THE LAST KILL

Part 2: The Summons from the Grave

•••

“Check the package, Silas.” The Architect spoke through the receiver, his voice calm and invigorating.

Silas used his shoulder to press the phone against his ear, as he rummaged through the package. He couldn't believe he's on the phone with his worst nightmare. His nemesis. I mean, not merely, he's also The Architect's worst nightmare, it's both ways, and this fight has been going on for years.

In the bag, was a meticulously compiled dossier detailing Silas's final, most brutal mission, this one was 4 years back – the one that inadvertently led to the deaths of an innocent family. The Architect had it written down, and saved.

“God!” Silas sighed, remembering the disaster. That very disaster. Every picture, every scene came floating back to his mind, he could see them yelling in pain, he could see himself directly over them, feeding them pain, he flipped through the dossier, it contained more irrefutable evidence linking him directly to the tragedy. To the past.

That day, he raided a home with his gang, The Corn, weird name for a Mafia group right? But who cared? Little did they know that Silas had the wrong house, The Architect, who was their target was at Wall 669, but they passed, and went five blocks ahead and knocked on 996. An old lady came opening, she had palm oil stained on her apron, clearly she was in the kitchen, “How can I help you, young man?” She only said, and a bullet heartlessly ran through her head and smashed the clock inside, they immediately moved in, and took what they could, shot who they could, asked and screamed for The Architect, and had a teenage girl beg them, she told them that she was just returning from school, and…and Silas sent a bullet into her leg, and left the house. It honestly wasn't the best move, but it was who he was, he couldn't stop the drive, he wanted The Architect dead by all means. The Architect wanted him dead. The Architect knew what he did, but kept it away from everyone.

“Now, listen,” The Architect continued, “you know me too well to not know that when I say I'd do something I go all out to make it happen, child.”

“Don't fuckin' call me a child.” Silas spat, as anger began to boil inside of him.

“Whatever. Child. I'll release this dossier, and your new city will know who you are, what you've done,” The Architect said, “they'll come for you, but before they do, I'll come for Lena first. And then you by extension.”

Silas would not let anything happen to Lena, he could fight for himself, but he'd protect Lena with everything he had, he had promised her a good life together, and she had believed him.

“Don't you dare touch Lena!” Silas said, looking up at the stairs for fear she might be hanging around somewhere, “it's me you want.”

“I want everything. Not just you.” The Architect said, “let's gets your past realesed first, shall we.”

“Wait dawg. Wait.” Silas pleaded, hurting, before the beep. The call ended. In his wildest dreams, he didn't ever think anything like this could happen, he couldn't conceptualize the fact that he'd ever be traced and found.

•••

Later that day, Silas Volkov was talking with The Architect again. He finally found a way because the call went through. He didn't feel good doing this, having this phone call with the one person he knew if he had a gun he would send six bullets into his brain, one each into both his legs, three into his belly, and mess him up. What was The Architect doing alive after all these years? The great Mafia villains were all dead, Barn Thompson was dead, Cobby Dolman was dead too, even Dart II, and Silas Volkov could swear that The Architect was long dead along with these guys, but what the fuck! He was here, alive, breathing, and talking with him on the phone, now giving him orders. Placing a demand. The Architect had—all these years—watched Silas Volkov rule the street, and lead two Mafia gangs all at once, gangs that never lost a fight, The Architect has seen all Silas’s deadly successes, he had tried to kill him in the past too,—not by himself though, he sent his men, but they all ended up dead. It was Silas Volkov we were talking about. You should have known who you were dealing with before anything.

Now, the demand is absolute: "The Last Kill." The target is Eleanor Vance, CEO of NexusCore, a cutting-edge tech conglomerate. She’s building a global data empire on stolen identities and illicit finance. Dirty money.

“Listen Silas,” The Architect said, “if you want Lena to stay alive for you, you must make Vance's death look like a suicide or a tragic, untraceable accident. Does that make sense? If your cover blows up, Lena blows up too wherever she is. I'm only beginning with Lena, I'll move on to other things in your new life, Silas. Make a great day.”

Silas took the phone off his ear and stared into the air for what felt like ten minutes, or even more, he realesed a huge sigh and wiped his face. What the fuck! He cussed in his mind. He was now going to do some dirty work for The Architect? What the—actual—fuck was he doing? How on earth was he going to carry out that which was now demanded, just so his past doesn't get posted around. He's become a good guy all of a sudden. But right now, his past was inscribing his name on a bullet, one that perhaps would not be sent into his head, if he only but played along with who he truly was.

“You good, love?” Lena asked from the stairs.

She's 24, pretty, and had only one of her large 24 locs died white. She smelled of dried almond and dead hibiscus, and Silas loved sinking his head into the crook of her neck just to breathe. She walked into the living room and hugged him.

“I've gotta go to London, Lena.” He said, kissing her passionately and walking out into the snow.

He was now driven by a primal need to protect Lena and his new identity, reluctantly accepted The Architect's demand. He needed a cover, guns, and some low class aid. He could feel demons clawing their way back into his body, like lightening fighting its way through the sky, he was now what he was many years ago. Silas Volkov. He burnt the dossier’s replica, burnt it to ashes, but he still carried its weight. He bought a one-way ticket to the ruthless part of London, where Eleanor Vance was, stayed and built, and sadly left behind the only true peace he's ever known.