“Because he wants me to keep this job a secret.”
“It’ll be okay, John. I have my gun.”
“If he tries to grab you or does anything suspicious, shoot him.”
Bayani nods and thinks of the two duffle bags currently sitting in John’s closet. The second one, Bayani insisted John pack for himself, because when the time comes, they’ll be leaving here together. That’s the only way Bayani will go and John knows it. The idea that they may one day be free of the Hand fills him with hope, but it is a delicate thing, as light and fragile as a gossamer web.
Bayani is cautiously optimistic, but John is not. He paces the small living room, seeming to go over every detail of their plan in his head, growing more and more agitated as time wears on and they await for the assassin named Nightingale to contact them. At last, the phone dings, signaling a text has come through. John stares at the phone with apprehension, eyes narrowing slightly. After some hesitation, he picks it up to read the screen, then tucks the phone in his pocket and signs to Bayani, “Ten minutes.Show me your gun.”
Bayani lifts his shirt to show John his holstered gun lying flat against his abdomen. John refitted the leather harness for Bayani’s smaller frame. Bayani is comfortable with the weight and feel of the pistol now, though he might still hesitate at shooting a person.
“You know what to do if he tries anything?”John asks.
Bayani makes his finger into a gun and shoots it with his thumb. John nods, satisfied for now, and the two of them trundle down the stairs. On the ground floor, Bayani grabs the wheelbarrow and makes for the back door.
“There’ll be a knock,”John signs, then draws his own gun and says, “Prop open the door when you go outside. I’ll be right here, listening and watching.”
Soon enough there is the promised knock. Bayani uses his backside to shove open the door and steer the wheelbarrow outside, propping the door open with a wedge of wood as John instructed. He’s greeted by not just the assassin, but a second man as well, dressed in a Le Grand uniform, sweating profusely and looking as if he’s on the verge of losing his lunch.
Bayani gulps, not liking the link between this new man and Emile, or at the very least, to the hotel where Bayani was lured and then imprisoned for months.
Swallowing down his fear, Bayani steers the wheelbarrow to the hatch of the smallish SUV, making sure to keep his distance in case the men try to grab him. The assassin pops the trunk and he and his companion haul the body into the wheelbarrow. The figure is obscured by bed sheets, the same type he laundered while employed at Le Grand. Bayani guesses the victim to be an older man, based on the very hairy ankles and large feet protruding from the bottom of the bundle. With some difficulty, Bayani maneuvers the wheelbarrow back inside. The men follow and Bayani shuts the door behind them.
Bayani doesn’t see John, which means he’s likely monitoring their progress via the live feed on his phone. Bayani leads the men down a winding ramp until they reach the locked door to the basement, except this time, the padlock is undone. The assassin opens the door for them and Bayani leads the way. All three men pause at the entrance to find John honing his breaking knife on his sharpening steel. The sound of metal scraping against metal would be menacing if Bayani didn’t know John for the man he is–a good man, an honest man.
There is some glaring and posturing all around, which Bayani notices but doesn’t partake in–proving his own masculinity has never been his thing. John looks displeased that the assassin brought a friend, though the man appears to be unarmed, and besides that, he seems terribly frightened by both John and the situation.
Still, looks can be deceiving.
With only a nod of greeting, the assassin and his companion haul the body onto a large, stainless steel table. The companion exhales an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says to Bayani as if a weight has been lifted. Bayani doesn’t know who he’s thanking or why, but he smiles encouragingly in response because John is glaring at the man with such obvious hostility, daring him to make one wrong move. Bayani knows how sharp those knives are and how quickly John can move. He doesn’t want anything to escalate an already tense situation.
“You can invoice The Jerk directly,” the assassin says to John, which must be some code for what is happening here.
John nods tersely and says, “The boy will see you out.”
Bayani leads the men back to the ground floor and opens the door for them to leave, one hand hovering near his pistol just in case they try something as they go. Bayani trusts exactly two people in this world: his grandmother and John.
“It was a pleasure seeing you again,” the assassin says and hands Bayani a wad of cash. Bayani’s not sure about John’s policy for tipping, but he tucks the bills into his pocket nonetheless. He makes another small bow to signify his gratitude, not only for the money but for the assassin’s help in getting them the documents necessary to assume new identities. The very real possibility of escaping the Hand once and for all sends a frisson of excitement down Bayani’s spine, and chasing right behind it is fear and dread that they might get caught. He recalls what his grandmother used to say to him whenever he was feeling apprehensive about trying something new.
Even the river sometimes fears the ocean.
But the river cannot turn back, and neither can Bayani. He hears John calling for him and closes the door, locking it securely behind him. Bayani rushes again to the basement to find that John has peeled away the white garments formerly enshrouding the body. Bayani imagines himself lying on that same table, for John must have done the same to him, only to realize Bayani was still alive and breathing. That was the moment John chose Bayani over the Hand, chose to save him and risk his own life, even though letting him die on the table would have been the safer route.
“Do you know who this is?” John asks Bayani, speaking the words aloud because his hands are still gripping his knives.
Bayani studies the old man’s bloated face, which reminds him of a frowning grouper. He’s distracted by the single stark line around the man’s throat, and the bruising. The assassin must have strangled him. The man looks vaguely familiar but Bayani cannot place him.
“No,”Bayani signs.
“This is Matthieu Fornier, Emile’s father,” John says. It takes a moment for John’s meaning to sink in: Emile’s father was the only person standing between them and Emile’s wrath. With Matthieu dead, it means Emile’s reign of terror will begin.
“What will we do?”Bayani signs to John as his stomach drops and his mind starts to spiral.
“I’m going to take care of this.” John motions to the body.“Then we are leaving here. Tonight.”
“What about the shop? Your business?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it. Now, why don’t you go on upstairs so I can get started?”
