Fever by Autumn Archer

8

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.

In my world, gangsters don’t just pay for a new beginning, they fucking earn it. Once they leave my soil, I monitor the life I’ve remodeled. If they yank the fine thread I’ve attached to their soul, I’ll snip the lifeline with one touch of an erase button.

Watching the enemy from afar is my godly fucking right.

I’m the bolt of lightning they’ll never see.

The twister that annihilates and ruins.

A warped hand of fate with all the control.

“And I’ll get a new set of prints?” the latest addition to my world asks, instantly bringing my mind back to the room.

My ankle flips to my opposite knee. I run my gloved fingers along the fabric armrest, unable to feel a thing. The thin layer of leather isn’t the barrier, it’s the healed scars of affliction that desensitize my touch.

“Absolutely. As promised.” I stare at him through tinted shades. The less said, the better. I can’t be bothered with pointless chitchat. As long as Jackson can take care of the physical aspects, I’ll take care of the rest.

“A guy could get lonely out here in the arsehole of nowhere. Can I order a few whores for a post-op party? You know, once I’m reborn again.” He winks. There’s something about this guy that grates on my last nerve.

The very same nerve Iris Kitson plucked. During the days she fought off the fever, I ran countless reports, searching police records and government data. Much to my annoyance, I uncovered zero evidence to suggest she’s a threat.

I double-checked the authorization for a six-month campsite along the river—originally for two male scientists. After a quick dig, I found the names Bruce Kincade and Fergal MacNab. Not a sneaky, last-minute female intruder. Either she’s well protected, or she’s truly a nobody.

This morning, that same undercover liar revealed a brazen pitch of venom as she yelled at me over the airwaves. She’s lucky I had this asshole on my agenda, or I’d punish her ballsy mouth for daring to open. Her tantrum didn’t warrant a response, not this time. Not until I find out who she really is.

Flowers die without sunlight. Humans fade when they’re ignored.

I sigh out my irritation. “You’re not in the arsehole of nowhere. You’re in my oasis where seclusion is the priority, not fucking the local women. Once you leave here, you can do whatever you want. Until then, no wandering around and no women.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes and uses a straw to stab a slice of fresh pineapple. “It’s quite the setup you’ve got here. I’m grateful for the opportunity, el Fantasma. I have to say, it’s an honor to meet you in person.”

I drop my boot to the floor and rise, towering over him. “Stick to the rules and you’ll leave here a liberated man.” I subtly signal to Jackson, letting him know I’ve got business to tend to. He catches my grimace and shrugs. We’re like flames and icebergs. Jackson used to repair broken hearts and sticky valves, massaging them back to life, whereas I strategize and dream up ideas to stop them from beating.

“You will not see me until your last day. My staff will take over from here.” I rotate away, leaving the two men to finalize the cosmetic surgery details.

I don’t meet anyone as I walk under the leafy walkways. It’s days like this when I loathe sharing my home, knowing there are other people plaguing paradise.

And then I freeze.

It’s her.

My fiery temptation hums to herself as she studies the native flowers like a ruby red hummingbird flitting from dry twig to pretty petals.