Page 30 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I told it not,
my wrath did grow.
William Blake
I lay frozen for a moment.
Shocked.
What just happened?
But before I can articulate my questions—namely, what the heck?—John’s neighbor is already off of me, whipping two guns out of his pants and into his large palms. They hang loosely at his sides as he casually moves my stunned body behind the cover of a parked car using the lower part of his right leg, yet somehow remaining gentle.
I watch with wide eyes as he pulls the triggers on both of his guns at once. They emit a forced whish, quiet in their danger thanks to the silencers fastened on the tips of each barrel. Though I shouldn’t, I peek an eye out the side of the car to observe the damage.
On the ground of the empty street lays a man. His eyes are scrunched closed, his lashes resting forcefully against the tops of his cheeks. For some reason, that’s the first thing I notice about him.
Not the blood flowing from his hand, which pools around the fallen gun that lays on the ground besides the twitching tips of his fingers.
Not the crimson liquid seeping through the leg of his jeans, gushing onto the gravel that rests below the coarse fabric.
Not the way his mouth is spread open, his tongue pushed slightly past his thin lips as he groans out in pain.
Not the clutch of his uninjured hand against his wounded kneecap as it tries but fails to stop the bleeding.
Those observations come after.
But for the briefest of moments, I focus on his closed eyes, and I see myself in them. I’m there in the way they shut out the world and the pain that comes with it, and I don’t know why I’m just seeing this now.
I’ve done so many things I’m not proud of, and perhaps I’ve been so driven in my goal of reuniting with Mina that I’ve blocked out everything.
If I opened my eyes, would I even recognize myself?
And more importantly, do I even want to open my eyes?
I don’t allow myself to dwell on these questions any longer than it takes to think them.
Instead, I focus on the sight of John’s neighbor as he stalks forward, poised and lethal with the weapons nestled confidently in his hands. His face is an eerily blank mask, void of reaction and the amusement that I saw on it merely seconds ago.
And I don’t know which I find more unsettling—his odd bout of amusement earlier or how calm he is in the face of danger.
It’s almost as if he’s danger himself, and he finds getting shot at nothing more than a cute activity to deal with.
I see it in the way his calculative eyes gleam, dark and anticipatory as he stalks leisurely toward his prey. His peaceful demeanor is disturbing. He reminds me of a panther when he eyes the attacker and slows his approach.
And for a brief moment, I wonder if this man bleeds like the rest of us.
If he feels pain like the rest of us.
If he’s even human like the rest of us.
Once bending over and pocketing the attacker’s gun, he pats the attacker down, grabs his bad leg and begins to walk, dragging him along the pavement and leaving a long trail of deep crimson liquid behind him.
It doesn’t even strike me as odd that I’m not startled by this. Getting shot at? Yeah. That’s a first for me, and it was definitely surprising. But watching John’s neighbor drag a body behind him, like he’s pulling on the handle of a particularly large suitcase? Oddly not disconcerting.
This is why I would make a wonderful lawyer. Most of the things that should bother me don’t. Maybe that’s messed up. Maybe it’s not. Either way, I consider it a survival skill that I’m grateful for.
After taking a few more steps, John’s neighbor turns his head over his shoulder and considers me, as if he’s just remembering that I’m here. As if I’m merely an afterthought. He makes eye contact with me and evaluates my face before roaming his eyes over my body, cataloguing me from head to toe.
