Erik waited quietly in the shadows. He'd arrived almost two hours before the appointed meeting time, knowing without a doubt that Ping Sai had no intention of honoring the terms of their meeting agreement. The man would appear on time, but Erik had no doubts that he'd have others stationed nearby.
His instincts hadn't failed him. During the past hour, four men slipped into the alleyway, positioning themselves at various points. Erik marked each position, examining the location closely to give himself the greatest advantage when the attack came and knowing it was inevitable.
For the meeting, he'd deliberately chosen the spot where Ping Sai's men attacked him three years earlier. He knew Ping Sai's arrogance would make him overconfident and overconfidence led to carelessness. That was a lesson Erik learned the hard way during one of his first assignments from the Shah. He still carried the scars from the encounter.
At exactly the scheduled time, Erik stepped forward and Ping Sai entered the alleyway alone. "Good evening Mr. Dantes. It's been a long time since we've spoken."
"Good evening Ping Sai." Erik stepped farther into the light. He was dressed entirely in black and carried a thick ebony walking stick with a solid silver handle. Even his mask was black, full-faced allowing only his mouth and chin to show. The mask itself was decorated with a pattern of small red stones underlining his right eye and then curving down across one cheek and circling up around his eye.
"An interesting accessory, Mr. Dantes. So very different from your usual facial covering." Ping Sai's eyes narrowed as he studied the mask. "I particularly like the pattern made from the red glass."
Erik smiled tightly, saying nothing. They weren't glass. Each red stone was a ruby presented to him by the Shah upon successful completion of a task. He hadn't worn the mask since leaving Persia, but kept it as a reminder of who he'd been and who he never wanted to be again.
Yet now, Ping Sai had forced his hand. Coming to this meeting with hidden guards meant only one thing: not everyone here would leave this place alive.
"You called this meeting, Mr. Dantes. I'm surprised that you wanted to take time away from your establishment on a busy Saturday evening."
"This can't wait," Erik said, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.
"Am I to take it that you've reconsidered my requests and wish to negotiate?"
"No." Erik rested his hands on the head of his stick. "There will be no negotiation. The agreement we had before will stand. You will leave my people and my properties alone. I will not allow your product into my businesses, but I will do nothing to stop you from pursuing others unless it begins to affect me."
"Ah, Mr. Dantes. Perhaps you have forgotten as you age, but that agreement ended before the earthquake. Here are my terms: you will do exactly as I wish and I will not destroy you or your businesses. This is nonnegotiable." A small smile curved his thin lips. "However, as a token of our long friendship and as one businessman to another, I will offer you two percent of the profits. But that is as far as my generosity will extend." Ping Sai took a step back waiting for Erik's response.
Erik stood still, grasping his walking stick in one hand. He looked at Ping Sai and tilted his head. "Even as I age, Ping Sai, I have forgotten nothing. Your other business associates over the years have not fared well. I'm not going to be drawn into your schemes. My answer is no."
"As you wish, Mr. Dantes." Ping Sai took a step back. "Gōng jī!"
Four men stepped from the shadows brandishing weapons. Erik swung with his stick, catching the nearest man in the kneecap with the heavy silver top and sending him screaming to the pavement. He then followed with a blow to the skull and the man lay silent.
Two other men approached at the same time. Erik dropped to one knee, swept his stick along the ground and tripped them both. A quick upward thrust with the head of the stick under a rough jaw snapped the neck of a second.
A pistol fired and Erik felt the hot wind of the bullet searing next to his ear. Pressing a button, the bottom of his walking stick dropped away revealing a sword from within. Ever since being attacked in this alley three years earlier, Erik switched out his walking stick for a sword cane. Pivoting around and raising the sword, he dodged the next bullet fired and brought the lethal blade down on the man's wrist, severing his hand. He barely registered the wet plop and the sound of metal striking the pavement. The man stood shocked, then screamed, grabbed his arm, and ran into the night.
Erik allowed himself a small smile just as the fourth man lunged for the pistol on the ground in front of him. Erik knelt, thrusting upward with both hands wrapped around the hilt. The man's forward momentum impaled him on the sword. He staggered back, clutching his chest then crumpled to the ground.
Erik stood, chest heaving for air and quickly scanning his surroundings. Three bodies and a hand still holding a pistol lay at his feet. A trail of blood showed him the direction the fourth man had run, but there was no reason to follow. If the man didn't find help within a short time, he'd bleed to death. There was no sign of Ping Hai.
He pulled off the black mask, wiping an arm across the sweat dripping into his eyes and taking a few steps down the alleyway in the direction he saw Ping Sai run. For a brief moment, he thought about following, then decided against it. If Nasir and Walsh did their jobs, Ping Sai would have far more to worry about than Club Incognito and its owner.
This was a lot easier twenty years ago, he thought wiping the bloody sword on the back of a dead man's coat and sheathing it into its casing. Still, he didn't feel too badly. Obviously his muscles and reflexes still knew what to do. Part of him was proud and part of him was horrified that killing had been so easy. What did that say about the man he'd become? Best not to dwell on it right now.
He spared one more glance for the bodies, replaced his mask, then melted back into the shadows.
. . . .
Nasir was already back at the loft when Erik entered, pulling off his mask. "You're making yourself quite at home in my loft, Daroga. Don't you have a home of your own to go to?"
"I do," Nasir nodded, setting down his coffee cup. "But I wanted to check in with you first, and I don't want Marian or the children to hear our discussion."
Erik said nothing, just crossed to the bathroom and slammed the door. The sound of running water filtered through the door and a few minutes later, he appeared without his shirt and slipped into the dressing room. When he came out, he was properly dressed in shirt, cravat and charcoal grey trousers with a silk jacquard dressing gown, his usual white mask securely in its place.
He took his time pouring a cup of coffee for himself and snagged an apple from a bowl on the countertop. "Were you successful?" He crunched down on the apple, chewing loudly. He knew that would annoy Nasir and Erik wasn't in the mood to be nice. He'd walked back from the meeting with Ping Sai but that wasn't enough exercise to burn off the nervous energy he was still feeling.
"Yes. Everything went according to plan. Ping Sai's opium connection is destroyed." Nasir sat back in his chair watching Erik's movements closely. "And the man himself?"
Erik's expression never changed as he shrugged. "I don't know. Our face-to-face meeting was rudely interrupted by four of his men attacking me. By the time I finished with them, he was gone."
The loft door opened as Erik grabbed the nearest kitchen knife. "Nasir? Erik? Anybody here?" Tom Walsh walked in, stopping at the sight of Erik brandishing a chef's knife. "Whoa, hold on there buddy." He spread his hands out flat. "I come in peace."
"You come without knocking." Erik said, jaw clenched. "Never do that again, Tom. Never."
Walsh nodded silently, still standing by the door. His eyes stayed locked on the knife in Erik's hand.
"Come in, Thomas." Nasir invited, settling back in the armchair. "Ignore him; he's in a mood. There's coffee on the stove if you want a cup."
Walsh took a step toward the kitchen then stopped, meeting Erik's glare. Even though the two men were friends for several years, the look in Erik's eyes and his posture warned the policeman not to overstep. "No thanks. I've had enough coffee for now." Still watching Erik carefully, he moved to sit by Nasir.
"It's done," Walsh said. "We've got the opium and the men involved in bringing it in. They're mostly low-level flunkies. The real power is still in China, but we've broken the supply line here and that was the goal. Now it only remains to find Ping Sai and bring him into custody."
"I doubt you'll be able to do that." Nasir exchanged a glance with Erik who shrugged, still standing by the kitchen counter. "By now he's probably melted back into the shadows. With his opium connection destroyed, he won't have much, if any, leverage in Chinatown. It's been my experience in the past that men like that withdraw quickly."
"Yeah," Walsh agreed. "He'll probably turn up again. The slimy bastards usually do. But it won't be here and it won't be our problem." He looked at the others. Nasir was placidly sipping his coffee. Erik still stood by the sink, his body rigid. "Well, I guess I'll be going. I've got a long meeting with the Commissioner tomorrow to explain all this."
Pulling open the outer door, he stopped and looked to Erik. "You're sure he got away?" He almost missed the slight nod of Erik's head. "Okay. I'll tell the Commish." Nodding to both men, he left closing the door silently behind him.
Nasir stood and walked to the window, watching the street below until he saw Walsh leave the building. Then he turned to Erik. "How many?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Erik turned away, refilling his coffee cup and throwing the remains of his apple into the trash.
"Rubies. How many will you be adding to the mask?"
"Three. Possibly a fourth."
"I'm sorry, Erik. For placing you in that position."
"There was no other way." Erik's voice was low. He didn't turn around, only stood staring into his cup of coffee. "And I'm not exactly an innocent when it comes to taking lives. We both know that."
"We do," Nasir agreed. "Please my friend, remember this time those actions may have saved who knows how many innocent lives."
"Don't try to make me feel better with your empty platitudes, Daroga." He rinsed the cup and lay it on the drainboard to dry. "I need a bath. Then I'm going to bed. Let yourself out."
Half an hour later Erik rose from his bath, toweled dry and slipped into a long hooded robe and a heavy pair of handknit socks. It was chilly in the loft and rather than turn on the hot water radiator system he'd installed during the rebuild, he chose to wrap himself in soft wool.
He sat for a long time staring out the windows into the night. Images of his encounter in the alley earlier that night mixed with images from long ago in Persia. Back then he killed without thought or remorse. Insofar as he was concerned the Shah's enemies were his enemies. The rubies earned were honors bestowed by a grateful leader. Tonight was different.
He didn't have to kill those men tonight. Even though he knew they had every intention of killing him, he had a choice. He possessed the knowledge and the skill to disarm and incapacitate them so they weren't threats. He thought that now, looking back, but he wasn't thinking in the alley. He simply reacted, letting his reflexes and experiences guide his body. And they guided him to becoming a killer. Again.
He truly thought those days were over. That the monster was gone. He'd kept the black mask as a reminder of what he'd been and of his vow to be a different man, to never repeat those actions. Tonight showed him differently. "You are who you always were." His voice was soft as he stared at his reflection in the window glass. "A monster with no real name and half a face."
Moving to the bathroom, he retrieved his blood-spattered clothing from where he'd dropped it on the floor along with the black mask. "Damn you, Nasir for pushing me into this. And damn me for letting you do it." Dropping the garments on the bench near the loft's entry door, he made mental notes to take them to his launderer on Monday morning. There was enough dirt on the garments in addition to the blood that the man would think there'd been an accident on a job site. It wasn't the first time Erik brought him such stains in his clothes.
He cleaned the blood from the mask himself, deliberately not counting the number of rubies embedded in the leather. What did it matter? One death or one hundred, either secured his place in hell.
Drying the mask carefully and then oiling it to keep the leather supple he left it by the sink giving the oil time to permeate before wrapping it. He'd put it away tomorrow and pray he'd never have to look at it again. Then he went back to the steamer trunk and retrieved his violin. He found he needed the soft music to ease the pain in his heart as he had the night he learned of Lillian's death.
The night he killed Davos and escaped the gypsy caravan, after the exhilaration of gaining his freedom wore off, he cried without understanding why. He felt as if a hole opened in his heart and didn't know what to do to fill it back. It wasn't until many years later on another continent that he finally learned what he was feeling. It was Nasir who explained it to him even though it took him many years to believe in the truth of his words.
.
"Sit still, Erik. Let me clean that gash or it will become infected." Nasir pushed down on Erik's shoulder with one hand to hold him in place while using a soapy cloth to wash the blood from his arm with the other.
"I can't sit still." Erik argued. He always felt this way after. After he'd completed an assignment as the Shah's assassin, although he hadn't told Nasir the truth of how he was injured.
"I know. You were attacked in that back alley. Your body was primed to fight and now the danger is over it doesn't know how to react."
"This happens to you?"
Nasir nodded to his young friend. "It does. And soon, when the rush is over, the sorrow begins."
"Yes," Erik whispered, feeling the sadness creeping over him. "Why? I don't understand. They was evil men. Why should I feel badly that they're dead? They'd have killed me just as easily." He rubbed his hand over his chest. "Why does it pain me?"
"Because you have a heart, a conscience." Nasir finished binding Erik's arm and slipped it into a makeshift sling. "There, try not to use it for a day or two and it will be fine."
"I have no heart, Nasir." Bitterness leaked from his lips. "I'm a soulless monster."
"No. You cannot believe that. I do not believe that." Sorrow rose in his heart for the young man. Erik was what? Twenty, if that old? What kind of life had he lived to think that of himself? "If it were true, then you'd feel nothing.
"You know I am Daroga for my cousin the Shah. I have killed men, as you have. And every time, after the relief of being alive has passed, I grieve for the lives I've taken. Every man has a soul, Erik, even you. Every man has a chance to be better and it is for the loss of that chance that I grieve a little because I know taking a life diminishes my soul."
"So you're doomed, too." Erik's voice was flat.
"No. I believe in redemption. I believe the good I do can outweigh the bad and for every piece I lose, I can ultimately gain it back. In the end, only Allah can judge the worthiness of a man's soul.
"That is why you feel sorrow. You know killing, for whatever reason steals a part of your soul and you must work harder to replenish it." He sat back on his heels, watching as Erik adjusted his garments preparing to step outside. "You can do that. We all can."
"No. I can't." Erik shook his head vehemently, crossing to the doorway. "I have no soul." He stepped out into the darkness, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My mother told me so."
.
Raising the violin, he closed his eyes, seeing again the brief skirmish in the alley that took at least three lives. Yes, they'd attacked him. But it was he who chose how it would end. Three more marks against him in the long tally. The familiar heaviness from long ago weighted his heart and he did the only thing he knew to try and relieve the pressure.
This time he played no known written piece. Sinking down cross-legged onto the floor beside his bed, he let the music flow from his heart through his fingers without thought. Sometime in the interminable night hours his eyes slid closed and the instrument slipped from his fingers into his lap.