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The following is an excerpt from SUNSET.
I
The pandemic is bad for business.
Ethan Jericho loaded the squat bar in his dimly lit basement gym with an easy warmup weight of 225lbs. He knocked out a quick set of ten before starting his 5-3-1 workout.
“Alexa, play 2Pac.”
“Playing 2Pac radio on Amazon music,” the polite AI answered before a 90s-styled robotic voice belted out the phrase California love!
Jericho returned home from his detour in the Canadian Rockies and took some time off. He needed it after his experience in the woods. Meanwhile, a virus crept its way across Asia and made inroads into Italy and Spain. It was only a matter of time before the first Covid-19 cases showed up on US soil. Jericho had already been having trouble finding work after faking his death in St. Louis. It took months to get the word out that he hadn’t been killed and was very much still on the board, but that didn’t stop the offers from drying up. By the time he started getting calls again, the FBI figured out what he’d done. Then stuff happened in the woods. The time off did let his body heal before going back to the job. Now that he was ready to find restitution again, the phone didn’t ring.
Jericho loaded 450lbs. on the bar, wrapped his fingers around the steel and dropped for a set of five quick reps before racking the weight. 5-3-1 is training program that emphasizes explosive power, training heavy weights with low repetitions. The training wasn’t great for cardio endurance like Crossfit, but sometimes it’s nice to be jacked to shit. Lord knows, he had the time to change up his training routine.
It turned out a sweeping pandemic made people appreciate life a little more, which is bad if you’re a freelance assassin in the revenge business. What’s worse is the way rising unemployment wrecked shop across Cherry Vale Security. People stopped ordering CVS’s high-priced security systems. Rich Weaver, the man who Jericho trusted to run the business, wanted to let go of fifty percent of the staff. But Jericho forbade Rich Weaver from firing anyone. Everyone was hurting, even the boss.
The insurance claim on the house in Provo, which was burnt to the ground nine months earlier, still hadn’t paid out. Jericho lost most of everything he owned thanks to Kevin Summerville’s church goons. While trying to rebuild, Jericho spent more than he’d brought in since moving back to Chicago. Long story short, he was damn near broke.
Jericho locked his fingers and swung his head underneath the steel bar. Lining his shoulders across the grooves, he exploded the weight off the rack and took two steps backward. His legs trembled a bit with 570lbs pushing down on his back. He took a long slow breath and dropped his glutes toward the floor, paused long enough to feel the force of over one-quarter of a ton. With an exhale, Jericho burst back up to his feet. He took two wobbly steps forward and let the bar sink back into the rack.
“Shit yeah,” he said to himself.
Jericho might have been out of work, but he’d lost the excess pounds he put on after last Christmas and managed to shed ten more. He was 219lbs., and the lightest he’d weighed in over a decade, with a rippling six-pack. Physically speaking, Jericho was in the best shape he’d been in since his training on Warlock’s farm back in the day. Sure he struggled to pay the mortgage, but damn if he didn’t look great.
As soon as the good Doctor mentioned how Englewood was never up to anything good, the phone rang through Alexa’s speaker.
“Alexa, answer the call,” he uttered before saying, “Moe’s Tavern.”
“Chris De La Peña,” said a very recognizable voice on the other end.
“Say that again, Mr. Amato.”
Joey Amato should be a dead man. There was a time Jericho would have killed him on the way home from that New Year’s Eve Celebration, but he let the guy live. He questioned that decision many times over the past few months, but hoped having a source in the Mafia was a good idea.
“Chris De La Peña.”
When Jericho heard the name for the second time, he kicked himself.
The biggest mistake Ethan Jericho made was not finishing the job with the Cartel two years ago. Jerry Crease was a low-level drug runner working for an outfit in Ciudad Acuna, Mexico. Jericho found Crease in a rundown no-tell-motel in Bracketville, Texas. The target put a bullet in his own head before Jericho had the chance.
Jericho told the client by doing this he was taking on the entire Cartel. Of course, that wasn’t entirely the truth. The Cartel could care less about a scrub like Jerry Crease. They also didn’t want trouble with Espectro Negro. The Black Specter.
Jericho liked the name. It made him feel like some kind of masked luchador, the Mexican pro wrestlers who usually wore extravagant masks. Jericho dug the idea and debated throwing on a mask of his own this time around, but a 6’3” 220-pound black man in a mask was even less inconspicuous than the usual WayFarer shades and locks. Besides, fighting an un-winnable war with the Cartel might impress clients, but in reality it made very poor business sense.
The client wanted the men responsible for his daughter’s untimely death put down. Jericho found the two directly responsible and took care of it, but he didn’t finish business. Now that unfinished business came to collect.
Ethan Jericho returned from his trek in the Canadian Rockies with one goal in mind: Find the man who gave the FBI his name. Not his real name, but the name Ethan Jericho. He had no idea if the FBI was still looking for him or not. He didn’t care at the moment. What he cared about was finding the snitch and figuring out just how the hell they got that name.
De La Pena was the man who supplied Jerry Crease with whatever the Cartel wanted to pass along to their street dealers. He was another pimple on the ass-end of the world’s largest drug-running operation. He was supposed to be the next man on Jericho’s list two years ago. If Jericho finished business as he so liked to say, the incident in Nightmute, Alaska wouldn’t have happened and a lot of innocent men, Tom Fiddler and Babatunde Oroye chief among them, would still be alive.
Ol’ Warlock used to say, loose ends hang men. Damned if the old man wasn’t right. But it didn’t answer the question of where De La Peña got the name Ethan Jericho in the first place, but that’s a question he preferred to ask in person.
Jericho looked into the dingy mirror of his basement gym and saw his corroded, gray eyes. A smile crept over his face.
“Time to go back to work.”
II
Ethan Jericho loaded up his 2019 Ford Expedition and took the twenty hour drive from his home in Chicago’s exclusive south side Kenwood neighborhood to Uvalde, Texas. He picked up the Expedition in January. Buying the 2019 edition saved him a few bucks, which was nice at the moment. Gone were the days of packing up the GV and taking flight to exotic locations. He sold the GV shortly after the Nightcrawler job. Heck, even the Humvee had more style than this. Of course, driving it thirteen hundred miles would cost a fortune. The pandemic shut down the airlines and who knew when they’d be back up. Besides, there wasn’t a chance of him picking up a strange virus in his own ride. That said, he would need to pick up a few cold brews to keep him awake.
Chris De La Peña lived in Uvalde, Texas, but spent most of his time across the river in Ciudad Acuna. Being an American citizen gave him easier passage across the border. Back in the day, Jericho studied De La Pena's typical routine and had a good hunch that not much had changed in the past two years. He just had to be a little patient and inconspicuous.
Of course, looking the way he did with linebacker shoulders, Jericho never truly blended into the background. On this Sunday afternoon in early April, Jericho stepped into a Starbucks in Uvalde, forty miles from Bracketville. Considering all the Starbucks in Chicago had closed, it was nice to see the inside of one again.
"Trenta cold brew," the man in sunglasses said to a short blonde barista whose name tag read Katie.
"Sure. Can I get a name?"
"Damien Thorn," he said, running his iPhone against the scanner.
Jericho winked at her from behind a pair of sunglasses and slid his phone back in the pocket of his leather jacket, comforted by his building star bonus. The Starbucks, which may have been the last bastion of unadulterated American capitalism before the border, was in a storefront parking lot next to the Dollar General. Some might think driving forty minutes for a cup of cold coffee was crazy. But spending a week trying to survive in the tundra makes a man appreciate life’s little comforts.
"Damien Throne!" Katie, the barista, yelled.
Jericho scanned left and right, just making sure that he was, in fact, the only customer in the store. He shrugged and grabbed the cold brew, deciding to drink it on their outdoor patio. This time of year is typically a lot colder back home. Why not enjoy the sixty-degree sunshine before skipping out on Texas after blowing a hole through the back of Chris De La Pena's skull? Besides, there is a reason they’re telling people not to hang out in-doors right now. Best to enjoy the brew in the sunshine. He took a seat on the metal chair and stared off into the parking lot while plotting the evening events.
Jericho finished the cold brew and headed back to the Expedition. It was a nice ride, but lacked the charm of the old Green Beast pick up. He just had to accept the fact that he was driving a soccer mom car.
Jericho caught a nap inside the Black Boss and woke up a little after 7:00 PM. He was hungry, but decided not to eat till after the mission was complete. Better to work with a bit of a crave in the belly. Keeps one focused and fast. Always better to be hungry than satiated.
Jericho turned the ignition and listened to the rumble. It gave him a quiver every time she started. He pulled out of the parking lot and focused on tonight’s mission. He parked the Boss at the corner of E. Brazos and Houston Street. The target would reach his house in town sometime after 10:00 PM after making another drop to a different scum-sucking drug runner. The Taco Wagon a block north sounded like a perfect meal for after the job.
Jericho packed the Ghost and the Darkness, his silver-plated Desert Eagle .44 Magnum guns inside of his coat. The Ghost had a silencer mounted to the barrel. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it finished business. For those one-percenters, the Darkness would pick up the scraps. It didn't need the silence.
Jericho walked west on Vanham Street, trying to avoid Old US 83. 108 Vanham was an empty lot leading to the backyard at 109 Rio Grande, the home of one Christian De La Pena. Jericho quickly hopped over a wooden fence. The tight brown planks did a decent job of obscuring anyone from catching a glance at him in action. The assassin quietly trekked through dried brown grass. A single light glowed behind the window in the master bedroom. Thanks to Realator.com, he learned the layout of the 1400 square foot ranch.
With his gloved hand, Jericho checked the back door. To his surprise, it was open. Strange for a relatively low-level Cartel goon. You'd think he might be a little more cautious. Oh, well. Maybe he should thank the target for making things easier. Jericho pulled the Ghost before carefully turning the knob. He slid through the entryway, greeted by the sounds of conflict. Someone beat him to the punch. But who? And why?
"Help!" shouted a voice he assumed belonged to De La Pena.
The Ghost was ready for the worst. He stepped lightly across the gray-colored, faux-wood laminate floor. The hallway seemed a tad tight for someone his size. Jericho paused and listened. There were two other people inside with him. De La Pena's screams muffled by a thick, watery choke. Jericho turned the corner and found something he didn't quite expect.
"Help me!" Chris De La Pena said as blood spilled from his mouth.
In the thick shadows, his killer turned back to the assassin and smiled with blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. Jericho didn't blink and sent three shots into the killer's chest, dropping him to the ground. Jericho saw enough of these things to know that he should keep his eyes and the Ghost locked on its smoldering carcass.
For a moment, Jericho wondered if this was another loose end coming back to hang him. The killer’s collapsed body reminded him of what became of Marvin Alexakis and while he was a hell of a shot with the Ghost, he ran out of silver bullets a long time ago. Jericho watched, trying to see if the beast would breath or twitch, but it laid there, not moving.
Quickly, Jericho shifted his eyes back toward De La Peña. He wanted to check the victim’s left hand to see if he’d been left with a freshly carved pentagram, one of the old calling cards of Marvin Alexakis, but Jericho didn’t see anything other than a man trying to survive.
Jericho leaned in closer to see whoever he just shot. He looked like a regular guy with a patchy beard, except for the tattoo scribbled out under his left eye. It was so sloppily done that Jericho couldn’t read the words if he tried. The streetlight pouring through De La Peña’s window illuminated his dirty blond dreadlocks. At last, he had a chance to kill a white man in dreadlocks. He could finally retire.
Jericho turned back and saw De La Peña struggling to breathe. He debated opening the chamber again, but remembered a that very important question was still unanswered.
“Listen to me, you piece of shit. You know who I am. Where did you get my name?”
De La Peña choked on his blood. The fear of death, impending death, not potential death, washed over his face. This was a bad man who literally came to grips with the evil he’d done. This man would burn in the depths of Hell, but bit before Jericho got his answer.
“Where did you get my name?”
De La Peña couldn’t have answered the question if he wanted. That wannabe vampire probably ripped out his voice box, but Jericho had come all this way for an answer. He aimed the Ghost at De La Peña’s head.
“Answer me! You saw what I did to Post Malone back there—“
“Hahahahahaha!”
Jericho leaned back up and a chill rushed across him. He whipped back around and aimed the Ghost back at the man he shot not thirty seconds earlier who appreciated his joke more than a dead man should.
“That was funny,” he said.
Jericho sent three more shots into his chest. This time the man didn’t even pretend to feel them. Instead, he smiled.
“Wow,” the not-so-wannabe vampire said in a tone that also made him think of the rapper.
“What the f—?“
Before Jericho could even finish the question, he was back handed across the jaw and sent flying across De La Peña’s room before crashing into the dresser drawer. Four months of rest and healing down the drain. Jericho pulled himself up from the broken shards and underwear and watched his new target jump out of the open window. He tried to give chase, but when he reached the window, the white man with bad dreads evaporated into the night’s sky.
“Son of a bitch. Now I gotta deal with fucking vampires.”