Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

planned for such a contingency. They would regroup and find a replacement. There was always a sucker willing to travel down unsavory roads in search of redemption. It mattered not that their hope of salvation was fleeting. All OrCA needed was a subject willing to sell their soul to the highest bidder for the banal idea of true freedom.

Sheridan sat still, his eyes darting from the door to Hurst. Resistance felt futile. A proverbial middle finger which would almost certainly end with a bullet to his back and his body being dumped on the side of the road somewhere. His heart pounded with a dangerous mixture of adrenaline and fear. He wasn’t ready to die, but the idea of being made into an errand boy for a tyrant wasn’t much of an upgrade. An uncomfortable moment of silence ensued as he averted his gaze to the table. He grabbed each end briefly, before relenting and slamming back into the chair.

“Fuck it,” he said, exasperated. “I’ve either got to do this or I die. And I’d prefer to go out on my own terms.”

“I’m glad you came to your senses, Ross,” Hurst said. Content that Sheridan wouldn’t be making any sudden moves, he released his grip on his service weapon. “Our next step is to make some, uh, alterations. We will do most of the work to your face, though the idea is to make you indistinguishable from Brantley.”

“Just get it over with.” Sheridan stood up and stretched. He smirked as Hurst hopped up and attempted to make a subtle move for his weapon. “Don’t worry, I’m playing along. The sooner you do what you need to do, the sooner I can get out of this godforsaken tin can.”

Chapter 45

“There may be other agents around. Moving in the shadows, adjusting the strings to ensure the show goes on as planned. They won’t announce themselves, and you likely won’t be able to deduce their allegiance, but their involvement is ultimately of no concern. It will not impact your ability to carry out your role.”

“Say I figure it out. Maybe something is said, or done, that just rubs me the wrong way and I put two and two together. What then?”

“Nothing. You focus on the job. Forget what you think you may or may not have seen, hypothetically speaking, and keep your mind focused on taking care of Carlos Medina. If you take a few of his lieutenants out along the way, perfect. But Medina’s death is of the utmost importance. Nothing else matters.”

Micah slowly opened his eyes. Sunlight filtered in through his window, but he had been far too ensconced by the strange dream he’d had to be bothered by the intrusion. The sequence of his most recent dream was but a small portion of a stream that had gradually played out in greater detail over the past year. He found himself increasingly impressed by the level of detail his imagination could produce while his mind ran on autopilot; but also disturbed at how real everything felt.

Was it just a dream?

The bed was lonely, and Micah groped the nightstand nearby for his cellphone. He brought it to his eyes and saw the time: 10:47am. Underneath the digital clock was an oblong bubble, surrounding a text message sent to him from Valerie.

It read: “Hope you slept well, sweetheart! I’m only working a half day. See you this afternoon!”

Before he could get to the end of the message, the words ‘unknown caller’ took over the digital real estate, superimposed over a blank screen. He pressed the green button and brought the phone to his ear.

“What’s up?”

“This is housekeeping. You alone?”

“As long as you’ve got some good mints for my pillow.”

“Only the best.”

The line clicked. Micah got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door. He opened it and saw Castillo standing in the hallway with a couple duffel bags.

“Hey, Jimmy. Come on in,” he said, motioning inside.

“Thanks, compadre.” Castillo walked over to living room and stopped. He took a moment to look around and admire the decorations. “You can tell you’re no longer a bachelor.”

Micah closed the doors and followed suit. “What makes you say that?”

“No single man I know would put up that kinda shit,” Castillo chided. He pointed toward an ornate wall decoration; a piece of art composed of a multitude of floral arrangements designed to create a sense of peace in a room. Valerie had insisted the piece served a purpose, but Micah saw little point in its existence. It kept her happy, so he didn’t object too strongly to hanging it up on the wall above his gigantic, flat-screen television.

“Don’t knock on the Feng Shui,” Micah said, placing a hand on Castillo’s shoulder. “For all you know, that shit was my idea.”

“Eh, to each his own.” Castillo raised an eyebrow, briefly unsure what to think. Perhaps he had read his understudy incorrectly all this time. No matter. “Where do you want me to put these?”

“Floor’s fine.”

Castillo set the duffel bags down and unzipped one. It spread out like dough being set free from the confines of an aluminum container. Inside, it was full to the brim with wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “This is your cut.”

“From that side-gig?”

“That’s correct.”

“Holy shit,” Micah said, thumbing through a few of the neatly stacked wads of cash. He knew there was decent money in the prescription drug trade, and guns always went for a decent asking price, but he hadn’t expected a windfall that nearly eclipsed the monetary pull of some of his more intricate jobs. He also hadn’t ever discussed compensation with Castillo, so his expectations had been purposely measured. “Bit more than I thought you’d be able to pull.”

Castillo smiled. “Told you to trust me on it. Easy picking as long as you know where to sling it.”

“Any blowback by Jeremiah’s crew?”

“Nothing yet. Those hicks are probably too busy figuring out which cattle they’ve got to put