Rafael sat in his spacious study, listening to Pyke's report. His face was calm, his eyes fixed on the young assassin. His fingers, however, were nervously drumming on the table. A bad omen, he wondered?
Pyke prattled on, elated by his performance. He had come a long way from his troubled past, he thought—though that past hadn't been so long ago. At age fifteen, his habit of street-fighting had nearly landed him in prison. Something about his opponent had reminded him of his father. Only that time, Pyke had been able to hit back. Over and over and over again.
He'd stood over the body, shaking and staring, trying to comprehend what he'd done. If the authorities had gotten their hands on him. . . but they hadn't. A stranger had approached him, offered him a way out. Knowing he had nothing left to lose, he'd accepted. And here he was, seven years later, standing tall and proud in front of that stranger as a competent assassin.
Rafael's agitation became palpable as Pyke went on, but he managed to restrain himself until he heard a ring from behind him.
"Out!" he shouted. "Out. Now! Get out!"
Pyke started. This was not the cool, composed man he admired so much. This was a man who might pummel him to the ground before defenestrating him.
Pyke was wise enough to leave immediately, before Rafael's killing intent became unbearable.
***
Rafael felt a pang of shame. Pyke had almost pissed himself. Even the mightiest of men would have felt threatened.
But as the phone rang again, the mood vanished. Rafael mustered his courage and approached the wall behind him. He pressed his hand to the center, watching as a series of white lights traveled over it in opposite directions toward the four corners of the wall. Rafael lowered his hand and stepped back.
The wall, now divided into four triangles by the white light, suddenly shifted. The triangles receded, moving just far enough away from each other to reveal a black landline phone.
Rafael gulped. Anyone calling this phone would have to know a password. There were multiple passwords, each corresponding with a different level of the organization's hierarchy. He was the highest-positioned person an outsider could talk to, and it had been almost seven years since someone had called.
He picked up the handset, holding his breath. It could only be bad news.
***
Nathan paced the floor of his room, waiting for the person on the other side to answer the damn phone. What was so fucking hard about answering the phone? Just one button. One button!
There was a sudden click and a rush of dead air. Nathan waited, hoping the person on the other side would speak first. But the silence continued.
He took a deep breath and recited the speech he'd rehearsed in his head a dozen times. "M-my name. . ." his anxiety welled, ". . . my name is Nathan Umbris. I've been told you're an acquaintance of my father, and if I'm ever in a dire situation and I need help, then I should call this number and give the code. I've done that and I've been redirected here. A-am I speaking to the correct person?"
Nathan paused, shaking. Silence.
"Nathan," a voice finally answered. "I've been hearing a lot about you from your father. Yes, this is the correct number. How may I help you?"
Nathan took a moment to collect his thoughts. "I should probably start by telling you what actually happened. I'm sure you're familiar with Dr. Anthony Moore, right?"
"Of course," came the calm answer.
"G-great. But what you may not know is that his son, Roy Moore, is my classmate. We've never really been friends, but it looks like this world has different plans for us. His father was murdered just a few minutes ago."
"He survived for a few minutes after your assassin stabbed him. You should've picked a better assassin for such an important mission," Nathan said cockily. "Anyway, Roy stepped in and saw the whole thing. I guess he was in a state of panic—he wanted revenge. The assassin was distracted by something. Roy said he was holding a picture of a woman. . .? Not sure who it was, but it distracted him enough that he didn't notice a scrawny little boy sneaking up on him."
There was no response.
"Roy grabbed a letter opener and stabbed the assassin in the neck. He turned around at the last moment, but it was already too late. He's most likely dead by now."
The silence continued on the other side.
Emboldened, Nathan made his move. "And now, here's what I want."
Nathan opened his mouth to make the proposition, but a loud thud from the other side interrupted him. Something heavy must have fallen to the ground. Nathan was perplexed, but he forged ahead.
"Hello? Are you there?"
Silence.
Seconds passed, each one an eternity. Nathan began to shake.
"Excuse me," a dignified voice finally answered. "Minor inconvenience. Please continue."
"Uh. . . as I said, I . . . uh. . . I have a proposition. My father has always told me I wasn't ready to enter Occidendum. He's always said I have much more to learn. However, he's also taught me to seize an opportunity when I see it. And trust me, this is the biggest opportunity I've ever seen in my life."
Nathan's voice was tinged with pride. His confidence grew as he continued.
"I promised Roy I would help him out of this mess. After all, he just murdered somebody, and without a valid assassin license, he won't be getting away with it. That's why I want you to clean up the body and get rid of all the traces. In exchange for that, I'll enter Occidendum and act as a spy within the Moore household."
"I've inquired about it, and even though Roy was in distress, he still managed to tell me his father was working tightly with his assistant and some other members of the family. The Moore family is still a threat, even if Dr. Moore is dead. I'll be the spy providing all the necessary information to your company. What do you think about that?"
There was a pause.
"What you propose is a serious matter," came the reply. "Are you willing to sacrifice your freedom to become an assassin? You will have to complete many. . . let's say tasks. You will have to undergo arduous training and you will never be able to return to a typical, calm life. I know your father trained you, but let me tell you one thing. Being an assassin is more than just being able to punch hard enough to kill your opponent. It takes a lot of mental fortitude to work in this field. Are you ready to commit yourself to this?"
"I'm absolutely sure," Nathan said firmly. "I've been waiting for my whole life. I'm ready."
"Very well. In that case, I welcome you to Occidendum. At least partially, that is. Do you have anything else that you would like to say, Nathan?"
Nathan had fallen into an ecstatic reverie.
"Nathan?"
His head jerked. "Yes. There's one more thing I want to ask. I'm not sure if I'm eligible for this information, but I want to know the identity of this assassin. He's dead, so it doesn't really matter anymore. . . right?" His voice quivered.
"I know what you're thinking, Nathan," Rafael said. "Let me tell you something. Your father is the best assassin I've ever met. I've seen him on many missions, and he's never succumbed to such a puny threat."
Waves of relief washed over him. His plan had worked out, and his father was alive. But would he be proud?