NATHAN
941 Words
Nathaniel Cross stared at the body on the floor, James Brock sprawled, blood pooling from two chest wounds, dark and thick on the carpet. He smiled, a cold, sharp curve of his lips, satisfaction settling in his bones. Playing a devil against another was a fine game, and he’d played it well. Brock had done his job, killed Mulligan, brought the severed wrist as proof, wrapped in cloth, still warm. Nathaniel had promised relief, and he’d delivered—death, the only relief he’d ever give. The room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a sickly glow, shadows stretching like claws across the stained walls. The air smelled of gunpowder and blood, sharp and heavy, clinging to his skin. Nathaniel kicked Brock’s head again, his shoe leaving a red smear on the man’s cheek. He felt nothing, only peace, the kind he’d found when he spared Anita Scott, when he became himself again. Brock had been there that moonless night, with Mulligan, the Agency’s dogs who’d torn his world apart. Nathaniel remembered their faces, burned into his mind like a brand—Brock’s cold eyes, Mulligan’s smirk. Lucia’s screams, high and desperate, as she fell, her blood pooling on the floorboards, dark and wet. Linda, his daughter, small and still, her toys scattered like broken bones. He’d stood there, helpless, watching his life shatter, his faith, his love, gone in a flash of gunfire. That night had made him the gentleman, the Agency’s tool, but now he was Nathaniel again, free, awake. He’d knocked Brock out, injected him with poison, a slow death unless he obeyed. Kill Mulligan, get the antidote. A blood oath, sealed with lies. Brock had done it, brought the wrist, thought he’d live. Nathaniel’s smile widened. He’d shot Brock twice, watched the shock spread across his face, the betrayal in his eyes. Death was the relief, the only kind Nathaniel knew. The room was small, its walls scarred, the carpet worn thin, smelling of dust and blood. The lamp flickered, its light weak, like it was tired of fighting the dark. Nathaniel stood over Brock, his Glock 17 still warm in his hand, its metal clean, neat. He’d planned it all, from the moment he spared Anita Scott, from the moment her eyes—Linda’s eyes—broke him open. The Agency had taken everything, turned him into their shadow, but they’d missed something—his will, his rage. He’d used Brock, turned their killer against their own, and now Mulligan was dead, Brock was dead, and Nathaniel was alive, more alive than he’d been in years. The peace was heavy, a weight he welcomed, like a hand on his shoulder.He remembered that night, clear as now. The moonless dark, the Agency’s men at his door. Brock’s gun, Mulligan’s laugh, Lucia’s voice begging, then breaking. Linda’s small hand, cold in his, her eyes wide, then empty. He’d tried to move, to fight, but they’d held him, made him watch. The blood had smelled sharp, like iron, like death. His life, his family, his faith—gone in a moment. The Agency had tortured him after, broken his body, his mind, until he’d agreed to be their gentleman. Blackmail had sealed it, a deal with the devil. But they hadn’t taken everything. A spark of Nathaniel Cross had survived, hidden, waiting. Anita’s eyes had found it, brought it back, and now he was using it, turning it against them. He stepped back, the floor creaking under his boots. The toolbox sat on the bed, its metal dull in the lamplight, a reminder of the man he’d been. He didn’t need it now, not for this. His revenge was different, sharper, personal. Brock and Mulligan were just the start. The Agency was bigger, twelve men, their masters above—politicians, moguls, men who thought they were untouchable. They’d learn. Nathaniel would show them, one by one, what it meant to lose everything. He’d make them feel the moonless night, the blood, the screams. His grin was cold, his eyes hard, reflecting the lamp’s weak light. The clock ticked, each second heavy, like a heartbeat slowing down. Nathaniel crouched, searching Brock’s coat, finding the cloth-wrapped wrist, Mulligan’s, the skin pale, the blood dried. Proof of the oath, proof of his plan. He tucked it away, his hands steady, his mind clear. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air thick with death. He saw Lucia again, her face pale, her voice calling his name. Linda, her toys, her laugh. The nightmares came every night, pulling him back to that moment, but tonight they felt different, quieter, like they were watching, approving. He’d done this for them, for the man he’d been, for the man he was now. He stood, wiping his hands on his coat, the blood smearing dark. The town outside was silent, its streets empty, the stars cold and distant. He’d leave soon, disappear, become a ghost again. The Agency would come for him, but he’d be ready. He’d always be ready now. He kicked Brock’s body one last time, the sound dull, final. The peace stayed with him, heavy but warm, like a blanket after a long night. He looked at his watch—past seven, the evening settling in, the sky darkening outside. Time to go. He grabbed the toolbox, its weight familiar, and walked to the door, the floor creaking under him. On the other side of the world, someone was playing Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay,” its notes faint, like a memory. Nathaniel stepped into the night, leaving Brock behind, leaving the gentleman behind, ready for what came next.
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