“Hold on a second. Was that him? Is he on the other end of that thing?” I reach forward, snatching the antenna.
Sal’s brows shoot up. “What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?” he gasps.
I continue to wrestle, prizing the radio from his fingers. “Hello.” I squeeze the button on the side, ducking away from Sal’s swipe. “I demand to talk to you, el Fantasma. You think you can hide behind your dark glasses and hat, and no one will see you for who you really are. Well, guess what? I see you. You’re a bitter and twisted bully.”
Silence
“Are you there?” Being ignored only exacerbates my frustration. Temper seethes through my sorrow, blowing it up into a tempestuous rage. “Coward!” I spit out, spinning around and tossing the radio into the waving palms. There was so much more I should have said. A plethora of malicious remarks and undignified slurs. Yet something held me back. Perhaps it was the niggle of intuition or the vibration of a threat undelivered.
Sal shakes his head gently with an expression of pure disdain. “I’d advise you to get over this tantrum.” He motions to my fisted palms and unyielding posture, ready for a war I’ll never win. “And quickly.”
I don’t appreciate his casual countenance or how he thinks I should give up the fight, the only flicker of Iris that still lives and breathes within me. My jaw clenches, trapping the thoughts I so desperately wish to set free. Those truths are mine for now. My inner wisdom is my consolation. My personal sanctuary where I will rant and rave without repercussions. And I will. I’ll curse this land with every shooting star in the cosmos.
Before he angles away for the second time, eyes like chocolate coins stare right at me. “I’m the closest thing you have to a friend right now. Don’t ask me any more questions about him. He's good to me, and I’ll never break his trust. If I must take sides, it will be his all day long. El Fantasma is the one thing in this rainforest that you should be terrified of. Not the jaguars prowling the undergrowth or the shoals of piranha circling the river for bait, not even the deadliest unseen spider. It’s him. You might think that little outburst of yours was brave and bold or that he’ll succumb to your demands.” Sal almost laughs.
The hairs on my nape prick to attention. “You’re not part of his plan. You’re a problem. Something that can easily be disposed of at short notice.” Sal blows out his cheeks, exhaling slowly. “You’d do well to heed my warning.” His strides carry him to a bend in the path where orchids decorate the rope handrail. “If you get in his way, you won't see him coming for you.” As Sal vanishes, his words scuttle down my spine like a tribe of ants. “He’s not an evil man, unless you make him your enemy.”
He is my enemy already. Doom coats my skin with a dewy mist. I claw at the cramped shirt trapping me into a habitat I’ve grown to resent. Buttons ping and pop when I rip apart the opening, gasping for air. The urge to run slips away when I remember my prison bars––wall-to-wall jungle with more chances of death per meter than the entire Isle of Skye.
Hidden beneath feathery leaves, where no one else seems to walk, I catch a grip of my tested sanity. I should retreat to my room, with my tail between my legs, and stay there until morning like a good girl. Yet the dread of a glass cage and its loneliness crushes my heart one sorrowful beat at a time.
Tying shirt tails across my ribs, I prop against a connecting post and take a moment to reflect. This unusual situation could be worse. My newfound nemesis could have earmarked me for tasks more degrading than assisting patients and wiping down bathrooms.
With Sal’s caution still smoldering, I conclude it's in my best interest to pay attention. I’ll take on the role they’ve forced me to embrace, skimming through the understory, maintaining a low profile, so el Fantasma forgets I’m even here.
I’ll become a ghost too.
8
Dante
I’m sitting opposite my latest guest, assessing his requirements. He’s sipping a cocktail of blended pineapple and cachaça over crushed ice, lounging in a crisp white robe. Prissy fucker. They’ll shave his choppy sable hair to his scalp, and Jackson will undoubtably file the minor identity detail of a bump on his nose.
We always conduct preliminary discussions in the arrival suite the day after they go dark. Jackson leans across the teak coffee table, offering his opinion on various options of facial reconstruction.
“Can you give me a stronger jawline,” the guest asks my surgeon, making an annoying sucking sound as he draws slush out of the tall glass. “I’d like to alter the shape of my eyes too, if that’s possible.”
“Anything is possible.” Jackson smiles, studying his canvas. “What we need to consider are permanent tweaks. I’ll add implants to your chin. As for your eyes, that’s purely a cosmetic thread lift.”
I dip in and out of the conversation, preoccupied with details of the orchestrated hit. A pathetic life eradicated from society. This one was discreet compared to my plans for the next one. Let’s face it, there isn’t anything less dignified than taking a few slugs to the brain while your maggoty dick is out. Scumbags live by the bullet and die by the bullet. It’s half expected they’ll end up as a corpse with more holes than a sieve.
That hit ran like clockwork. The price I put on his head was worth every fucking cent. No one will miss the cockroach who held my biceps and thrust a knee into my waist. His killer did exactly what I asked. Precise timing. Waiting for the very moment the asshole was defenseless and vulnerable—a second before euphoria. The filthy drug dealer was ready for an orgasm and wound up dead instead. We don’t always get what we want.
After years of patience, I’m closing in on the snake who put my fingerprints all over the murder weapon. I crick my neck, intercepting the agonizing memory before it plays out.
Casting my attention at the prick sprawled on the daybed before me, I smile inwardly. He’ll sing like a fucking bird when he’s doped out of his skull with my adapted drug concoction. It’s the ideal trick for extracting truths.
Primarily, the oasis is for rich assholes who’ve been caught one too many times and can afford the fees. They’re how I’ve multiplied my wealth over the years. Money has an opiate-like attraction. Earn millions, crave billions. The wilder the lifestyle, the higher the risk taken.
However, the intention is to transform the resort into a stopgap for men who’ve been wronged––framed for a crime they didn’t commit. I see and hear everything, well aware of ruthless vendettas and tampered evidence. Eventually, after I snuff the remaining three lives out, I’ll separate the assholes from the innocent. For now, I welcome men who have connections to the underworld. Who pay for their stay. It opens the doors to my assassins, who are more than compensated for a job well done.
Criminals are delivered to a version of heaven.
Sinners are disguised as saints.
I redesign every aspect of their existence.
The paying lowlifes think my services will protect them from consequences. I handpick each guest, offering a lucky ticket out of organized crime and into a bright alternative world of possibilities. Second chances certainly aren’t free. The price tag is exorbitant, demanding their blood, sweat, and tears with a side of loose tongues. Secrets pour out of their mouths when they’re medicated, and I’m right there, asking all the right questions.