Barefoot Kill

Chapter 2: Some Men Cannot be Trusted

Chapter 2: Some Men Cannot be Trusted

I packed an overnight bag and flew from Barefoot Beach to Chicago the following day. Once there I dined at one of my favorite bistros, napped at The Drake Hotel, and traveled outside of the city in a rented BMW 6-Series Coupe.

As requested, I met Zeninen at dusk in the Rudiment Garden, which was spectacular in the purple-blue-red evening sun. The strong scent of tea roses wafted passed my nostrils. Honeysuckle lingered about the concealed garden like wispy ghosts. An owl, hidden among walnut trees, hooted mysteriously and witnessed my every move. The garden was shaped like an isosceles triangle and was garnished with a fountain of granite men wrestling, four stone benches, and two cobblestone pathways leading in opposite directions. It was said that there were graves under the garden, chambers of bones and skulls from the Chicago fire in 1911. Most in the city believed the garden haunted, but I was not one of them.

I saw Zeninen smoking on one of the benches. The sweet-flavored scent of a clove cigarette filled the garden. He was alluring in the dim light, two days away from his fifty-sixth birthday, twenty-plus years older than me, and quite enigmatic, as always. His long legs were crossed and a file was positioned on his lap. One could have thought he was a handsome vampire that bestselling novels are written of. Others could have sensed that he was a peculiar man that was untrusting and hedonistic. I thought neither, of course, out of respect.

He inhaled his cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke into the beginning stages of night, and whispered, “Mr. Yardling, we meet again. A pleasure, as always. Join me, if you will.” His voice was deep and filled with a melancholy tone. I had never known him to be happy or cheerful.

I sat beside him, consumed the twilight and garden, and his sexy profile, which was half-concealed by darkness, a mask of sorts that prevented me from absorbing his chiseled looks that I had once studied with a refined contentment: sloped nose, narrow lips, clean-shaven cheeks, and a three-hundred dollar haircut. I said, “I haven’t forgotten your birthday,” and slipped him a tiny envelope of my own. “Tickets for Estue in New York. A generous token of my friendship with you.”

“Thank you. They are so difficult to come by, even when you have money.” He laughed in his arrogant manner, which I always enjoyed.

It wasn’t any of his business that I had recently dated the star of the Broadway musical, although he probably already knew, since he kept a close watch over me. Recently I had accommodated Michael Possner’s s****l needs for the tickets, and the young performer’s blond-smooth chest with my tongue.

“I’ve missed you, Julian.” He took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled, tossed the nicotine to the ground, and stubbed it out with the back of his right heel.

“I can be missed so easily.”

“Your friendship appeals to me. Davido doesn’t love me. We rarely see each other.”

“He does love you. Give him time. Your relationship is three months old. Fly to Florence and see him. Travel Europe with the man and relish his company.”

“You are my sounding board. It’s why I love you, Julian. You always have pleasured me with your good ears.”

I felt uncomfortable next to him. How many times had he contacted me about his up and down affair with his Italian wine maker? “I do consider you one of my closest friends, but our relationship needs to be professional. I am your employee, don’t forget.”

“You’re a very wise man. Young and sweet and so very smart.”

“My studies at Oxford were quite valuable.”

He laughed with much power over me. “You know I’m testing you.”

“I do.”

“You’re my best employee. Thank you for being honorable.”

“A dishonorable man is a man of aversion.”

“Stated nicely, my friend. Yet another reason why I enjoy your company.”

“And skills,” I added, always clever.

He laughed again, although he rarely laughed. “I’m sure you want to know your task now.”

I did. What reaches of the world would he send me to? Who was I to overpower, steal from, or kill? What was I to take into possession from a third party and return to him? “Tell me, Zeninen.”

He passed the folder on his lap to me. “Are you familiar with Marcos Tanzi?”

“Yes. He’s a free agent such as myself. From Peru. Very handsome. Very elite. Very…dangerous.” I had a history with Marcos that maybe Zeninen didn’t know about. Not only were the soldier and I members of the Fort Sill Militant almost a decade ago, but we were also lovers.

“Impressive. You do know Marcos. Again, I find you skillful.”

“The man is a seventh generation spy. The Tanzi brethren were bad blood. Wrongdoers. Spiritually unstable.” I knew many more things about Marcos and his unruly family but didn’t have the time for such details concerning their antagonistic wrongdoings in Peru, and then in America. Following my spiel, I opened the folder and briefly studied a color headshot of the bad boy. He had olive-colored skin, sensitive dark eyes, a comma-shaped scar under his bottom lip, a crew cut the color of midnight oil, thick scruff lining his cheeks except for the sexy scar beneath his lower lip, a smallish-sloped nose, and broad shoulders on a frame that I knew had to be six-three and one hundred and ninety pounds of muscle. There was nothing weak or fragile-looking about the man. Truth was he resembled someone sinister but in a sexy way, provocative and a tease. I knew that he was quite valuable regarding our trade, and showcased the epitome of skills. “A very handsome man,” I shared, turning to the next page in the file.

“Adorable in many ways, but more deceitful than meets the eye.”

Facts that I had already known jumped out at me from Zeninen’s compiled notes: Marcos grew up in Lima, Peru, an ancestor of the Incas, a prized marksman, single, a hired hit man, expert in Judo, militant background such as myself, thirty-eight years old, a Libra, and…alluring in all the right ways that could endanger me, and other men like me, of course. I closed the folder and chanted, “My target.”

“Exactly.” My superior nodded and grinned. “Capture him, dead or alive. Whatever it takes, Julian. If you have to kiss and then kill the man, so be it. Do not disappoint me.”

“May I be so bold to ask why?” Other agents under Zeninen’s command would have never thought to cross such a line with the man, but I had worked for him for over six years and considered him one of my closest friends. Plus, we were friends outside of our vulgar business, sharing our lives and their flavorful details, which caused a soft place in my heart for the man, even if he could end my life with such ease.

“As I expected you would,” he replied, and reached inside his jacket, removed a palm-sized piece of silver, which he presented to me. “One of three pieces of the Capac Mask, my friend. Two of the pieces are in my possession. Marcos is understood to have the third, which you will retrieve for me.”

I knew of the mask: its Incan history, secret power, and value. When the three pieces were combined, a full-face mask was formed. When the mask was placed over one’s face, eternal life was discovered, immortality. Mancos Capan was said to wear the mask as he ruled his empire. The piece dated back to 1213. The Capac Mask was priceless, and perhaps dangerous in the wrong hands. I believed Zeninen Brow would hide it away with his other worldly findings, an icy somewhere in the Antarctic, exactly where he could keep watch over the piece.

I held the left eye and forehead portion of the mask in my hands. The piece was heavy, smooth, and shined a silver hue in the evening’s light. Zeninen explained that he was also the owner of the right eye and the remaining forehead portion. According to my employer’s facts, Marcos Tanzi somehow came in possession of the cheeks and chin portion of the mask the previous year, which prompted Zeninen to explain why he desired my services.

“Tell me more,” I said.

So he did.

And I learned that my job was going to be rather simple: to obtain the third portion of the mask, and Marcos (dead or alive), and return both to Zeninen Brow.

“My team has discovered Marcos in Washington, outside of Seattle. He’s been spotted at a remote cabin in the woods on Mt. Rainier. I believe the needed part of the mask is there,” Zeninen detailed.

“Is he hiding in seclusion?”

“Of course. The location of Mr. Tanzi’s cabin is in the folder.”

I shared a look with him that stated my admiration and sincerity. “I presume you want this task accomplished immediately?”

“The sooner the better. The third piece of the mask needs to be in the right hands. Marcos Tanzi cannot be trusted.”

“Of course.”