Warrior of the Way

Chapter 4: Reaping the Harvest

His friend only lived a couple of subdivisions away as well, so picking him up was never a problem. Within a few minutes of Rhychard leaving Whispering Oaks, Trace's portly five-eleven frame was riding shotgun, and the two men headed to the warehouse district by the interstate to empty a storage unit for old Mrs. Ivy. Trace was also always ready to go because he never dressed up. He never really dressed down, either. His appearance was as shaggy as his walnut-colored hair which hung to his shoulders. He always needed a shave but never had a beard. It was as if his whiskers grew so far and then gave up. He hid his small tortoise-green eyes behind sunglasses, whether or not the sun was out, which always made Rhychard wonder just how bloodshot they really were.

The job was simple. Empty the storage unit and dump its contents in the garage of Mrs. Ivy's son, Justin. Trace came across the job because he was friends with Justin Ivy. “Well, not really friends," Trace had said in a weary voice. “I just know him. He's pretty much a douche bag. A friend of mine told me they think Justin just wants to rummage through his mom's possessions to see what he can sell off before his siblings get their hands in the mix." Greed has no family loyalty.

Still, Justin's motive was no business of Rhychard's. His job was merely to move the stuff. That Trace had even agreed to take the job if Justin's intentions were that criminal surprised Rhychard. Trace had a soft heart, always rooting for the underdog. Rhychard had been that way once. Never again.

The windows on the truck were down, and the heat of the August afternoon came through in the breeze, which wasn't much, bringing with it the tang of the nearby Indian River. Trace had been bellyaching about his mother since he plopped into the truck, as always, but Rhychard tuned him out, his mind still on Vargas's attack that morning. Besides, it was hard to feel sorry for a thirty-two-year-old who still lived at home.

Justin Ivy wasn't what Rhychard expected. He assumed the man would have a small dirty T-shirt over a beer gut, a four-day-old beard, and khaki shorts with the pockets hanging past the hems. In Rhychard's mind, only w*********h would steal from their mother. Instead, the man dressed in a suit with spit-polished dress shoes. His blond hair was short and perfect, and Ray Bans that probably equaled Rhychard's rent covered his eyes. Justin stood pole straight in front of an open storage unit, hands in his pockets, feet slightly apart. He did not appear to be the douche bag Trace painted him out to be, but Rhychard had learned over the past three months that looks were often deceiving.

Since Trace knew the guy, Rhychard held back and allowed his friend to do all the talking, which included getting their four hundred dollars. The Warrior leaned against the grill of his truck, arms crossed over his chest, and waited. Justin never took his hands out of his pockets, not even to hand over the money.

“Mom will meet you at the house. She'll have your money," he promised. “It's her stuff we're moving, so she's paying. Just stack it so I can move around in the garage."

Trace nodded. “Anything you need us to move inside? I'm sure your mom would love having her things back around her again." He shot Rhychard a glance as if he expected Rhychard to pick up on clues the other gave. Rhychard just stared back.

“No. Just put everything in the garage and leave."

When creatures of the Void were around, the Guardian Sword would hold a blue glow to it and issue a warmth Rhychard felt through the harness as well as his clothing. It was part of its protective magic that seemed to have failed recently. With humans, however, it was never that easy. Mankind had learned well the art of deception, and at times, those who seemed good on the outside were decayed on the inside and vice versa. Rhychard had seen plenty of good people commit evil acts and people he could have sworn were demons in human form get all soft and mushy over a dying kitten. Creatures of the Void and the Way were black and white in their motives and actions, whereas humans were grayer.

Justin Ivy seemed shiny on the outside. However, what was inside the man? Rhychard saw the frown on Trace's boyish face. Why had his friend taken this job if he was so uncomfortable about it?

“Smart move, canceling the storage unit and saving the rent," Rhychard said. “I bet your mom's grateful for your sacrifice of space to help her out like that in these hard times."

Justin just glanced at Rhychard, both men hiding behind sunglasses. “What can I say? I'm nice like that. Now, how about getting started?"

Rhychard nodded. Justin was kind enough to sacrifice space, but not cash. “Sure thing, boss."

Finally taking his hands out of his pockets, Justin stalked off as if the warehouse district would stain his shininess. He was quickly behind the wheel of his Beemer and gone.

Trace ran his hand through his scraggly hair. “See what I mean? Douche bag."

Rhychard had to admit there was something off about the guy. He played the part of a man with money all the way to the attitude, but a rich man probably would have paid the storage fee as opposed to cluttering up his home. It was probable that Trace was right about the man's motives, but Rhychard doubted Ivy League Ivy volunteered his plans. Trace's friend could have just made everything up. People loved to create garbage about other people, especially if they were jealous of them.