The two men, dressed in hotel staff uniforms, stood before the lift in the quiet foyer.
"You never ask," the older man said and thumbed the button.
"But why?" the younger man said.
"Listen, if you’re ever to take over from me, stop asking questions."
"But Bossman said I’m to learn from you. How can I if I can’t ask questions?"
"Questions dig graves, Billy. Watch my hands, not my mouth. That’s how you’ll survive."
"I’m a bit nervous."
"No need. Same as before. Pick up the package. Deliver it to Bossman."
"Shouldn’t we know what’s inside?"
"Bloody hell, lad," the older man said, tapping the button.
"Isn’t it important to know what we’re transporting?"
The older man’s eyes darkened. "Listen. I knew this bloke. Asked questions he shouldn"t have. A month later, the pigs found him. Eyes and tongue ripped out. Left as a pile of rotting meat. Trust me. Never ask."
Billy held his hand up. "Fine, Kean. I won’t ask."
The lift doors opened, and an elegant woman stepped out. Billy watched her pass before they entered.
"Don’t do that," Kean said.
"What? Appreciate beauty?"
"Never make eye contact with civilians on the job."
"Did you not see her? She had a face that would put Helen of Troy to shame."
"She’ll look like Medusa when she’s identifying you in court." Kean shook his head. "Eyes on the job, always."
"Who knows more?" Billy said. "The boy who sailed the ocean or the old man who never left the bay?"
"Always with the riddles."
They got out on the tenth floor and headed to the room. Kean knocked twice.
"Who’s there?" a voice whispered from behind the door.
Kean leaned in. "Hotel service. We received a complaint and need to confirm everything’s all right."
The man opened the door.
"Marhaba." Kean pushed his way inside. He jammed his silenced pistol against the man’s teeth. "We’re here for the package."
Billy glanced at the man’s headwear. "What’s that thing called?"
Kean’s eyes narrowed. "What did I tell you about asking questions? Wait outside."
Billy shrugged and left the room.
Turning back to the man, Kean said, "Listen. Give me the goods, and I won"t hurt you."
"You’ll kill me," the man said.
Kean lowered the pistol. "Listen, you’ve got a family, right? So do I. And my boss knows where they sleep. Give me the package, and we will all wake up tomorrow."
The man’s shoulders slumped as he pointed to the black box on the bookcase. "There," he said. "Whatever you do, don’t open it. It contains—"
Kean shot him through the eye. The man folded in half, and his face smacked against the marble floor.
"Get in here," Kean called, his voice steady despite the muffled gurgle of the man’s final breath.
Billy stepped inside. "Did we get it?"
"No, not yet. You need to dig it out."
"Dig it out?" Billy said. "From his back passage?"
Kean tossed him a pair of plastic gloves.
"You can’t be serious."
"Dead serious," Kean said.
After fumbling around in the man’s cavity, Billy pulled his hand back. "Nothing but shit."
"Shame." Kean pointed to the bookcase. "Oh, there it is. Well, you live and learn, eh, lad?"
"Bollocks. You knew—" Billy noticed his fingertip poking through a tear in the glove. He retched as he bolted to the sink.
Kean retrieved the box. "Find a riddle up there?"
Billy shot him a glare as he scrubbed his fingernails with the man’s toothbrush.
Kean pulled the car up to the petrol station and switched off the engine. "Do you want anything?" he said. "Pop? Sweets?"
"I’m not ten years old," Billy said.
"Come on, I’m sorry."
Billy crossed his arms. "Strawberry milkshake."
"Strawberry milkshake it is," Kean said, getting out of the car.
Billy watched him stride into the station. He reached into the back seat and opened the box. His face dropped. Inside lay an empty green bottle. He picked it up, pulled out the cork, shook it, tipped it upside down, and gave it a cautious sniff.
A man’s life for an empty bottle? he thought, placing the bottle back in the box. He glanced at the station and saw Kean dancing his way across the forecourt. He slid into the driver’s seat.
"Where’s my milkshake?" Billy said.
Kean smiled, revealing a golden tooth. "Milkshake? Grow up." He fired up the engine and sped off down the dirt road.
The car tore through the night, trailing a plume of dust. Billy fiddled with the radio dial and turned it up when he heard We’re Going To Miss You by James.
"Love this one," he said and propped his feet on the dashboard.
Kean accelerated and shifted into fifth gear. As the car hit a hundred, he glanced in the rearview mirror and froze. A shadowy figure sat in the back seat, the glint in its eyes like moonlight. The wheel jerked from his grip as if by its own will. The car veered off the road, smashing into a barrier.
Billy came to first, his shoe pressed against his face, and his femur protruded from his abdomen. "Kean," he groaned. "Help me, please."
The figure in the backseat leaned forward and spoke in a calm voice. "Quite the mess," he said. "I can kill your pain. Say the word."
"Yes, please," Billy cried. "For the love of God, help me."
The man drove his fist down Billy’s throat, cutting off his air. Billy struggled until his breaths ceased. The man stared at Kean, who lay unconscious, slumped against the airbag.
Without a word, the man stepped out, the box in hand.
When Kean came to, he noticed his broken nose in the rearview mirror. Gritting his teeth, he snapped it back into place. He hissed in pain as he stumbled from the car and pulled out his phone. Blood smeared across the screen as he called Bossman.
"Big problem. Someone trailed us. Package’s gone. Billy’s dead." Kean paused, spotting a figure moving across the field. He pulled his pistol and staggered after him. "I see him. I’ll call you back."
As he pushed through the tall grass, the man stopped and turned. A thin smile stretched across his face. Kean raised the gun. "Who the hell are you?"
"Blackthorne," the man said.
"Hand over the package."
Blackthorne’s smile remained. "Impossible."
Kean pulled the trigger, but the gun misfired with a click. He aimed it at the ground and fired, blasting the earth. Kean raised the gun and steadied himself. "Last time. Hand. It. Over."
Blackthorne said nothing.
Kean squeezed the trigger, but the gun refused to fire.
"How embarrassing." Blackthorne shook his head with a mocking grin.
Kean gritted his teeth. "Who are you working for?"
"I’m what you call a free agent."
"Listen, some bad people are looking for that box. I’m your only hope.
Blackthorne raised an eyebrow. "You should’ve found a better line of work while youth was your ally." He presented the box. "Want to see what you’re dying for?"
Kean swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes. "I don’t intend on dying today."
"Your lot never does." Blackthorne said. "And you always expect it to happen when you’re not looking." He opened the box.
Mesmerised, Kean leaned in to see an orb floating inside the bottle. Its surface rippled, revealing Billy’s terrified face.
"Curiosity is a dangerous thing," Blackthorne said and tapped the bottle. "Your friend couldn"t help himself. Now he’ll pay for eternity."
"Not possible," Kean whispered.
"Your friend belongs to me now," Blackthorne said, tapping the bottle. "Fascinating. It never leaves you, does it? That fear of the unknown."
Kean’s eyes widened.
"What a revelation. You should see your face. I bet you wish the earth would swallow you up right about now."
"Yes," Kean said. "It’d make more sense than this."
The earth clutched Kean’s ankles. He toppled over as the cold ground sucked him in. Kean reached for Blackthorne, who stepped back with a cold laugh. He dropped his phone and gun, grasping at a nearby rock in an attempt to pull himself free. The earth dragged him down, inch by inch. He felt a fingernail rip as he clawed at the stone.
"Don’t fight it," Blackthorne said. "This is your reckoning. How it ends. For all of you. A gentle or violent return to nothingness."
When only Kean’s head remained visible above ground, Blackthorne pressed his foot down with a slow force. As the seconds ticked by, the soil claimed him and squeezed the light from his eyes.
Blackthorne answered Kean’s ringing phone. "Your underlings are dead. The package is with its rightful owner… Please. Spare me your bluster. You waste your death threats on me… No need. I’m coming for you."
He tossed the phone and strode away through the field. The rising sun painted a crimson glow over the earth as Kean’s faint screams sprouted from the soil.
Bio:
Steven Bruce is a writer and multiple-award-winning author. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous international anthologies and magazines. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a master’s degree in creative writing. An English expatriate, he now lives and writes full-time in Poland.