Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

But despite his efforts, despite everything he could do, Apollo died. They were partners for all of one hour.

In the wake of the incident, a tragedy that hit the front page of every newspaper, Jack nearly succumbed to his grief. The guilt he carried over the deaths of his partner and the two teens was overwhelming. If he hadn’t hesitated, if he had listened to Apollo about waiting for him, if he had held his emotions in check and instead followed procedure, Apollo would still be alive.

And although Jack was cleared of any wrongdoing, he knew that the death was his fault. The irony of his nickname in the wake of his failure was like a heavy chain around his body.

At such a young age, Jack found himself at a crossroads in life. He resolved to push ahead. He swore that he would never pick up a gun again in the line of duty, he would never take a life, he would find other ways of carrying out law enforcement.

He enrolled in Fordham Law, attending at night, dreaming of a way out of the life he had chosen. He remained on the police force, taking a desk job until he could finish law school, all with the understanding and respect of his superiors and the men in homicide.

When Jack graduated, he was a natural for the DA’s office. He was an attorney from the street who could bridge the gap between cops and lawyers. His conviction rate was high, and his reputation grew.

After ten years, he became the natural choice to succeed the retiring district attorney. Handsome, successful, with a beautiful wife in the FBI and two baby girls, he was packaged and sold by the powers-that-be and won his first election by a ten-percent margin. His first year in office saw a rise in investigations and convictions, but his new reality set in after that. As a cop, things were black-and-white; either a crime was committed or it wasn’t. But the DA didn’t just handle crimes of the street. There was the more nuanced realm of white-collar crime, subjective areas where political favors were sought, where things beyond facts and reality came to bear.

In his second year, his office became involved in the unsuccessful pursuit of the real estate industry, while the third dealt with Wall Street-something that further distanced him from his father. In his fourth year, the final year of his term, the powers-that-be were looking for his successor, since they had no tolerance for backing a man who would seek to end their livelihoods. If Jack wanted to remain in office, he would have to play the game.

Jack loved his job. He loved carrying out justice, amassing convictions. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the limelight, the prestige of the office.

What he had first thought of with disdain eventually lured him in. He had gone out glad-handing, soliciting money, wearing false smiles, and making promises that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But it was all in sacrifice to his career, to the job, to getting reelected; the end justifyied the means.

And with his compromised values, Jack realized that he had become his father.

Cristos awoke with the sun, its warm summer rays spilling across the white sheets, urging him out of bed. For forty-five minutes, he put his body through the fluid motions of an ancient routine taught to him in his youth; it at once worked out the body, the mind, and the soul. The routine was not a martial arts kata or yoga, although its ancient rites found a foothold in both. The sweeping motions of his legs and arms, the delicate balance achieved on a single hand or foot, the inverted crunches and situps, the spiritual emptying of his mind, all combining to awaken his muscles, heart, and spirit, preparing them for the arduous day ahead.

Through years of discipline, pushing himself to the physical limit, Nowaji Cristos had built his body into an instrument of perfection-one of power, capable of not only immense strength but also subtle dexterity and coordination that afforded him the tools to perform his expertise.

Completing his routine, he arose from the floor and looked around the elegantly appointed room, his home for the last five days. The room was masculine, with heavy, dark wood furnishings: an armoire, a nightstand, and a matching dresser filled with recently purchased clothes. He stared at the luxury king-sized bed, his thoughts filling with memories. He had slept on all manner of surfaces, from the beds at the George V hotel in Paris to the jungle floors of Borneo. No matter where he closed his eyes, he could find a restful sleep, free of worry and anxiety, his body thriving on six hours of rest, the circadian rhythm of his mind like a precise clock. For forty-one years, through turmoil, death, and agony, he had never been troubled at night, but this week proved different. His dreams, usually few and far between, had become frequent nightmares, as if all of the dead had returned to exact their vengeance upon him.

With the look of a man fifteen years his junior, no one would have guessed his age. In spite of his large size and long black hair, he could lose himself in any environment, in any crowd, no matter where he was on earth. While he prided himself on his refined appearance and despite the notoriety he had gained the world over, his face was not known except to a handful of people. No photo or video existed of him-he was spoken of as myth, with descriptions ranging widely, from having been born on five different continents to possessing the appearance of varying ethnicities. Like a chameleon, he could adapt to any environment. The mix of clothing within the armoire would shape his appearance as everything from a day laborer to a homeless man of the street to an investment banker.

In the blue-tiled bathroom, he meticulously laid out his shaving kit-an old-fashioned single-blade razor, a soft camel-hair shaving brush, a heavy bar of Rhist soap-placing them on the washcloth on the counter. He filled the sink with scalding water, dipped the brush and the bar of soap in, and rubbed them together, building up a frothing lather. With the attention of an artist, he shaved his skin smooth, his dark eyes staring in the mirror as he examined his skin, ensuring that he hadn’t missed a spot. His face was strong, hard-lined, its tone just above a mild tan. Some may have called it the color of weak tea, a color found in many races of men: dark-skinned Caucasian, Mediterranean, Asian, South American.

He turned on the shower, allowing the steam to build, to fill the air with mist, fogging the mirror so he could avoid seeing his reflection as he removed his T-shirt.

While his face was pure, his body was marred. Jagged flesh, raised and ghostly white, had restrung itself along his left side, and his back was littered with crisscross striations, worn like a badge of honor for surviving torture during capture. Scars along the right side of his torso leaked down his body like melted wax, pouring down from the base of his neck, repulsing him at every glance while terrifying anyone who cast their eyes on it. The burns robbed his tan flesh of color, the grafted skin, grotesquely taut over his large muscles, stretching in odd folding shapes when his body flexed or grew taut. The pain of the countless surgeries had lasted for months, an agony forever etched in his mind.

Yet somehow, despite all of the brutality he had endured, his face had remained without blemish. It never exposed what lay beneath the designer suits he had grown fond of wearing, his damaged body concealed like the violence in his heart.

Dressed in A black Armani suit, starched white shirt, and pale blue silk tie, Cristos inspected himself in the mirror. He picked up two EpiPens off the counter and slipped them into his breast pocket. He exited the bedroom and entered the small office-like sitting room. His jet-black hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, his fingers were perfectly manicured, and a gold watch wrapped his left wrist. With the appearance of a refined Wall Street executive, he took a seat at a large partners’ desk. He glanced at the long black box that sat on the table in the corner, at the number 7138 along the side, but quickly directed his attention to the array of monitors before him. He read the first; the bank accounts in Sri Lanka, Switzerland, and Prague reflected balances in excess of fifty million dollars each. Each account was under the ownership of an elaborate string of shell companies, each legitimate in its own right, with a diversity of holdings in real estate, textiles, and manufacturing.