Chapter Twelve
Years.
So many of them spent waiting for the right moment. For the time to come when it would all pay off.
Learning, training, preparing. Revenge is a long game, and I have honed my patience into a perfectly crafted weapon… Like that butterfly knife my father’s father had made just for him.
There’s a reason they say patience is a virtue. It’s an extremely difficult skill to master. Unlike the physical training, or mental sculpting. Patience falls somewhere between the two, though more on the mental side, being that it is so easily affected by emotion.
Excitement, thrill, desire… Rage. Even boredom. They can all chip away at your impulse control, thus turning that eagerness to have what you crave into action. Patience no more.
If patience is an art, then I’m like Picasso. I’m a master of perseverance.
That said, it takes a while to get good at it. Patience takes patience, go figure.
But I’m not just inflating my own ego here. It’s been fifteen years since the night my family was stolen from me. And every moment since has been dedicated to this singular objective.
I started training when I was seven years old.
Strengthening myself physically in any way possible.
Running, swimming, and hiking. Practicing martial arts—Taekwondo at eight, Jiujitsu at twelve and Krav Maga at fourteen.
Yoga and meditation, which certainly helped fortify the bridge between my body and my mind.
Education was equally important. Learning anything and everything I felt might be helpful. Broadening my scope of education, because a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.
Sun Tzu. The Art of War.
Yea, that’s right.
I perfected my English by the time I turned ten—a real feat, considering I didn’t speak at all from age three to seven. But that didn’t much matter, because I listened. A lot. And I didn’t just listen… I heard. I absorbed, and retained.
I would play nothing but memory games. My entire childhood, growing up in Bogota with my aunt, I was never without a puzzle or a matching game. I’m the undefeated Simon champ.
Reading everything I could get my hands on, building physical strength, and then the knowledge of the streets.
I would people-watch, and I would hunt—animals, not people. I learned to track, and how to slink around undetected. How to make myself invisible. It wasn’t all that difficult, seeing as how I spent more of my time alone.
I knew how to make friends, how to be charming and interesting and funny. But I only ever practiced those things, to make sure I had the abilities, should I need them. Friends would only slow me down, in reality. Relationships were a frivolous distraction I didn’t need.
What I needed was to focus. And to be patient.
Like everything else, the patience grew over time.
When I was younger, my emotions would take over, and I would break down.
Scream and cry and smash shit. The rage in me was so strong, the anguish of knowing he was still out there, living and breathing while my parents weren’t, was like a million tiny slices to a part of me I couldn’t soothe.
But I never let it divert my path. I channeled it into more motivation, and I just kept pushing. Past the trauma, the hopelessness, and the isolation. The never-ending river of despair that flows through my body, in my bloodstream, I diverted into the path of my revenge. And I let it fuel me.
At this point, I’m so fucking zen I’m practically floating.
Which is perfect, because all of my hard work is about to pay off.
It’s finally happening. I’m packing up my things, saying goodbye to my aunt, and to Colombia—for now, and moving to The United States.
The time has come.
I’m going to find The Ivory, and I’m going to kill him.
The entire duration of the flight, I’m lost in my thoughts. Well, I’m not lost; I know where I am in them. It’s just hard to wrap my head around the reality of it. All the training in the world can’t truly prepare you for something like this.
And yes, I may have spent my entire childhood sucking up knowledge like a sponge and enduring my personal form of bootcamp, but those things only take you so far.
This is my first time leaving South America. My first time on a commercial flight. Definitely my first time going to North America.
It’s nerve-racking. Just because I’m smart, and adaptable, and patient, doesn’t mean I’m not also insecure and anxious as hell.
I could meditate through it back home, when it was just an idea. This is an action.
One that has me so jittery, I think I’m severely disturbing the guy in the seat next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him when my knee won’t stop bouncing. “I’m just sorta nervous.”
He doesn’t look like he cares, but he still asks, “Your first time visiting New York?”
I nod. His accent tells me he’s likely from there. As does the way he’s grinning to himself; a smug, knowing little smirk that I can read like one of the four books I packed.
The city is going to chew you up and spit you out.
Honestly, the city can do whatever it wants with me. But not before I make good on that promise I made myself when I was just a boy.
“What part are you from?” I ask him.
“Queens,” he answers, not offended in the slightest by my assumption.
No, I suppose a New Yorker wouldn’t be.
“Cool. What part? Astoria? Forest Hills? Rockaway? Far Rockaway? That’s where the A train goes all the way down—”
“Okay, I get it,” he grumbles in amusement. “You have a map and you’ve been studying it.”
“I can also name all the stops on the MTA. And the Long Island Railroad,” I chirp with pride.
“Please don’t,” he mutters, and I chuckle. “I’m from Flushing—”
“Ah, home of the Mets.” I nod.
“And a little piece of advice,” he goes on, ignoring my spewing of New York geographical facts. “Don’t be one of those tourists who acts like they’re from here. We hate that.”
I frown. “But I’m moving there, so I’m not a tourist…”
“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts. “Anyone who’s not a New Yorker is just visiting.”
“When can you call yourself a New Yorker?” I ask, intrigued by this entire premise.
“It’s different for everyone. A state of mind.”
My face lights up. “Like the song?”
“No. Not like the song.”
I chuckle. I like this New York grump.
He gives me a look as if he’s about to drop some knowledge, and I’m all about it.
“My buddy Mike says it’s seven years or seventy hot dogs, whichever comes first. I’ve heard people say, if you live there for ten years and never visit the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building once. Personally, I think it’s when you start going to great lengths to avoid Times Square.”
I’m grinning, considering his words. “I don’t even have a place to stay yet…”
“That’s bonus points, right there!” He says animatedly, and I laugh.
The guy pats me on the shoulder, pulling his sleep mask back into place. “You’ll do alright, kid. So long as you remember the golden rule.”
“What’s that?”
“Get the fuck out of the way.” He smirks.
This odd conversation just wiped away my stress. I’m grateful. So I ask, “I didn’t get your name… I’m Angel.”
“Nice to meet you, Angel. My name is Gary Cupman.”
Well, my reporter friend, Gary, wasn’t exaggerating. New York City is certainly its very own entity.
The city has its own personality, as loud and vibrant and brash as its people.
One can only hope for compatibility, otherwise you might find yourself shouldered right into the bike path and struck by one of those motorized scooter people who must be colorblind the way they do not see green and red like the rest of us.
I’ve been here for a week so far, and while I’m enjoying the chaotic bustling nature of Manhattan, I didn’t come here to have fun. Which is a good thing because fun in New York is well beyond my budget.
It’s expensive to breathe in Manhattan—I don’t think I’ve come across a single restaurant, bodega, hell, even street cart that’s less than two dollar signs. Three and four are the majority, and that’s a problem because I’m trying to stretch my savings until I absolutely need to find work.
I’d prefer not to have to get a job, since that’ll most definitely cut into my hunting time.
But even the crappiest of hotels around here are hundreds of dollars a night, and I only have about twenty-thousand dollars to my name.
Which may seem like a lot—it certainly did back home.
But I assure you, here it’s not. Especially without any money coming in.
Worst case, I could call my aunt and ask to borrow some, but I was really hoping to avoid that considering how I left things with her…
I told her I was moving to Los Angeles to pursue acting. Yes, I lied, and no, I didn’t feel good about it, but the less she knew about what I’m really doing, the better.
My aunt and I were never close. She raised me because she had to, but it was clear that neither of us were each other’s first choice.
Not to mention I was a constant reminder that her criminal brother-in-law had gotten her sister killed, and was so much of a criminal that most of his finances and assets were tied up in illegal shit none of us could access after his death.
My mother had a small life insurance policy that paid for some basics—that’s where I got my twenty grand—but that was it. For as rich as we were when my father was alive, with him dead we’re cash-poor.
I never cared, but I’m sure my aunt would’ve liked me more if I’d come with at least a half-million.
Even if I wanted to tell her where I was really going, I wouldn’t. The purpose of this plan is to be smart. And when you think you’re being as smart as you can be, be even smarter.
That’s what it’ll take to defeat el diablo.
I’m not surprised in the slightest that I haven’t found any leads on Manuel Blanco yet. I knew it would take time. What is bothering me is that I haven’t been able to locate any sign of my sister…