Chapter Five: The Job
"How the fuck did you guys get jobs here?" Zim asked.
"They actually poached me from [HORRIBLE TELECOM COMPANY NAME REDACTED]," Brandon said. "I then got Fitz the job."
Zim rubbed his face and damned the person who got Brandon the job. Damned him straight to hell.
"I wish to any god merciful enough to answer that I get struck by lightning immediately," Reddington said. "Is this reunion over yet? This Blacklister isn't going to arrest himself."
Brandon and Fitz grinned. "Welcome back, parasite!" Fitz said.
Zim turned to Reddington. "I hate that you got me into this."
Reddington blinked rapidly. "You hate that I—!" He stopped himself, but the blinking continued. He bit his lower lip. His head tilted, shaking back and forth. "I apologize. Now, may we get to the matter at hand?"
"Who is the target?" Keen asked.
Reddington pointed to Aram, who typed quickly, and the main screen in the room went black. White words appeared.
HITLER CUNTFACE ROCKWELL
(NO. 169)
"Uh, what?" Keen said.
"Obviously that's not his real name," Reddington said. "It's Nathan Hale Johnson. He actually called himself by the new name with great pride. It's part of his MO. He does his best to offend people, and when they act offended he takes that as permission to murder them. Not right away. He bides his time, and then he comes up with a perfect plan. And he executes that plan and the person in question. The Russian mob found him and put him to use as an enforcer. Not even they like him, but they have made him very rich. And now here's his picture." He nodded to Aram.
The face on the screen was not pleasant. He had SS tattoos on either side of his neck. 666 was tattooed across his forehead. He had another tattoo on each cheek. On the left it said EAT, and on the right it said SHIT. A tiny swastika was on the cleft of his chin.
"Delightful, isn't he?" Reddington said. "He has more tattoos, but he wears clothes over those except for these." He gestured again.
His hands were displayed. On the fingers of one hand it said CUNT. On the other was FUCK. The back of each hand had an 8 on it.
"What's with the eights?" Zim asked.
"The eighth letter of the alphabet is H," Reddington said. "Two H's stand for Heil Hitler."
"Wow," D-Dolla' said. He nodded, and Zim thought it was one of appreciation and possibly reverence. What the fuck?
"He's rarely out in public," Reddington said. "He has one undeniable vice, though: high-stakes gambling. He frequents the casinos of Europe most often. He is currently on an island in the Mediterranean, staying at an infamous casino among Blacklisters. It's called Cutthroat Island. If you're looking for the worst humanity has to offer, then you are very familiar with this place. It's invite only."
"Cutthroat Island? Zim asked. "Like that pirate movie?" Everyone ignored him.
"I assume you know it well?" Harold asked.
Reddington smiled. "Naturally. I just remembered the last time I was there. I had one of the finest scotches in the world, and I'd done something I swore I'd never do. I drew to an inside straight. I . . . just had a feeling."
"You cheated," Keen said.
"No! Perish the thought!" He laughed, and it became clear to Zim that Reddington unquestionably cheated. "Anyway, I lucked out. The pot was big. Rockwell was there, and I swear to you this is true. He actually wiped a blood tear away just like Mads in Casino Royale."
"Now you're just making things up," Ressler said.
"Hand on a Bible." Reddington demonstrated with his hand on empty air.
"Are you going to explain these two?" Harold gestured to Zim and D-Dolla'.
"Harold! I'm so very glad you asked! I was just about to mention that Rockwell has uncannily good luck." He then explained the concept of the cooler, and when he was done, he looked like he was going to put a hand on Zim's shoulder. At the very last second, he seemed to think better of it and merely waved in his direction. "This is Zim. He is going to be our cooler."
"I have a bad feeling about this," Fitz said.
"The odds of Zim messing this up are way better than getting struck by that bolt of lightning you prayed for," Brandon said.
Reddington's eyes narrowed, and he looked at Fitz. "Never tell me the odds."
Fitz did the Fitz whistle, and Zim wanted to murder him, preferably by throttling him. Also, he hated that Reddington had seen any of the Star Wars movies.
"Fitz and Brandon are our communications experts," Aram said. "They'll be wiring you and Zim up with some brand new, hush-hush tech."
Zim looked at Fitz and Brandon. Oh God. He'd be wired by these two maniacs? And did that mean they had to see him naked? Would that make him gay? He feared that more than anything else they could do.
"And after that," Reddington said, "we are going to that island, as I—surprise—have an invite. Zim, you will unfortunately be my plus one."
Oh God. That has to make me gay. "No."
"You'll be paid a million dollars," Harold said. "Under the table. Tax free."
That would make Zim a millionaire! That he could lord over Fitz and Brandon's heads for the rest of their lives. "Okay, I'll do it."
Brandon's eyes gleamed. "Looks like Zim's gonna join the 1M club."
"What do you mean?" Zim asked.
"Brandon's already a millionaire," Fitz said. "I'll be one by the end of the fiscal year."
Those rat fucks.
"Hey!" Brandon said to everyone. "Who here isn't a millionaire?"
Not a hand went up. Fitz did the sharpest Fitz whistle in history.
"Cheer up, Zim," Reddington said. "You might die." He paused. "Sorry, I was talking to myself, actually."
Zim seethed. Why didn't he just stay in GCPD lockup?
TO BE CONTINUED!
