Chapter One
Cooper
It was synchronicity, my heart beating in time with my feet. My pace set by the sounds in my earbuds: Second Coming by Dante Street Massacre. This was the third and final element in what was quickly becoming known as “The Sacrament Trilogy.” From what I knew, I was the first one outside the band and the record label to hear it. The copy came courtesy Chris, my co-worker at Sure Thing Graphics, whose brother was one of the band’s three vocalists. Chris wasn’t really into music, so he paid the kindness forward.
The disk spun in my Discman. I was a sucker for vintage tech I couldn’t really remember from childhood. Typically, I was more into County. The old stuff. Dark and dirty songs sung by genuine tough guys with amphetamine habits and prison records. But for running, I wanted heavy metal. It was a ritual really, selecting the music for my morning jog, which I had come to think of as an almost meditative experience. One of the few things capable of quelling the inner rage I felt like beating drums in my chest—not that it had ever done me much good.
I got into conflicts anyway, never one to leave a stare down even when I really should. Every fight I’d been in ended with me injured and bleeding in some fashion. Yet, I did it anyway. Whatever my perceived enemies did to me, nothing compared to what I was already doing to myself.
The choice of disk was obvious that morning. It was still sealed from when I received it the previous morning, just before the customary post-ping pong staff meeting. I carefully slit up the side with a kitchen knife, watching I didn’t scratch the jewel case. The CD locked in with a resounding pop. The stop button immediately struck, so I would not hear a single note until I was off and going.
The music filled my head, blocking out the world, symphonic Metal by way of Norse Folk, many of the lyrics performed in Norwegian for the sake of authenticity. A particular, resonant quality also permitted their English tracks. It was just what I needed to take my mind off things. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt someone. Especially myself.
It was as though the fates had heard me. No, worse, the fates had heard me, and they were laughing. I could almost hear it echoing across the distance, through the mists of creation and human imagination, from high in their insurmountable tower. One of the few advantages to getting in trouble as much as I had, was I got to a point where I could feel it coming. Even with music in my ears and my heart pounding in my head, I could sense it coming. The sensation was not a part of the usual five senses but a slight tightness in my chest. Conflict was coming, and it was close.
I could feel the limo before I saw it. The absurdly supped-up engine made the pavement vibrate beneath me. There was no way I could outrun it, not being the Bionic Man. Though I could still make things difficult for them.
I didn’t let on at first, jogging on as though I didn’t know exactly where they were. The window began to whirr, starting the slow journey down, so the back passenger could shout a smoking offense that he thought was clever. This was the moment that I chose to halt.
My sneakers almost left skids behind me as I stopped. The limo, electric white and the approximate size of a beluga whale, continued on its merry way—for a while at any rate. Coming squeaking to a halt, the long, body lurched forward several inches before settling to a stop. The driver backed up at speed.
At least that was what was how it looked in my head. I was nowhere near them at the time, having cut off to the right and into a park. Bastard that he was, I wagered not even Lars Ivanov would go plowing through dogs and kids just to intimidate a guy. Even he had to possess some standards.
The gambit paid off. When I finally stopped to look, there was no sign of Ivanov or his douche-mobile. Though that was mostly because he was coming up behind me, all four tires remaining on the designated road.