Tales of the Fallen Book I: Awakenings (4 page)

Gregory stood motionless for a minute just staring at Mal. Then he said, “I was curious to see how you would approach this assignment. It is a difficult one and one that will become only more so as you get closer to the man.”

Gregory paused waiting for Mal to turn around. He didn’t. So Gregory continued, “When the time comes, use what we gave you in the package to dispatch Mr. White. We went through a lot of effort to procure that particular item for you. He will understand the meaning and it will make the death that much sweeter for all of us.”

Mal seemed to be ignoring Gregory completely. And Gregory decided not to push him. In the end he knew Mal would do his job. Because in the end what he had offered Mal for his years of service was more than enough motivation. “Remember, Mr. Branch, finish this job and our deal is complete.”

“No it isn’t,” Mal said coldly. “I finish this job, you still have something to give me.”

Gregory let out a little laugh. “Indeed, you are right. I will keep my end of the bargain. Good luck to you, Mr. Br— Mal.”

And with that Gregory was gone. Mal didn’t hear a rustle of clothes, didn’t hear a door. He just knew that no one stood behind him anymore. And he also knew he was screwed because none of them—Gregory, Desmond, anyone working with them—had called him Mal, at least not since that day he first met Gregory. The same day he awoke to a new life, a new purpose and a signed contract for eternal salvation.

««—»»

Mal continued staring out at the city for a long time after Gregory had disappeared. In the years since he had penned the deal with Gregory to become his hired assassin, Mal had come to feel like he owned this city. He could come and go as he pleased. He could do what he wanted to whatever or whomever he wanted and just walk away. He had brought death to hundreds, maybe thousands, he didn’t know anymore. He was chaos thrown into chaos. It was what he was born to do. He knew this now. Had known it since that first kill, the teacher.
What was her name…

««—»»

Mal had approached the school slowly. His nerves were frayed. He was shaking. Sweating. He did as he was told, though. He found room 315 and looked into the small glass window criss-crossed with wire mesh. Inside the room stood a small woman, hair pulled back into a tight bun, tiny glasses slipped slightly down her cute, upturned nose. She was leaning back against the front of her desk as she stared down her glasses into a book. Mal could see her lips moving, and through the door he could hear a slight murmur as her voice brought to life the fantasy winter world that lay beyond the back of a wardrobe. The students were enthralled by the adventures of young children, like themselves, and of a powerful lion. They grew to hate the witch as they learned the difference between a hero and a villain—between good and evil.

And as Mal watched the teacher lick her finger and turn a page in the book, he felt his hand slowly reach out, grab the doorknob and turn it. He did it so quietly that no one in the class even noticed him enter the room until he was almost in. No one looked concerned, no one screamed. This was another time when fears didn’t run rampant through the minds of everyone—a time when villains were on TV and in the movies and nestled deep within the pages of a book. Evil was a witch that gave small boys Turkish Delight. At least for those children it was…until that day.

Only minutes before, the last thing Mal wanted to do was kill this woman. But as he watched her through the window he felt something take over his body, his mind. He remembered watching her read and the next thing he knew he was behind her, hand over her mouth and knife to her throat. Then the screams followed. They were deafening and assaulted his senses and sent him into motion. He sliced the knife deep and fast across Mrs. Burnsfield’s pale white throat. And as the blood sprayed, hot and fast across the first couple of kids sitting in the front off the class, all the sounds around him disappeared. Instead of the assault of fourth-grader screams Mal heard pure silence. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He looked out at the students, all scrambling to get away from the big bad man that just hurt their teacher.
Where was the talking lion? Where was the hero?
And for all the commotion and mouths open, straining to release the loudest screams possible, Mal heard nothing. He felt the warm blood from the now dead Mrs. Burnsfield run down his arms and meld with his flesh. And for the first time in his life Mal felt…peace. Bringing death had brought Mal…peace.

Was this a taste of what Gregory had promised him? Because if it was, and it was
only
a taste, then he would continue to do this until his time had come and he was able to walk into the warm embrace of eternal salvation—into pure bliss.

««—»»

One thing Mal prided himself on was the ability to not be seen. He had become one “stealthy ass mother fucker” as he liked to call himself. He could slip into anywhere unnoticed if he wanted. But sometimes it was just as easy to walk right into a place like you knew what the hell you were doing. So that’s what Mal figured was the best way to get into White’s building. He put on a $4000 Armani suit, slipped into some serious power shoes, put a black leather briefcase with real gold trim in his hand and walked right into the main lobby. When stopped by the guard at the front desk, Mal had simply said he had a late appointment with some stock brokerage company on the tenth floor. Which he did, he had made the appointment the day before stating he wanted to diversify his portfolio, blah, blah and was ready to funnel some serious “cashola” through the greedy hands of Hammerin, Sikes or Maskovicz. Didn’t matter which one because he wasn’t planning on keeping his meeting.

The guard verified the appointment with someone at the brokerage company and pointed Mal to the large array of elevators across the lobby. Mal said thanks and headed toward them, boarded one and got off on the tenth floor where he met a cheerful receptionist tethered to a huge half-circle desk by a headset. Mal made a show of getting a phone call. He peppered the fake conversation with “nows” and “you’re kiddings” and ended with an “oh, alright, I’ll be there in a couple” followed by a heart-felt apology to the receptionist and a promise of a call tomorrow to reschedule. And within seconds Mal was out of the door heading back toward the elevator. The receptionist had turned back to answer a call and didn’t see that Mal wasn’t heading to the lobby, but was in fact heading up, up and up to the fiftieth floor—to Jericho White’s office.

While in the elevator, Mal pulled a Mac-10 from his briefcase. It was given to him by one of his instructors and was his favorite for infiltration where there would be a number of people in his way. It held 32 rounds and was fast and efficient. He used it to kill the same instructor two years later. He found it poetic; he wondered if the instructor found it
poetic
as well just before a bullet exploded through his head.

Mal’s plan was simple—when the elevator door slid open he’d shoot whoever was between him and White. It was a brutish plan, it lacked subtlety, but he wanted it that way. It was his last assignment and he wanted to have some fun at least.

Mal took a deep breath as he reached the 49th floor and let it out slowly as the red digital numbers changed to 50. He braced himself, pointed the gun ahead of him and waited for the doors to slide open. Someone would be getting a big surprise once they did.

A bell sounded, Mal waited, his finger twitched on the trigger, the doors slid open and Mal stepped into the offices of Jericho White and came face-to-face with…

…nothing.

He was shocked by the lack of life. He had prepared to kill and there was nothing to kill. He felt betrayed. He felt hollow, unfulfilled inside, like a child ripping into a present at Christmas only to find socks and not the toy he desired so much.

Before him was a typical office waiting area—professionally decorated but maintaining a warm
welcome
feel. Mal moved to the receptionist’s area and took a look behind it. Abandoned. His eyes fell over the counter, what lay behind it looked like it hadn’t been touched in a while. A fine layer of dust had settled over the black counter and everything else. His eyes moved back and forth and settled on the phone…

riinnggg riinnggg

For the first time in a long while Mal jumped. More like a twitch to most people, but to Mal it was one step away from pissing himself.

riinnggg riinnggg

He hesitated for a second, then reached over the counter and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Branch. Welcome. Won’t you please join me? Follow the corridor to the office at the end.”

Mal nodded as if he knew he was being watched.

“Oh, and Mr. Branch. Don’t worry about anyone trying to stop you. I assure you, it’s just you and me here.”

Mal heard the line go dead. He placed the phone back in its cradle and turned. Ahead of him stretched a corridor of doors. All the same—all closed. Mal should move down the hall slowly, but something told him he was safe—for now at least. He picked up his pace and approached the door at the end of the hall. This door was different than the rest. It spanned at least ten feet across, constructed of dark, heavy, hard wood. The handles where made of gold. They fanned out, one on each door, forming the shape of wings. Mal reached for the handles but stopped and opted instead to push the door open with his gun. Both doors swung open easily and wide. Mal stepped into the office of Jericho White, his gun leading the way like it had so many times before.

Mal heard the voice from the phone once again. “Mr. Branch, welcome.” The voice seemed to come from all around. He spun, trying to find its source.

“It’s okay, Mr. Branch. I’m right here.”

And a shadow came to life directly in front of Mal in the form of Jericho White. Mal leveled the gun at White’s chest.

“So, Mr. Branch. I understand you’ve come to kill me.”

Mal tried to pull himself together and gave a nonchalant shrug, the gun never moving.

White smiled and leaned back against his massive desk, unconcerned about the weapon aimed at his heart.

Who the Hell needs a desk that fucking big?
Mal wondered.

“A powerful man,” White said flatly.

Mal squinted as though in pain. “Okay, you know what? Stay out of my fucking head, alright? I mean, seriously, I hate that,” Mal said through clenched teeth. “Gre…”

White’s eyebrows went up in mock surprise. “What is it, Mal? Can I call you Mal?”

Mal shrugged again. “Sure. Let’s be casual… Jerry.”

White let loose a big smile, amused at Mal’s cockiness. “Please finish. Gre…? Greg…? Gregory? I know perfectly well it was Gregory who sent you to kill me, Mal.”

Somehow, Mal wasn’t surprised White knew this. He was getting the distinct impression he was caught in the middle of some game. And this sudden revelation was starting to seriously piss him off.

“Gregory likes to get inside people’s heads. We all do really. It’s a natural ability. It can be controlled though. Although I doubt Gregory is showing much restraint these days. Never has been able to control his power. Loose cannon as they say.”

Mal went along. “Oh yeah. You and Greg ole buddies?”

White crossed his arms over his chest, nodding at the same time. “You could say that.”

“Let me guess. Old business partners? One stabbed the other in the back and now this has been years in the works. Old Greg finally getting the upper hand by sending me in to finish off the competition?”

White shook his head. “Well, if you’d like to put it in such banal terms. Fine, yes, a bad deal. But it really is so much more than that, Mal.” White stood up and moved his arms dramatically as if pointing out pictures on the wall. “It’s a timeless tale. One of deceit and treachery. Of murder and jealousy. All the good stuff of classic drama. Shakespeare couldn’t have penned a better tale.”

“Oh yeah. So who are you in this story? The treacherous villain soon to get what’s coming to him or the tragic hero?” Mal asked.