Behind the Hands That Kill

“Then I’ll ask you again,” Osiris came back, and he shoved the gun deeper against Artemis’s throat, “if someone above you, from The Order, was to walk in here and tell you to put this bitch out of her misery, would you do it?”

And like the first time he had asked that question, I refused to answer it.

I looked over then when I caught movement in the corner of my eye. Brant Morrison, a man in The Order ‘above me’, entered the room, dressed in his typical black suit and silver tie, wearing the typical proud and confident smile he always wore. There was a gun in his hand, a piece of gum in his mouth, and a gleam in his eyes.

Victor

“I always wondered about you,” Brant said. “Ever since that gorgeous piece of ass, Marina, who you were quite smitten with, despite the life you snuffed from her so ceremoniously.” He laughed under his breath lightly, his broad shoulders bouncing. “I have to admit, Faust, I’ve always admired your style. Balls of steel, and more unpredictable than a bipolar bitch on her period.”

“What is this about, Brant? Why are you here?”

He smiled evenly.

“I’m everywhere you go,” he told me. “Being my apprentice, Faust; you know that.”

Yes, I knew that, but why was he here? I had done nothing wrong; I was fulfilling my contract on schedule, even without finding you yet, Apollo. But I still had time. I had done nothing to warrant a surprise visit from my superior. I kept asking myself this question: Why is he here? But I already knew the answer—I was being tested by The Order, after all. Like I had assumed when this all started, there was suspicion about my feelings for Artemis Stone.

And with good reason.

Brant walked farther into the room; his jaw moved as he casually chewed gum. He sat down on the end of the bed, placed his gun beside him, and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the tops of his legs; his hands dangled between them.

I looked back and forth between him, Osiris, and Artemis. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I looked away again quickly. I had to.

“The girl was not in my contract,” I stated.

Brant nodded. “But she is now.”

“Why?” I asked right away, but wished I had not.

“Oh, Faust,” Brant responded with casual reprimand, “you know that’s one of the first rules: Never ask why; the why never matters. A contract is a contract; the name or names on it are just names, destined to be numbers, with many zeroes behind them.”

There was nothing I could say in defense or argument—Brant was right, and I knew it better than anyone.

I turned to Osiris, still trying so hard to keep from seeing Artemis’s eyes.

“What about Apollo?” I asked.

“Apollo Stone,” Brant answered for Osiris, “has been—at least temporarily—removed from the contract.”

“Removed?” My questions were merely a stalling tactic; I was still at war with myself, and I needed time to figure out what I intended to do.

Osiris breathed heavily, and his gaze veered; he seemed ashamed, or disappointed. “I could only afford one of them,” he admitted. “At the last minute I decided I wanted Artemis dead instead of Apollo—I want my brother to live with what he did to my wife, and to live with knowing that because of what he did, his treasured twin paid the price.”

“You bastard!” Artemis screamed.

She bit down on his arm, and automatically he released her. His hand came up and fell down against the side of her face like a bloodthirsty whip. Artemis hit the floor. He leaned over, grabbed her by her hair again, lifted her violently, and pushed her back onto my lap. The chair I was bound to almost could not hold the abrupt weight, and it tilted on its two back legs before settling. Feeling like I was the only one in the room who could save her, Artemis did not try to run from me; she latched on to me instead, buried her face in the crook of my neck, and cried. No, I cannot have her here, on me like this…I cannot smell her, or feel her soft flesh against mine…I cannot…

The raging war inside me grew.

And grew.

And grew.

I could hear the voices of Brant and Osiris and Artemis, talking to me, talking to each other, arguing, pleading, mocking—I did not know the difference anymore. I began to see faces in my mind, clear as glass, as vivid as reality. They were the faces of the people I had killed. But they were not there to haunt me, they were there to remind me. About who I was and what I knew I would always be. And when I saw Marina’s face, framed by her Marilyn Monroe hair, bejeweled by her Monica Bellucci lips, I felt in my heart something that no true assassin is ever permitted to feel—regret.

Suddenly I could no longer hear the voices of my company, and the faces had vanished from my mind. I heard nothing and saw nothing other than the steady pounding of my heart, and the dark of Artemis’s hair as she lay against me, the warmth of our naked bodies mingling as if we had never been dragged out of bed.

I loved her. It is true. Artemis Stone was proof that I could never be the operative everyone thought that I was. She was proof that I was more human than what was required of an Order operative. But to me, more than that, Artemis Stone was proof that I was weak, and that not once, but twice, I allowed the scent of a woman to cloud my judgment, to throw me so far off my game that Death himself was but feet from my door.

Did I care about my own life? No. I did not. I have never been afraid to die. I do not go looking for it, but I have always chosen to welcome death when it chooses to visit me. I was prepared to welcome it on this day, but…

“Victor,” Artemis whispered, looking up at me at an angle, “please don’t let them hurt me.” I could still faintly smell the wine on her breath from our dinner earlier that night. I pictured her in that black dress; I could still smell the product she had used to curl her long, dark hair; I thought of the two of us running out of the restaurant, laughing and smiling and living in the moment.