Carritos the Assassin_A Temporal Story Read online

  “You went two blocks out of your way for your rest. A more direct path would have been Sixty-Second Street.”

  Jackson smiled. The kid was amusing. “What do you care? I have the name.”

  “I care,” said the kid, “because it was explicitly part of our deal. I don’t just want results, I want complete obedience. Considering you failed to fulfill your end of the deal completely, I feel it is only fair to reduce your wages.”

  Jackson put the beer down. Them’s fighting words. He wasn’t expecting a tip, but this was ridiculous. Turning to face the boy, he stuck an angry finger in his employer’s face.

  “Look kid, you will pay me the full price.” Thinking of the current state of his finances, Jackson squared his shoulders and prepared to double down. “No. You’ll pay the full price plus fifty percent for your insolence.”

  With a smooth, quiet motion, the boy turned toward the bar and away from Jackson. Lifting his head as if to examine the selection of beers and whiskeys, he said, “You will tell me the name and address and then I will pay you one dollar. I am being generous considering your insolence.”

  Jackson had had it. He decided to freeze everything, take the kid’s wallet, Rolex, and anything else he had in his pockets—whether of value to him or not. Heck, I think I’ll give him a wedgie to boot.

  With happy thoughts of the kid wearing a wedgie hat, he sucked in and the clanging chatter in the bar ceased. All conversation, sounds of glassware hitting tables, and cackling from the television in the corner stopped in an instant.

  Jackson reached over the counter, choosing a nearby whiskey bottle and, popping off the cork, he grabbed a shot glass. Enough pumpkin. “You dumb kid, I’m afraid…”

  After pouring the whiskey, he had turned to face the kid…who wasn’t…there.

  “Yes, you ought to be afraid.”

  Jackson swung around, dropping his glass and spilling whiskey everywhere. The kid, his employer, had disappeared and reappeared behind him without Jackson knowing it, while everything else was completely frozen.

  “Your tricks won’t work on me,” his employer said. Jackson noticed the boy’s face…fizzling. Fizzled or morphed or…something. A second later, his face wrinkled and his hair turned silver.

  Jackson was dumbfounded.

  “You will submit your life to me and me alone.”

  Jackson snapped out of his stupor. He sucked in his breath deeper and pulled his arm back to hit the kid who was now the older man before him. It almost seemed to be working—the man was frozen and Jackson’s arm was an inch away from the man’s nose—when once again, the man disappeared.

  Jackson had overextended his body and had to throw his hands on the bar stool to keep from falling over.

  Again, his employer was standing behind him. This time his face was that of an Asian man in a suit but no tie. Clearly, he was trying to intimidate Jackson. Clearly, the intimidation was working.

  “Some people are like horses who need breaking.” The man’s voice changed to a slightly Asian accent that perfectly matched his appearance. “Others are dogs who need only to be taught but soon lap up every instruction. Be a dog. You will not like my breaking.”

  Jackson peered at the old Asian man, his employer. He was the only other sentient being around.

  All other drinkers were frozen mid-drink. The two televisions in the corners were on but the picture was not moving. He had never seen anyone or anything so much as twitch an eyelid during his freezes. Who is this guy?

  “Are… Were you in the earthquake too?”

  The man ignored the question. “I’ll train you and you will be greatly rewarded. In return you will submit your life to me.”

  “Submit my life?” How should I put this tactfully? “You’re crazy, old man,” Jackson said.

  “I’ve watched you. You are nothing but a petty thief. What a waste.” The old man made a “tsk tsk” sound with his tongue. “You can be so much more.”

  “I’m doing all right and I don’t have to sell my soul!”

  “You know nothing of your soul.”

  “Just because you are faster than me doesn’t mean I know no…”

  Jackson's breath caught. Okay, that’s pretty cool.

  His employer had changed appearances yet again. This time, the man was bright like an angel. White—terrifyingly so—with blood-red eyes. But most amazing of all was where those eyes were located. Not just his eyes, but also the rest of his body. The man was floating off the ground, his feet were a full two feet off the floor. He was actually flying!

  The angel changed back to the original young man he had first mocked. The young man moved—no, flew—to Jackson and gracefully landed.

  “Okay. I’m in. I wanna do that.”

  “Well now.”

  Jackson noticed the voice changed back to that of the young man.

  “You’ve seen nothing and yet such an abrupt change of mind?”

  The young man, now firmly on the ground, clasped his hands behind his back and began a leisurely pace around Jackson. While circling, he angled his head so he would always face the wide-eyed Jackson.

  “You must understand I cannot blindly accept a disciple with such a fickle mind.”

  “Disciple? Look, you came to me. Why should I have to prove anything to you?”

  Just as Jackson finished the question he found the young man’s hand around his throat, lifting him up, strangling him. Jackson’s hands uselessly pounded the other man’s steadfast arms.

  Now he was the poor slob. Now his legs were dangling frantically. Now he was the one struggling to breathe.

  4

  The One Labor

  Jackson's hands dug into the monster’s arms that held his throat. He choked, attempting to suck in quick gulps of air, but couldn’t. No matter how hard he dug his fingers into the man’s arms, no matter how frantically he slapped in vain toward the man’s face, the grip around his throat held fast.

  Then just as a morbid blackness began its creep into his vision, he was released. He fell to the ground coughing and wheezing. A deep breath later, Jackson's wide eyes looked up.

  “Hercules was given twelve labors to prove himself a god. I will only require one of you.”

  “Yes,” Jackson managed to get out between coughs.

  The man raised an eyebrow and waited.

  Jackson caught his meaning and quickly said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You will learn your place and when you do, I will begin to teach you of the great power that lies within you.”

  Jackson thought for a moment and nodded. I want to fly. If it meant doing jobs for this kid—or old man or whatever he is—it would be a small price to pay.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that. No problem with a fickle mind. I’ll work for you and no one else.”

  Whoa! With a sudden violent burst which shocked Jackson, the man stuck his finger in Jackson's face and yelled, “I will own you!” As the man shouted the words, Jackson backed away. With each word, the young man’s voice rose a few decibels. “You will not be my employee. You will be my slave. You will obey me without wavering, without questioning, and without variation.”

  Not sounding quite as good.

  The young man quieted down and returned his hands to the small of his back. “The task is this.” He threw down a manila envelope that appeared out of nowhere. The envelope was clasped and unmarked.

  Jackson thought about his choices. Stay alive as a slave or enjoy freedom dead. Not much of a choice.

  But maybe there was a third way.

  He would pretend to accept the task—perhaps he would even do it! He would stick around long enough to learn a trick or two and then get out of there. Hawaii might be good. Tourists make for an easy and constant stream of income.

  Jackson grabbed the envelope with a fake smile. He pinched the clasp up and flipped up the envelope flap. Turning it upside down, a series of photos neatly fell into his waiting hand. He packed them into a stack and let the empty envelope fall to the floor.

  The first photo was of a slightly overweight middle-aged man. Next to the man was what appeared to be his wife and a young son. The photo looked old. It was faded and the photo paper looked like it was from some 1970s photo album.

  “Hey, listen. I’ll steal from the dude, but not around his kid, okay?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want you to steal anything.” The man said with a polite smile. “I would like for you to assassinate him.”

  For a moment, Jackson could do nothing. Then, he couldn’t stop it. “You are crazy.” He continued in quick succession, “I may be a thief and an all-around crook, but I’m definitely no murderer. No. I won’t kill for you no matter what you can teach me.”

  “Look at the next picture.”

  Jackson slid the top photo to the bottom of the stack. He was looking at a playground scene from some elementary school.

  “What am I looking at?”

  The man said nothing, but made a twirling motion with his finger. Jackson flipped to the next picture and his hands instantly became clammy. Eyes wide, he looked back up at the man, the blackmailer.

  In a sudden decision, he lurched for the blackmailer wanting to hurt him like he had never hurt anyone else. You will die if you hurt her.

  But as the mysterious man had proven multiple times, he was far more agile and powerful than Jackson. Jackson fell after losing his balance from swiping at empty air.

  “Fool!”

  Jackson, now on the ground, felt the man’s hand against his neck, driving his face into the gritty floor. The blackmailer’s knee was digging into his back and his arm was twisted by the man’s other hand. The pain was intense, but all Jackson could think about was that photograph a few feet from him on the floor.

  An instant later, Jackson was still on the ground but the man was no longer pinning him down. Carefully, he lifted his head to see the extortionist sitting at the bar, drinking from a shot of some amber-colored liquid. Just beyond him, the frozen bartender stood caught in the act of pouring frozen rum into a frozen shaker.

  Jackson looked to the floor. His eyes met the close-up photo of a ten-year old girl among the scattered photos on the floor.

  “My patience grows thin.”

  The young man took a swig. Putting down the shot glass, he swiveled in Jackson's direction.

  “This is your Herculean labor. Prove to me your worthiness and I will give you the honor of being my slave.” He turned back to the bar, poured another drink, and downed it in one gulp. “Fail me this time or ever in the future,” he said looking straight into the empty glass, “and your great-grandniece will die.”

  Jackson cursed a silent curse. I will figure out how to kill you. And I’ll enjoy it.

  5

  The Bum

  So that’s it, Jackson thought. This is how I become the bad guy. Well, the really bad guy.

  He pulled out the photo once more, studying the man’s features. Satisfied he wouldn’t kill the wrong guy, he tucked the photo back safely inside his jacket pocket. He shook his head. Mother would not approve.

  Here he was some twenty-two miles northeast of Manhattan in Harrison, New York. He had come this far for one purpose: to become an assassin. No, Mother would most certainly disapprove. He kept walking. Harrison, he thought and stopped walking. Maria’s school is just south of here. Somehow he doubted that was a coincidence.

  Jackson turned the corner and looked at his watch. Half an hour to kill the guy.

  But…I’m not a murderer.

  But…if I don’t murder, she’ll die.

  Minutes passed. His feet slowed with each heavy step.

  How long have I been walking, thinking? He looked at his watch again and was shocked to see his hand shake so. The kid—or old man or whatever it was—was certainly more powerful than he. He shook his head of doubt and looked ahead.

  The task was simple. Slip into the man’s office, show him the business card, freeze time, and then just…kill him.

  Only one problem. I’m not a murderer.

  A different voice inside his head roared.

  What difference does it make? A thief steals things; a murderer steals lives. It’s only a matter of degree.

  “Spare a dollar?”

  Jackson spun to face the voice—not the voice in his head. The other one.

  “Excuse me?” He looked down. Huddled on the ground sat a bum holding up a hopeful hand, palm up.

  “A little something, sir. For my breakfast.”

  “Shoo! Get out of here,” Jackson said and then spat in the bum’s general direction. He had no patience for laziness.

  Jackson took three steps and then had a horrifying thought which prevented his feet from taking another step. The blackmailer could change appearances. The bum. What if the bum is…

  Turning on his heels, Jackson pulled out a twenty from his wallet, folded it twice, and, keeping a careful distance, tossed it in the bum’s direction. The man’s eyes went huge.

  “Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

  Twenty dollars buys some insurance.

  Jackson turned back toward his objective. Just a few stores down, he saw the address he was looking for: 1025 Holland Street. That’s it. He looked up and read the name above the address: Brannon, Brannon, and Brown.

  His target was the Brown part.

  The blackmailer said the target was cheating on his wife and had done many bad things. Of course he said that to make this easier.

  But add that to the fact he is an ambulance-chasing lawyer and that might just make this possible.

  He had even heard of this law firm. He’d seen the billboards. “I sued my mother and Brannon, Brannon, and Brown got me a million dollars!” or something like that.

  And now he’ll get his.

  It was that voice again.

  My thoughts? No, no. I’m not a murderer. Even if he is a trial lawyer. I’m not a murderer.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the bum behind him once again. Jackson turned to face him. “Good luck!”

  Good luck? No doubt, he was being watched. No doubt, the bum was his employer, his blackmailer. A final push off the cliff.

  Jackson managed a stale smile and turned back toward Brown’s office.

  It was a small building with three stories. It looked old, but had been kept up nicely. He entered and was immediately greeted by the secretary.

  “I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Brown. John Henry Holliday.” Jackson cringed at the pseudonym the blackmailer had given him. The reference was not lost on him. John Henry Holliday was better known as Doc Holliday, the gunslinging outlaw. But his employer had set it all up. All Jackson had to do was show up and do…that.

  “Yes, sir. He is expecting you. Please take the elevator to the second floor. Mr. Brown’s office is 201.”

  Jackson nodded and proceeded to the elevator. The doors closed but he paused before pressing the button. With his right hand, he felt the packet of poison in his pocket. Am I really doing this?

  His finger let go of the packet and then reached out to press the button with the faded white number two on it.

  Moments later, the door opened. Right in front was room 201.

  Remember, he’s a lawyer. Jackson reassured himself and gave two quick raps to the door.

  But lawyers are people too, he thought. Aren’t they? He thought more. I can scare him, get him to fake his death. No, no, no, no. Think of the bum. The kid, the blackmailer, could be anywhere. Even in my head, he thought, remembering his recent dark thoughts.

  The door opened and he saw the man from the picture. He seemed to have gained some weight, but remarkably, he really hadn’t aged much. Perhaps the photo isn’t that old.

  “Come in, please, Mr. Holliday.”

  Jackson resisted the urge to mention his father had had a DDS degree in dentistry like the real Doc Holliday. Probably the reason why my employer chose this pseudonym, he thought while smiling. Then he dropped that smile. Wait a minute… Jackson suddenly realized just how much his employer knew about him and his past.

  He nodded and followed the lawyer’s hand to a large and comfortable looking seat in front of the desk. Mr. Brown walked to his executive-style chair and flipped his day planner a page as he plopped down.

  “Let’s see. You are here for a most delicate matter, I see.”

  “Delicate?” Jackson had no idea what the blackmailer had made his appointment for.

  “Yes, regarding your surgery mishap…” the lawyer said. “But don’t worry, we at Brannon, Brannon, and Brown are most discreet. We will…”

  Jackson did as the blackmailer ordered and threw on the desk the business card he had retrieved from his earlier task. That action caused the man to stop mid-sentence.

  The lawyer faced Jackson squarely and said, “You can tell Arthimas I will not be swayed to betray the Temporal.”

  Arthimas?

  Also as instructed by the blackmailer, Jackson calmly picked back up the business card that simply read, “RJ Associates” and pocketed it.

  “I’m not here to sway you.”

  Jackson was about to suck in air when Mr. Brown just disappeared.

  “I said, ‘no’,” the man said from behind and caught the unsuspecting Jackson in a powerful armlock.

  As the arm came around Jackson's neck, he came to his senses and took in a deep breath before the chokehold was complete. The previously quickly closing armlock slowed and Jackson slid out with ease.

  He can freeze time too!

  For a moment, Mr. Brown was sluggish. He was sluggish enough for Jackson to land a blow to his stomach. Despite this, the enemy was able to slow time further, making him able to pull away from Jackson's incoming punch before it caused him too much discomfort.

  Now it was simply a matter of who could slow time the fastest.

  Mr. Brown would speed up and then become sluggish as Jackson matched and then surpassed his foe’s timing. It seemed they were both pushing their limits, but neither of them could go full force for long. One would push harder only to soon find himself slower than the other man. Mr. Brown shouted something, but due to the difference in the speed of time, it came out as gibberish to Jackson's time-lagged ears.