Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

"Such a public demand will create a firestorm in the Belt, Excellency. They are a people filled with pride."

"Then they will swallow their pride as we were once forced to do." Argusto didn't deign to look at the diplomat, preferring to stare out at the mountains beyond the city. "Leave me, Hector. Go debate someone."

It had taken days for Argusto's technical wizards to track a coded message sent from the oil minister's limo. A message sent by his brother-in-law's killer. A message sent to a warlord in the Belt. This man, this colonel, must be brought to justice, taken to Tenochtitlan and questioned as to the reasons for his actions. Then the man's heart would be torn out, offered to the gods in expiation of his sins. It must happen soon too, already Argusto sensed a certain…lack of respect among his enemies, domestic and foreign, a delight in noting his troubles.

Last night the Chinese ambassador had shamelessly flattered him at the state dinner, regaling the table with Argusto's many accomplishments, said the only comparable figure in history was Alexander the Great-and here the ambassador smirked-a military genius who without airpower had somehow conquered the known world. Argusto had nodded at the barbed compliment, raised a glass to toast the ambassador and said if Alexander had Aztlan's airpower, the ambassador would be speaking Greek and his rectum would be inflamed from doing his diplomatic duties. The silence had been delicious.

In the darkness beyond the mountains, Argusto saw a falling star streak across the sky. He didn't make a wish. A falling star was a failed star, a cinder burning in the atmosphere, and Argusto had no interest in failure.

Gravenholtz stood just inside Crews's office, breathing hard, eyes wide. Blood spread across his white dress shirt, ran down his jacket, but he seemed unfazed, the gunshots from Crews's men unable to penetrate the flexible armor under his skin. Ferocious-looking wounds, painful too, but not life threatening.

Crews looked at C.P. flopped on the floor, then over at the Old One. "What…what are you doing this for?"

"Those boys of yours…" The Old One's checkerboard jacket seemed to shimmer in the light from the fireplace. "Murderous scum and toothless morons. Not at all the right image for what you're about to become, Mr. Crews."

"About to become?" said Crews.

"You've come a long way in the last six months," said the Old One. "Top-rated gospel show on TV, invitations to preach at the capital…are you satisfied?"

"No."

"Of course not," said the Old One. "One thing I've learned in a very long life, Mr. Crews, is that there's never enough."

"How about you tell Gravenholtz to put C.P. down?" said Crews. "Not like he's going anywhere."

"You're fond of him, aren't you?" said the Old One. "I could see that immediately."

"Well, I don't know about fond, " said Crews. "C.P.'s been with me a long time."

"Very good," said the Old One. "I appreciate loyalty. Please, put him down, Lester."

Gravenholtz dropped C.P. onto the floor, then wandered over to the desk and picked up a spool of masking tape. He tore off a strip of tape and started pinning down the flap of skin on his scalp.

C.P. slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, gasping.

"Lester," said the Old One, "if you wouldn't mind, bring Mr. Crews one of those pistols."

"Why?" said Gravenholtz.

"Savor the mystery, Lester," said the Old One.

Baby started giggling.

"Do I amuse you, Baby?" said the Old One.

Baby nodded, still giggling.

"Mr. Crews, do you have any idea how long it's been since I've made anyone laugh?" The Old One beamed. "Let me tell you, it's a rare pleasure."

Gravenholtz handed Crews a revolver.

"Now, Mr. Crews," said the Old One, "if it's not too much to ask, I'd like you to shoot your old buddy C.P. in the head."

Crews hefted the pistol. "How about I blow your brains out?"

"Always a possibility, but I have faith in you, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "A man of your ambition, your vision…there's no way you'll throw away this opportunity."

Baby saw the pen in the Old One's hand. The same silver fountain pen he had used to spray Gravenholtz, cocooning him in aerosol polymer. The Old One might have faith but he was no fool.

C.P. looked up at Crews. "Jesus, Malcolm…what are you thinking? Kill these people-" He grunted as Gravenholtz kicked him.

The Old One turned toward the doorway.

A man leaned against the jamb, a gangly fellow, his shirt soaked with blood. One arm dangled useless, but he propped a sawed-off shotgun against his hip with his good arm. His shattered jaw gave him an obscene grin, his face swollen like a pumpkin.

"Sit down, Deekins," said Crews, "take a load off before you hurt somebody."

The man in the doorway tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. The shotgun wobbled in his grip as he tried to center it.

"Lester?" The Old One wagged a finger. "You said they were all dead."

Baby moved out of the line of fire.

"Do it, Deekins," said C.P., still sprawled on the floor. "Fuck you waitin' for?"

The man in the doorway fired as Gravenholtz stepped toward him, caught him in the chest; got off another shot before Gravenholtz snatched the shotgun from him.

Gravenholtz beat the man over the head with the shotgun, beat him onto the floor, flailing away at him even after his skull cracked.

"You can stop now, Lester," said the Old One.

Gravenholtz hit Deekins again. Threw the shotgun down.

"You never did tell me what you got planned for me," Crews said to the Old One, his voice calm. "This thing I'm supposed to become."

"That's the spirit," said the Old One.

"Daddy?" Baby crossed over to him, gingerly touched his cheek. "You got shot."

The Old One looked at the blood on her fingertips. Scowled at Gravenholtz.

"Just a scratch," said Gravenholtz. "What? That supposed to be my fault?"

"Yes, Lester, actually it is," said the Old One, as Baby dabbed at his cheek with a handkerchief. "Open a window, Mr. Crews, it's too warm in here." He waited until Crews complied. "Things are about to change, both in the Belt and in the Republic. I'm offering you a chance to be a part of those changes."

"I'm no Muslim, in case you haven't got the word," said Crews. "I'm born again."

"You're no more of a Christian than I am," said the Old One.

"I'm not going to argue." Crews checked the pistol, made sure it was loaded. "Did you really nuke New York and Washington, D.C.?"

"Whatever I've done, I'm certain that God will forgive me," said the Old One. "As I'm sure God will forgive you."

"Mister, you're a lot more optimistic than I am," said Crews.

The Old One pointed at C.P. "Time to make a decision, Mr. Crews."

"These changes coming down the road," said Crews, scratching his chin with the muzzle of the pistol, "what exactly kind of a part am I going to have?"

"M-Malcolm?" wailed C.P.

"Don't you get it?" Baby said to Crews, stamping her feet. "We're bringing hard times to the Belt. Hard times to the Republic too. Nightmares and fever dreams, just the way you like it-don't pretend you don't, Malcolm Crews. Look at me! We're not here because you're some holy joe motherfucker patting babies and organizing fried chicken socials. I picked you because you smell smoke and reach for the gasoline, and my daddy and me, we're bringing hellfire to town."

Crews's eyes reflected the flames from the fireplace.

"Look at him, Daddy, his pecker's hard. Didn't I tell you?"

"She did, Mr. Crews. Indeed she did."

Crews tapped the side of his thigh with the pistol, expressionless.

"You been waiting for the end times, haven't you, Malcolm?" Baby spun slowly in the center of the room, her skirt fluttering out as she turned round and round like a wind-up ballerina on a music box. "Well, here it is, right in front of your nose. Boil, boil, trouble and toil…"