Victor
Weaving my way between buildings in the darkness, gun in-hand, my shoes moving quietly over the concrete, I follow the shadow out ahead. The sound of rushing water is getting closer as I near the bridge.
I stop at the corner of a brick building, concealed by the shadows, when Apollo slows his pace. He slides his hands down into his pockets, and then slips into the darkness cast by the bridge above.
I wait thirty seconds, and then continue to follow, keeping to the shadows and out of sight. Until I lose him.
How could I have lost him so quickly? And then it hits me—he must know.
Pressing my back against the rock wall, I stand perfectly still and silent. And I wait. I have been following Apollo for three hours since I filled his head full of lies and then let him go, so he would lead me right to Artemis.
But something changed in that three hours, and I think he knows that I have been following him. Perhaps it was when he stopped at the twenty-four-hour coffee shop and spent fifteen minutes inside. On the phone. With Artemis, I am certain. I watched him from across the street; he had borrowed an employee’s cell phone. The moment he left the coffee shop, Apollo did seem a bit more alert to his surroundings, casually glancing over his shoulder every once in a while.
Apollo emerges from an alcove within the rock wall out ahead, and I hold my breath and my body stiffens hoping he does not see me. His hands move around at his midsection—ah, I see: he was only relieving himself. Perhaps I have just been paranoid.
I continue to follow him, past the bridge, and toward the park near the river; I keep a safe distance so he cannot hear my footfalls behind him. But where is he going? If I am fortunate, it is to meet Artemis somewhere; I may have been wrong about him knowing he is being followed, but I cannot be wrong about Artemis being the person he called in the coffee shop. I am absolutely certain it was her.
Apollo sits down on top of a stone picnic table near a parking lot, his legs dangling over the side. Retrieving something from his pocket, I see that it is a cell phone once the screen lights up in his hand—he likely stole it from the employee. He puts the phone to his ear, motions his free hand around as he speaks. I wish I could hear what he is saying.
But then my own phone vibrates inside my pocket—and it will not stop. Against my urge to check and see who it is, I let it go to voicemail twice, but whoever is calling me, I know it must be important. This is the worst possible moment to have to answer a call, but I do it anyway, because it could be about Izabel.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the phone and my heart begins to race when I see the code name for my contact in Mexico blazing on the screen at me like a fire that needs to be put out.
“What is it?” I ask quickly, my voice a whisper. “Is she all right?”
“Niet, she not,” he says. “She in serrrious trrrouble. Zey know who she is, and zey’ve taken her. Vy didn’t you tell me Javier RRRuiz vas still alive?”
I stop breathing…
It takes me longer than it should to get my thoughts together.
“Can you do anything?” I ask.
“Niet. I trrried to buy her but she not forrr sale. Zerrre is nothing else I can do. I must go. I have business.”
Just as I move the phone from my ear, crushing it within my fist, I smell her perfume around me, and then I hear the gunshot, thunderous at first, until it deafens me. I feel the bullet as it slices through my midsection, but strangely, no pain; just the warmth of blood as it pours from the wound and pools within my clothing. I sit slumped on the ground, and I cannot even recall how I got here, or when my gun fell from my hand, or when Artemis managed to take it into hers.
My vision is spotty at best; for a moment I see two of her, standing tall over me, until two merges into one. Her lips are moving, but I can barely make out the words. Am I even breathing? I press my hand to my chest, searching for a heartbeat, and my other hand navigates through the gushing blood. With what little strength I have left, I try to put pressure on the wound.
Artemis smiles, although it is not filled with malice, as I would have expected it to be.
Finally, my hearing comes back to me, and her voice slowly produces sound.
“My brother may’ve fallen for your lies,” she says as she crouches in front of me, “but I learned a long time ago never to trust you, Victor.”
I sense Apollo approaching, but I cannot move my head to follow; his shadow precedes him, covering the ground in front of me.
“I wish it were true,” Artemis goes on; she reaches out and touches my face. “I wanted it to be true when he first told me—I started to believe it; y’know, that naïve woman in me who loved you a long time ago, who would’ve done anything for you.” She sighs. “But I’m not that woman anymore, and…well, I see you’re definitely not that man anymore, either.” Her words are laced with consolation and disappointment.
She stands, and Apollo moves to stand beside her.
Artemis raises the gun and points it at my head. I think only of Izabel; her face sweeps across my vision, haunting me, torturing me; I recall the first time I met her, I remember the sound of her voice, the smell of her red hair, the softness of her hands; I remember when she played the piano, and when I made love to her the first time, and the first time I almost killed her. And I remember—I shut my eyes and prepare to die, to be released from this prison that has been my life.
A shot rings out. Again, I don’t feel anything. When I hear Apollo grunt, I open my eyes and see him fall next to me on the ground.
“APOLLO!” Artemis shrieks.
She turns the gun away from me and fires as she runs; bullets zip through the air in both directions, but none of them hit her, and she slips away into the darkness.
“Victor!” Nora’s voice finds my ears, but I am losing too much blood and I cannot move to acknowledge her. Seconds later, she is crouched beside me, her hands probing my wound; two other figures dart past in pursuit of Artemis.
“Why…Why are you not in…Mexico, Kessler?” I can hardly breathe, much less speak in full sentences.
“I’m here to save your stubborn ass,” she says, “so maybe you could be a little grateful.”
“But…Izabel…Javier…” I try to raise my hand in gesture—I want to knock her into next month—but I cannot lift it from the ground.
Nora rolls her eyes, and then positions one arm behind me, pulling me to my feet.
“I’m taking you to Mozart.”
“I need you in…Mexico.”
“Yeah, yeah—Izabel can handle herself.”
The last thing I remember is the smell of the leather in the backseat of the car, so strong it is, as if the body’s senses heighten just before death. The sound of the tires moving energetically over the road; the lights—street lights and stars and electric signs—all pushing in on my eyes; the taste of blood in my mouth, sharp and coppery and unpleasant.
Izabel…