Fever by Autumn Archer
2
“Here’s your new life,” I say as I hand over a flash drive to the guy wearing cargo pants and a pressed shirt in stuffy humidity. He huddles beneath an umbrella pelted by raindrops bigger than beetles. “Our business here is done, Mr. Suarez.”
He arrived on site four weeks ago to the day, checking in under his birth name and leaving as an altered version of his former self. The transformation is a success. A day longer would have him outstaying his welcome. In five days, a new paying guest will go dark in my hideaway, and the process will start all over again.
This guy differs from the others. He served a purpose, and I’ve repaid the favor. “You’ll find a sufficient amount credited to your new bank account.” I push black aviators further up the bridge of my nose, masking my eyes. “As agreed.”
Mr. Suarez stretches out his hand. Lasered fingertips have healed well. “Obrigado, el Fantasma.”
“You’d do better to thank me in Spanish, Mr. Suarez. Isn’t that where you’re from?” I smirk. His mother tongue is Portuguese. Not anymore. A curse of being reborn.
He scowls. “Fuckin’ idiota.”
Freedom is both a state of mind and a costly fantasy that’s paid with a hefty chunk of tender that lands in my tortured hands. Those who haven’t lived the life of a criminal won’t understand the game. They aren’t dealt the same cards. Normal assholes consider themselves the judge and jury of right versus wrong. Superior. Authoritarian. They haven’t met me.
Currency is a language. A powerful barter for my specialized services. And that's exactly what paying guests receive when they arrive in my kingdom.
Before packing up their troubles, they transfer funds into an untraceable bank account. A week later, they dodge an arranged domestic flight and slip into a waiting light aircraft, courtesy of el Fantasma—me. They turn all sources of technology over to my staff, who destroy it prior to departing. Then they’re flown to an unknown destination, and by the time they touch down in paradise, I’ve wiped their slate clean. My guests are erased from the planet, a lost body in the morgue, or simply presumed dead. Digitally blacked out. Permanently nullified. I have the power to manipulate records, create identities, and alter the path of history. That’s just for starters.
These men truly believe they’re the lucky ones. That tweaking a lie or rubbing out an act of violence will mitigate their lawless past. No matter the scars, fancy new name, or altered personas to slip into, no man will avoid haunting flashbacks.
Memories are never erased, only temporarily blocked.
Recollection is pressed into brain cells like fossils, triggered awake by each of the five senses.
Familiar perfume.
The sound of betrayal.
A taste of bitterness.
Warmth draining to deathly cold.
Faces I’ll never forget.
My demons never leave. That’s why I’ve poured all my cash into this venture. My millions have grown into billions, cultivated by secrecy and fueled by a fire in my belly for justice.
I rule my domain. My sanctuary. Those who need to disappear apply for admission. On certain occasions, to fulfill my vendetta, I hand out a free ticket once it’s earned.
The decision of who comes and goes is mine and mine alone. The jungle is the one home I can’t be forced to leave, and the only thing I’ll never give up.
I’m the re-inventor.
Powerful and most wanted.
The inconspicuous proprietor of a tropical oasis camouflaged in the Amazon rainforest.
Creator of the transformative solo enterprise, project el Fantasma.
Project Ghost.
Identities are deleted.
Names appear on the death register without a grave.
Simple yet complex.
Straightforward and convoluted.
I am the ultimate ghost who offers the same privilege to those who can pay for a second chance.
“It was an honor to serve you, el Fantasma. This—” He repositions his stupid looking brimmed hat. “More than makes up for shooting him in the face while he fucked that puta.” My hand curls around the leather tight to my palm. “If you ever need me again—”
“I don’t,” I say to cut him off, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Your contract was terminated the second you went under the knife. You’re not needed now, and you’ll never step foot on my oasis again. What you do from here on out is on you.”
I control all incoming and outward flights from the neighboring town. The helicopters and seaplanes scheduled to arrive at the oasis are my own. If I’m not aware of an inbound aircraft, I give the order to blow the fucker out of the sky.
A security team earns a healthy salary to ensure they maintain privacy at the highest of standards. Nothing short of seclusion will be tolerated. Secrecy is paramount, and that's exactly what I demand. None of my guests know the real me, only the ruthless reputation of el Fantasma.
The exceptions to my rigid regulations are the conservationists and scientists who are welcome to study and protect our natural home. They’re granted a six-month stay as long as it’s outside a twenty-mile radius of the oasis. Any closer and the wildcats will get their reward for waiting behind the live wire boundary.
Step into my hideout and you’ll never be seen again, not as yourself anyway. I take my privacy seriously, with bullets if necessary.
Helicopter blades rotate, cutting through another downpour, blitzing droplets against the setting of an illuminated jungle. The taillights shadow segmented palm leaves, like creeping fingers about to usher Suarez out of my dominion. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ve enjoyed my stay, a little too much.” He chuckles, closing the umbrella and ducking below a whirl of wet wind.
I nod, agitating drips of water. “Your NDA is watertight. You can’t speak a word of what happens here.” It's a friendly reminder. This guy knows I’ve got his entire existence stored in a virtual safe. I tap the peak of my dark green cap. “Stay out of trouble.”
Distant thunder grumbles. A blaze of lightning fractures the navy sky. It never fails to impress me how muggy heat and sunshine turns to rapid downpours and floods. Similar to my simmering mood. “You're flying in the opposite direction of the storm,” I add when another vein of electricity lights up the clouds. “The thunder is miles away from here.”
Suarez sticks out his hand. “Goodbye.”
I hold my gaze on the chopper. “Mr. Suarez.”
His hand withdraws untouched, and he ducks under the whirling blades. Finally, he climbs into the aircraft and clips on the harness. I watch the helicopter rise into the turbulent sky. Safety doesn't raise an ounce of concern. When your time is up, it’s up. It veers right on a planned detour that skirts the oasis. A bird’s-eye view of my facilities is not an option, even at night.
At last, time to myself before I have to welcome another guest. I drag off my cap and stuff it in my back pocket. A torrent of rainwater washes away the need for concealment. The sunglasses are next to leave my face, followed by the black T-shirt sticking to my chest. Bunching the material, I tuck it into my waistband and lift covered hands to the sky and close my eyes. My men know to stay away from me following a guest’s departure. These minutes of solitude are for me. This is when I’m free from my disguise.
I’m hyperaware of drips hitting large leaves, shielding ground cover plants, but gifting them with enough life source to flourish. A distant roar feeds my power, simultaneously reminding me of the reason I live alone. I don’t crave human interaction or unwanted connections. There’s nothing in the outside world that lures me back.
Except for the one all-consuming vendetta. Bad blood. A debt to be paid with four souls. With the first one recently checked off the list, the remaining three are ignorant to the ghost who observes their sins from cyberspace.
Lowering my arms, I peel off the gloves that mask a souvenir of a serpentine past. Scars signify a self-induced prison scalded from sorrow and pain.
I’d rather be a lost soul in the jungle than to live in the metropolis where real danger lurks. Where snakes wear uniforms and hunters prey on the innocent. In my territory, I strategize and plot from a vantage point overlooking expansive isolation.
El Fantasma has all the time in the world. Patience is the true king of the jungle, and my identity will never be revealed.
