Behind the Hands That Kill

Empty.

That is the only word to describe my perfect sanctuary now; it has been stripped clean of every stitch of furniture, every painting, every gun and bullet and blood sample and computer. But more notably, the hum of my operatives—spies, assassins, guards—has been silenced, leaving the walls of the building to whisper the things they have been subject to. I can almost hear them, talking to one another.

There is an echo in what was once my office overlooking the city; everything produces an echo now that there is nothing in it to cushion the sound. On this day the echo comes from Gustavsson’s dress shoes moving over the floor behind me as he enters the room. And his voice, as he unnecessarily makes his presence known to me.

“I’m here, Faust.”

I stand at the barred window, my hands crossed down in front of me, and I take in the sight of the city through a filmy glass: the day in its transition to night, the traffic thinning out as the last few minutes of rush-hour fade from the clocks of over six hundred thousand residents, the bustle of Bostonians living out their lives knowing nothing of the unlawful activities, outside of the usual crime, that play out all around them every single day.

“You wanted to see me?”

Still with my back to him, I nod.

After a moment, I turn from the window to face him.

“I would offer you a chair”—breaking apart my hands, I gesture at the empty room—“but as you can see…”

“I’m fine standing.”

I nod again.

“We cannot operate out in the open any longer,” I begin. “Not until we bring The Order down, and we cannot accomplish this until we smoke out the real Vonnegut.” I walk toward him, slowly, my hands folded again in front of me, and then I stop. “It was a mistake to spend even a fraction of my time and resources on any mission that did not directly, or indirectly, involve taking Vonnegut out. That changes as of today—but do not worry; you will continue to work closely with the government in catching your serial killer.”

“I appreciate that,” Gustavsson speaks up, relieved, “but isn’t that doing exactly what you said we were no longer going to do?”

“No,” I answer. “Working closely with them is indirectly moving toward Vonnegut. They want him almost as much I do; they have, as you already know, resources and information that I do not have and very much need. You will continue as you are, but, as always, keep your eyes and ears open; report to me anything, no matter how small, having to do with Vonnegut, The Order, or anyone who is a part of it—directly or indirectly.”

“OK, but what about everybody else?” he asks. “Niklas, Nora, even James Woodard—not to mention, Izabel.” Obviously, he is very interested, and even somewhat anxious, to know anything he can about Izabel. As far as I know, he still has not spoken to her since Artemis. Gustavsson, as much as everyone else, I am sure, would like to know what is to become of her, whether inside, or outside, of my Order.

The only problem is…so would I.

“Kessler will stay partnered with Osiris Stone—the only mission more important to me than Vonnegut, is finding Artemis and Apollo, and there is no one better than Osiris and Hestia to do that. It is an outside job, and they are not members of my Order, but even still, Kessler will be working indirectly on the Vonnegut mission by keeping her eyes and ears open while with them.”

“You think Osiris Stone is involved with The Order in some way?” Gustavsson inquires.

“It is not likely, but possible, and I cannot risk leaving any stone unturned—not anymore. I admit, it strikes me somewhat peculiar that members of Vonnegut’s Order are who found us in Venezuela, in the same timeframe that Artemis and Apollo did. I also admit that, as I have stated, it is not likely that the Stone siblings have anything more to do with The Order than Osiris’s deal with them fifteen years ago. I am simply covering all of my bases, while at the same, doing whatever it takes to find Apollo and Artemis so that they can be…properly punished for what they have done.” Gently, I crack my neck, and pop my jaw; a distraction that I have found recently, helps to calm my blinding anger. My need for revenge. Never have I experienced such feelings of overpowering rage. Never have I sat alone, staring at four walls, imagining a scene so bloody and torturous that it could be taken straight from the mind of Gustavsson himself.

“And Niklas?” Gustavsson says.

“My brother—”

“Is present,” Niklas interrupts, as he enters the room. “You can talk about me with me here.”

I did not expect to see him—we are still not much on speaking terms, certainly not outside of our jobs. I did extend an invitation to this meeting to Niklas yesterday, but given that his response was, “I have to jack-off at that time, but thanks anyway,” this is the last place I expected to see him.

James Woodard enters the room seconds later.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, nervously.

I look at each person in the room, one by one, checking their names off in my head: Gustavsson, Woodard, and then lastly, my brother. It feels incredibly incomplete. But Kessler’s absence has nothing to do with that feeling. Not having Izabel here is affecting me more than I could have ever imagined.

I swallow, raise my chin, and get to the matters at hand.

“Until Vonnegut is eradicated, and I am in control of The Order, we will be scattered and divided as an organization from this day forth. We will stay in contact with one another through secure means, but we will see little to nothing of each other for quite some time. Too many of us in one place is too large a risk—like right now, for example. If one of us is captured or killed, all of us will be, and that will be the end.” I look at Gustavsson. “You will continue with your current mission, as we discussed, but you”—I glance at the others—“as with everyone else, will vacate your current residences, even the cities, and settle elsewhere. And you will need to lay low; either blend in with society and become more a part of it, or stay out of it entirely.”