minded his own business relaying passengers discreetly across international waters. With no way of getting to dry land without him, Yuri was for the time being literally at Jonas’s mercy. He’d have to be clever, gain a physical advantage, and compel Jonas to stick with the original terms of their arrangement. Then, when Yuri and the package safely arrived, he’d teach that slimy mercenary a lesson.