Chapter 43: Two years later
At my last appointment, the doctor said I could walk without the knee brace, but my stride is still tentative. I walk slowly to my computer and bring up my email account: junk mail, a short "Just to say hi" from one of the secretaries at the department, and a greeting from my mother asking when I'm visiting.
I almost miss it, but buried in the fifty plus emails is an urgent message from Nathanial. Nathanial Monroe. I stare at the name and my mind drifts back in time.
Past
Location: South Africa, classified
The team had two goals: rescue the hostages and everyone return to camp alive.
I blew it and took a bullet to the shoulder. Then I was held in place of the rescued captives. I wasn't afraid, but I was one pissed off Marine.
I was secured to a chair with my arms and legs bound. I knew the captain of my team would get the hostages safe and then come back for me. Marines never leave wounded comrades behind-or any comrades for that matter. They would either take me to medical care or take my dead body back home to my family. I knew one way or another, I was getting out.
Concentrating on my shoulder wound internalized the pain and allowed me to prepare myself for more. I had been stripped from the waist up, and the blood from my wound flowed freely. I couldn't make out the rapid words passing between the four men in the room, but I didn't think it mattered. I knew they didn't plan to let me leave that room alive.
The side door opened and another man entered. He was garbed in a black burka complete with head shroud. The men stopped talking and one spoke harshly. He never finished his sentence. A knife suddenly jutted from his throat.
All hell broke loose.
It was over in less than a minute and all four of my captors lay dead or dying. Even covered in yards of cloth, the man who stood before me was a work of art when it came to wielding a knife. I looked up as the facial hood came down. Black lethal pinpoints looked out from a younger-than-expected face and stared directly at me. Using the bloody knife in his hand, he cut my bonds. Before I could get a word out, the butt of the knife was pressed into my hand.
"I was never here. Good job, Marine." The voice was like strong, smooth whiskey. The strangest shiver passed through me as he spoke.
He left as quietly as he entered.
I heard gunfire coming from outside the building. I moved to the side table, where they left my rifle. I picked it up and rammed the magazine home. The pain in my shoulder was forgotten, though the face of the man who saved me was sealed in my memory.
My team overtook the compound and two days later, I was sent home to recuperate.
A year after my return to duty, I finished my service in the Marines and opted out of another enlistment.
I'm alive because of a stranger I never speak about.
***
Present day
I stare again at the sender's name and feel my heartrate accelerate when my finger clicks the box. Then I chuckle.
N.Monroe@spymail.com
Only Nathanial would actually use a mail server called spymail. I read his message.
Zach,
I am presenting a show at Club El Diablo on April 14th. I desire your
attendance and skill. I also have a situation that needs your special
care. Your online travel ticket is waiting.
N.
That's it. Nathanial is asking for my help and it's hard not to jump on a plane and be there tonight. Nathanial rarely asks; he demands and manipulates, but he doesn't ask.
I check my calendar. He wants me in Texas in six days. I didn't miss the lack of an "s" on the end of "ticket." I won't be returning on a planned schedule, but it isn't like I have anywhere I need to be. Well, besides a visit with my parents in Florida, but that won't take six days.
I decide my knee is good enough to drive regardless of what the doctor says. My career with the police force is over. My life with SWAT came to an immediate end when a search warrant and a fleeing meth head lowlife took out my knee in a fight. Two surgeries and three months of physical therapy and I'm still barely able to walk for long periods of time without my knee swelling to twice its size. I'll survive, but I need to figure out where to go from here.
I call my mom to say I'm on my way. After I pack a bag, I get behind the wheel of my 1966 white Mustang GT hardtop. My knee throbs as I think about the hours of rumbling along the road and pushing the clutch. But, for the first time in three months, I feel a sense of excitement.
My parents retired to Pensacola ten years ago. They both worked more than thirty years as professors at Boston College, raising me in an academic environment. They never understood my need for danger or the undertone of violence I craved as a teenager and adult. I don't understand either, but I know joining the Marines and then the Atlanta police department was the wisest choice my testosterone-laden brain could make. I'm now thirty-four and know I should probably be thinking about settling down. At least, that's what my parents are hoping.
***
I spend my visit with my parents playing cards, talking about politics, and walking Sandy, their golden retriever, along the shore. The time passes pleasantly, but I feel an overwhelming need to get on the road. When I finally leave for Monroe's, I let my mind wander back to my first-well, actually, second-meeting with Nathanial Monroe.
***
Past
After leaving the Marines, I tested into the Atlanta police department and waited three months to start the training academy. I was basically killing time, when an insistent knock on my apartment door made me throw it open with sudden force and growl, "Who the hell are you?"
A tall man in a dark fitted suit stood stiffly with an implacable stare.
"Yes?" I said when my first question went unanswered.
"This is for you from Mr. Monroe." He placed his hand out and I looked down and saw a black envelope. I looked at both sides without opening it.
Who the hell uses black envelopes? "I don't understand," I said, puzzled.
"Mr. Monroe has placed detailed instructions inside. I, sir, am only the delivery tool."
What the fuck? This man was right out of an English movie. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Read it, sir. As I said, the information you seek is inside." The man turned smartly on his heels and left. His military precision only added to my perplexity.
I shut the door, walked over to a small kitchen table, and took a chair. Impatiently, I tore open the envelope. A hand-written letter was folded inside and a simple white business card slid out.
I picked up the card.
Nathanial Monroe
Shibari
(555) 620-6960
Setting the card down, I grabbed the paper and read the uniquely hand-scripted words.
Zachery,
I am requesting your presence at my estate. If you prefer to fly, travel arrangements will be made. But if not, I would love a chance to admire your mode of transportation.
Your friend,
N.
"What the fuck?" I said out loud. This was either a joke or some gay fucking shit. Who the hell does this man think he is? I picked up the card and turned it over. Nothing was on the back and I refused to call the number. It would probably re-route me to a pay for sex phone line or something.
Flipping the card again, I decided to try the internet. I searched for the name "Nathanial Monroe" and the unfamiliar word "Shibari."
My search results included:
Recluse, Artist, Genius?
Nathanial Monroe offers his proceeds to charity
Rare sighting of N. Monroe
The list went on. I clicked the first link.
An erotic picture of a beautiful woman bound in thick white rope filled the top of the screen. Except for the female in the picture, it was...fucked up gay shit. So why did my dick stir at the image? Because I'm fucked up and gay, I thought to myself. No, not gay, but definitely fucked up.
I read the information on the website and discovered that Nathanial Monroe was highly praised as a renowned bondage artist. There were more pictures. What the hell would this man want with me?
I clicked the back arrow and then clicked on "Rare sighting." The picture was grainy but the profile was a face I will never forget.
It was him-the man with the knives.
The man who saved my life.
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