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The system that brought them together was meant to be foolproof. Some kind of algorithm that let some sciency types bring together partners who would be, after they bond, perfect teams. Han isn’t sure what it was he expected, but nothing about this program and all they had assured him about how it would work had prepared him for Dante Reyes.
They were polar opposites.
Han was in control, he was prepared, and he blended into crowds to the point that it was almost like surveillance couldn’t pick him up. Han both dressed like anyone anywhere in his blank tee shirts and comfortably worn jeans and sneakers, but he stood out to many who noticed his raven’s black hair, the expensive leather of his jacket, or the elegant lines of his face with the piercing soulfulness of his dark eyes.
Next to Dante Reyes he was a shadow.
Dante was loud. He was boisterous. He had his nails lacquered in rich shades and glitter with his long hair knotted atop his head with paisley silk scrunchies. He wore pastels like every day was Easter and sandals he somehow ran in without kicking them off or tripping. He was much too touchie feelie for Han’s taste, forever pressing in close, whispering when his normal indoor voice would do.
Not that Dante was normal in any way, shape, or fashion.
At first Han hadn’t even understood how Dante had ended up there, in the Service at all. He was a playboy and a tease, a grown man with the soul of a child and just about as much self control. It was through that self control, or lack thereof, that Han came to realize just how Dante had ended up indebted and contracted with him.
They were paired together and told to do everything together. Eat. Share a room. Sleep together if they need to. In a literal sense, not a sexual one. For six months they were supposed to develop the bond that would make them inseparable and they had been two weeks into things when Han had learned just why Dante was there.
They’d been sent to a honky tonk somewhere in Georgia as part of their training. Instructions were to get some documents from a man named Jack Nelson. That was all they knew as they pulled up to a place with dark windows and neon lights. Dante’s lavender land yacht stood out among decades old four door sedans and pickup trucks, some with more dents and rust than paint.
The place was all loud music and good ole boys in denim, American flags as shirts and jackets, and belt buckles big enough to serve a meal on. Han stood out for his nationality. Dante stood out because he looked like he had come to attend a garden party with his silk trousers, button down knotted at the waist, and the shimmering shade of lavender on his bare toes.
It was like a movie. Everyone seemed to come to a halt, turning to take in the pair as they came through the door. Even the band trailed off, the singer going on a few more words before realizing no one was accompanying her. If they’d had a jukebox instead it likely would have somehow come to a scratchy halt.
Han didn’t even have a chance to assess the situation when Dante stepped forward as if he had been waiting for this entrance all his life.
Shoulders back, his head held high and a mischievous light in his amber eyes as he surveyed the room. He brought his bejeweled hands together, rubbing them actually gleefully. Even Han was staring at him at that point, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.
Then Dante spoke and all could have wished for is someone with a modicum of manners and a singular thought for survival, because apparently his partner didn’t have one.
“Let’s make this easy. I’m Seven,” he says, using the name he hadn’t yet revealed to Han. The Seventh Circle of Hell. Violence. “I’m here for Jack Nelson. Point me his way and we’ll be on our way.”
Before they could help themselves, several turned their heads and nearly, almost, looked at the bartender. Han caught it, and he suspected Dante did as well though he didn’t seem to react to those looks. No, his only reaction was for the several men that moved to put themselves between Dante and the scarred bartop behind which the man who might well have been Jack Nelson stood. Some held pool cues. One an empty beer bottle. One actually had an old fashioned lead sap that made Han think even more this felt like a movie. One in which they weren’t meant to survive, perhaps.
“Great,” Dante said brightly, his tones actually cheerful and light. “Just what I was hoping for. Not the easy way. So be it.”
“Wait, what?”
It’s Han that responded, figuring there were a dozen other ways they could handle this than a fight.
He got no response though. Nothing at all except the scrap of wood on wood floors and then a chair was coming down atop one man’s head. No one even had a chance to blink. Dante had several inches on Han, was broad shouldered and muscled… and yet he moved with the grace and agility of a dancer.
The chair broke into pieces as the man crumpled to the floor and it didn’t slow the flamboyant man at all. In both hands now he had thick pieces of jagged wood that he swung like carefully balanced weapons and not merely trash from his carnage.
Some hung back after the first man dropped, and a few scattered when another screamed with a howl like a wounded dog. There was nothing to Dante’s motions but careful swings and vicious upper cuts that delivered concussions, and horrible wounds that sent blood splattering about him like candy from a pinata.
One by one his victims either fell or fled until Dante himself stood just before the bar. Both hands held the remaining sticks from the chair, the wood cracked and splintered and the rough raw ends stained with blood. No one else dared to come closer. Not with two unconscious at his feet and another being dragged out of the bar clutching at the dangerous and maybe even deadly wound that left his throat like hamburger.
“Now,” he said, his voice as friendly and jovial as before. “Jack Nelson, isn’t it?”
So he had noticed the looks.
“You have something for us?”
“Get the fuck o…”
He never finished the statement. Dante was up and over the bar like a gazelle, glasses falling to the floor with the sound of wind chimes. Before the last of them shattered, Dante already had the man pressed back against the bar, the torn end of one chair leg pressed to his chest over his heart.
“I’ve watched a lot of vampire movies,” Dante said, smiling tenderly. “I always wondered if it was possible to actually push a stake through the rib cage and pierce the heart. Let’s find out.”
“Under the bar!”
The man wailed the words, most of it garbled. Dante pressed harder.
“Under. The. Bar.”
Dante never looked away, twisting the stake a bit and earning himself against scream.
“Ocho?”
It wasn’t his name. Not in English, but that didn’t stop Dante.
Hesitating only a second, he moved easily around the bar, going around and not over it, and searched under the bar while the patrons who remained watched. He came up with a manilla envelope and a handgun.
“Thank you for being so forthcoming,” Dante said, taking a step back.
The man brought his hand up and Dante swung in a backhand as hard as he could. The wood cracked against his jaw, his head slammed back against a bottle and he dropped to the floor with a broken jaw and blood seeping from his chest and head.
“That should just about do it.” He turned to face the bar as a whole, smiling at the terrified face and the distant sound of sirens. “Anyone else interested in standing in our way?”
Heads shook rapidly.
“Good. Well, the alcohol’s on me,” he said, tossing a few hundreds on the bar. “Enjoy.”
Still smiling, he looked to Han. “Ready?”
Han stared at him for a long moment before he inclined his head once. Now he understood why Dante was here… and why they had paired them together. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get his new psychotic friend under his control. No one else’s. Just his.
They were polar opposites.
Han was in control, he was prepared, and he blended into crowds to the point that it was almost like surveillance couldn’t pick him up. Han both dressed like anyone anywhere in his blank tee shirts and comfortably worn jeans and sneakers, but he stood out to many who noticed his raven’s black hair, the expensive leather of his jacket, or the elegant lines of his face with the piercing soulfulness of his dark eyes.
Next to Dante Reyes he was a shadow.
Dante was loud. He was boisterous. He had his nails lacquered in rich shades and glitter with his long hair knotted atop his head with paisley silk scrunchies. He wore pastels like every day was Easter and sandals he somehow ran in without kicking them off or tripping. He was much too touchie feelie for Han’s taste, forever pressing in close, whispering when his normal indoor voice would do.
Not that Dante was normal in any way, shape, or fashion.
At first Han hadn’t even understood how Dante had ended up there, in the Service at all. He was a playboy and a tease, a grown man with the soul of a child and just about as much self control. It was through that self control, or lack thereof, that Han came to realize just how Dante had ended up indebted and contracted with him.
They were paired together and told to do everything together. Eat. Share a room. Sleep together if they need to. In a literal sense, not a sexual one. For six months they were supposed to develop the bond that would make them inseparable and they had been two weeks into things when Han had learned just why Dante was there.
They’d been sent to a honky tonk somewhere in Georgia as part of their training. Instructions were to get some documents from a man named Jack Nelson. That was all they knew as they pulled up to a place with dark windows and neon lights. Dante’s lavender land yacht stood out among decades old four door sedans and pickup trucks, some with more dents and rust than paint.
The place was all loud music and good ole boys in denim, American flags as shirts and jackets, and belt buckles big enough to serve a meal on. Han stood out for his nationality. Dante stood out because he looked like he had come to attend a garden party with his silk trousers, button down knotted at the waist, and the shimmering shade of lavender on his bare toes.
It was like a movie. Everyone seemed to come to a halt, turning to take in the pair as they came through the door. Even the band trailed off, the singer going on a few more words before realizing no one was accompanying her. If they’d had a jukebox instead it likely would have somehow come to a scratchy halt.
Han didn’t even have a chance to assess the situation when Dante stepped forward as if he had been waiting for this entrance all his life.
Shoulders back, his head held high and a mischievous light in his amber eyes as he surveyed the room. He brought his bejeweled hands together, rubbing them actually gleefully. Even Han was staring at him at that point, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.
Then Dante spoke and all could have wished for is someone with a modicum of manners and a singular thought for survival, because apparently his partner didn’t have one.
“Let’s make this easy. I’m Seven,” he says, using the name he hadn’t yet revealed to Han. The Seventh Circle of Hell. Violence. “I’m here for Jack Nelson. Point me his way and we’ll be on our way.”
Before they could help themselves, several turned their heads and nearly, almost, looked at the bartender. Han caught it, and he suspected Dante did as well though he didn’t seem to react to those looks. No, his only reaction was for the several men that moved to put themselves between Dante and the scarred bartop behind which the man who might well have been Jack Nelson stood. Some held pool cues. One an empty beer bottle. One actually had an old fashioned lead sap that made Han think even more this felt like a movie. One in which they weren’t meant to survive, perhaps.
“Great,” Dante said brightly, his tones actually cheerful and light. “Just what I was hoping for. Not the easy way. So be it.”
“Wait, what?”
It’s Han that responded, figuring there were a dozen other ways they could handle this than a fight.
He got no response though. Nothing at all except the scrap of wood on wood floors and then a chair was coming down atop one man’s head. No one even had a chance to blink. Dante had several inches on Han, was broad shouldered and muscled… and yet he moved with the grace and agility of a dancer.
The chair broke into pieces as the man crumpled to the floor and it didn’t slow the flamboyant man at all. In both hands now he had thick pieces of jagged wood that he swung like carefully balanced weapons and not merely trash from his carnage.
Some hung back after the first man dropped, and a few scattered when another screamed with a howl like a wounded dog. There was nothing to Dante’s motions but careful swings and vicious upper cuts that delivered concussions, and horrible wounds that sent blood splattering about him like candy from a pinata.
One by one his victims either fell or fled until Dante himself stood just before the bar. Both hands held the remaining sticks from the chair, the wood cracked and splintered and the rough raw ends stained with blood. No one else dared to come closer. Not with two unconscious at his feet and another being dragged out of the bar clutching at the dangerous and maybe even deadly wound that left his throat like hamburger.
“Now,” he said, his voice as friendly and jovial as before. “Jack Nelson, isn’t it?”
So he had noticed the looks.
“You have something for us?”
“Get the fuck o…”
He never finished the statement. Dante was up and over the bar like a gazelle, glasses falling to the floor with the sound of wind chimes. Before the last of them shattered, Dante already had the man pressed back against the bar, the torn end of one chair leg pressed to his chest over his heart.
“I’ve watched a lot of vampire movies,” Dante said, smiling tenderly. “I always wondered if it was possible to actually push a stake through the rib cage and pierce the heart. Let’s find out.”
“Under the bar!”
The man wailed the words, most of it garbled. Dante pressed harder.
“Under. The. Bar.”
Dante never looked away, twisting the stake a bit and earning himself against scream.
“Ocho?”
It wasn’t his name. Not in English, but that didn’t stop Dante.
Hesitating only a second, he moved easily around the bar, going around and not over it, and searched under the bar while the patrons who remained watched. He came up with a manilla envelope and a handgun.
“Thank you for being so forthcoming,” Dante said, taking a step back.
The man brought his hand up and Dante swung in a backhand as hard as he could. The wood cracked against his jaw, his head slammed back against a bottle and he dropped to the floor with a broken jaw and blood seeping from his chest and head.
“That should just about do it.” He turned to face the bar as a whole, smiling at the terrified face and the distant sound of sirens. “Anyone else interested in standing in our way?”
Heads shook rapidly.
“Good. Well, the alcohol’s on me,” he said, tossing a few hundreds on the bar. “Enjoy.”
Still smiling, he looked to Han. “Ready?”
Han stared at him for a long moment before he inclined his head once. Now he understood why Dante was here… and why they had paired them together. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get his new psychotic friend under his control. No one else’s. Just his.
