31. Cigars and Whiskey
Cigars and Whiskey
Onyx
Havoc considered my question and then slowly exhaled as if the memory needed time to resurface. “It was a plastic surgeon.”
“That’s an interesting job. Why did you have to kill him?”
“The surgeon had reshaped the face of a gangster who was on the run from six different countries, and the gangster wanted to clean up loose ends, and I was the one to tie it all up.”
“Sounds straightforward.”
“It was. I found him in his home—an estate out in the wilderness. Perhaps, he’d been hoping to hide.”
“But one can’t hide from Havoc.”
“Unfortunately, they cannot.” He winked at me. “The old rich man sat in a plush armchair. Although it was late in the evening, he still had on a tailored suit. He’d been reading a small book in his home library. I remember thinking that the space was too nice of one to kill in. Tall mahogany bookshelves lined the walls and were filled to the brim with leather-bound books.”
“That does sound nice.”
“The surgeon sat next to a small table holding a reading lamp and an extra pair of glasses.”
“Do you remember what book he was reading?”
“The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell. I know this because after I was done, I took the thin copy with me.”
“What’s the story about?”
“It’s a tale about a famous hunter who becomes shipwrecked on an island.” Havoc looked off in the distant as if reliving the memory. “And. . .eventually he is hunted by a wealthy person on that island.”
A cold chill ran up my body. “That’s creepy.”
“It is, but the story was excellent.”
“I would ask more about it, but it is too close to home right now.”
“It damn sure is. I wonder if God was trying to give me a clue long ago.”
I smirked.
“Anyway. . .the surgeon had a final request too.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if he could smoke a cigar before I killed him, and I figured, why not? We had time. So I even went to his small bar in the corner of the room and poured us both a glass of whiskey to go with it.”
“Not a bad time at all.”
“And not a bad glass of whiskey. Very elegant and expensive.” Havoc let out a long breath. “Then, he handed me a cigar and I lit both of them. My cigar was thick and dark, with a smooth, oily wrapper and a tightly packed body. Its tip glowed a vibrant orange when I took a drag and I knew that it must have cost a good bit of money.”
I watched him completely enthralled with the story.
“Even now, I can smell the cigar’s rich, earthy aroma mixed with notes of leather and spice. Strong, but not too overwhelming. The scent of luxury.”
I smiled.
“It was then, while we smoked our luxurious cigars and sipped glasses of expensive whiskey, that he smiled at me and said he was seventy-six years old. And that smile was huge.”
For some reason, this light-hearted warmth hit me.
“And he went on to proclaim that he’d truly lived his life.”
“Wow.”
“He told me about the five times that he had fallen in love. He went on about the science-fiction books he’d secretly written under a penname and how they’d been successful reads.”
“Oh damn.”
“He even boasted about his travel. The man visited over fifty countries.”
“He’s right. He truly did live.”
“And so. . .he told me that he was happy to go, because he believed that when we die, we reincarnate somewhere else, and he was certain the next life would be even more amazing.”
“Sounds like he had no regrets.”
“Not one.” This sad expression hit Havoc’s face. “Once the cigars were smoked and the whiskey was gone, I shot him in the head. Nice and simple. Made it as painless as possible.”
“And then?”
“Then I sat there for a while.” Havoc’s voice lowered. “I thought about his life, everything he’d done, and for a moment. . .I wished I’d had a life like his.”
I gave him a slow nod.
“He was the embodiment of the art of living and. . .dying.”
“And you took the book?”
“And others. Perhaps, I thought they would give me clues to how to live a better life or maybe. . .”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe, I was just resentful and a bit jealous. I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “However. . .after him. . .I no longer wanted to be an assassin anymore. I just. . .was tired of it, but. . .I also knew that there was no way out. No possibility to write my resignation. No one who would take it and leave me alone.”
We walked in silence after that.
The sun lowered a bit more.
The air was still heavy with the scent of rain.
The silence between Havoc and me was comfortable.
That went on for a while, and then. . .I noticed a change in him—his pace slowed, his posture stiffened, and his eyes scanned the horizon with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
I was about to ask him what was wrong when he stopped abruptly, tilting his head slightly as if catching a distant sound.
I gripped the gun tighter. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath, and his nose flared slightly as he inhaled. “We’re very fucking close.”
“Yeah?”
“The smell of death is suffocating.”
I shivered.
“Death, paint, and. . .lots of metal.”
His words sent another chill through me. The combination was odd, out of place in the middle of this forested island where nature reigned supreme.
“You’re right about one thing, Onyx.”
“What is that?”
“We are definitely going to find some answers today.”
I frowned.
“Let’s just hope we like them.” He pulled the knife out of the bag and picked up his pace.
I followed his lead and began walking faster.
We moved forward cautiously, our steps silent as we navigated through the dense brush and towering trees.
The forest, once a haven of quiet, now seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to happen.
Surely, it knew what we would find.
What was it?
Would it be horrific?
Or hopeful?
Dangerous?
Or some haven on this godforsaken island?
And then. . .it wasn’t long before we saw it.
Fuck.
Havoc and I stopped at the same time and just stared.
What does this mean?