This scene falls after Parabaloni 8, Black Out. It can be enjoyed on its own. But the characters will be recognized from cameos in Gathering Shadows and Black Out.
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Akmed Methuselah bin Hadith tried to squirm his shoulders into a more comfortable position in the taxi cab. The back of his head pressed against the ceiling and a crick started to jump in his neck. He could barely see the big city outside his windows. It looked like any other city, just with English instead of the Arabic. Methuselah felt a little disappointed he hadn’t seen an American cowboy yet. One of his black dreads escaped its tie and swung in front of his eyes, further obstructing his view of the concrete and fast food joints and thousands of cars.
“How much farther?” he grunted at the driver. The taxi driver, Abel Smith, jumped at the gravelly sound of his voice, and Methuselah saw his knuckles grow white on the wheel. The man in the backseat hunched even further into himself. It would be different if that white-knuckled fear was just a byproduct of Methuselah’s Arabic accent and huge build. He would love to put it down to prejudice and even be a little offended.
But inside Methuselah Hadith saw the hundreds of dying and dead he had presided over for his former boss Jeffey; he knew the fear was justified.
And he hated who he had become just a little more every time he met that reaction.
“About ten minutes,” the taxi driver reported. His eyes were wide, and he didn’t look in his rearview mirror. “Just ten minutes,” he repeated, and Methuselah knew it was to reassure Abel Smith, not his fare. The big man in the backseat kept his face a stony blank and didn’t let himself grimace.
The asphalt and concrete sped under the tires as the taxi zoomed through the webs of interstates connecting the massive Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Another five minutes and Abel pulled off and slowed down. Methuselah shoved his dread back where it was supposed to be and bent a little farther to see out the window. That wasn’t English on these storefronts. Spanish, of course. A little thrill of interest went through him as the vision of round-hatted caballeros came to mind. But he still just saw stores and concrete, and all of it looked a little run down. The taxi turned more corners, waited through two more red lights, and finally turned one more time.
A stretch of green grass spread out in front of them, cut in two by a wide river. Trees grew here, gangly live oaks drinking from the Trinity as it meandered its way through the old city. Abel pulled to a stop in a parking spot. Methuselah heard the sigh of relief that spilled from him. The big man pushed his way gratefully out of the cab and rolled his thick neck to get the kinks out. The trunk popped and he reached behind him and grabbed his duffle bag. He shoved the trunk closed again without being asked; he knew Abel Smith really didn’t want to step out of his nice safe car with his fare still there. Methuselah didn’t turn to tell the man goodbye. The taxi backed up as he pulled the pin up on his phone. It took a minute. His smart phone wasn’t the latest model. And it had never worked quite the same since that kid hit it with a mallet six months ago.
Jeffey had ordered his big body guard to rip the kid’s arm off for it. Methuselah had settled for just breaking it, cleanly, so it would heal fine. But the scream still came back to his mind some times. Methuselah pressed a finger against his ticking eye, and strode off into the park to follow his pin.
He was out of that job. He didn’t have to think about it anymore.
Who was he kidding, he never stopped thinking about it.
Joggers ran past him, carefully not openly eyeing the seven-foot giant as he strode over the grass with his duffle bag. He walked past a large colorful playground with the merry shrieks of children, and the sound penetrated his blackness enough to stop his ticking eye. A little girl of about three saw him walking past. She beamed at him from behind the iron wrought fence around the playground.
“Hi!” she bellowed. “I’m Hannah, who are you?”
“Great question, kid,” Methuselah Hadith found himself answering. Who was he now? He wasn’t Jeffey’s muscleman anymore, he had finally dug up the courage to run from that. He refused to think about what would happen if Jeffey ever found him. But what was he now? He kept walking, a little quicker, and didn’t answer the girl’s second shout. He knew he didn’t want to be in a jail cell for suspicious activity around a playground, and the girl’s mother was carefully watching the scenario, with her finger on her cell screen.
Methuselah strode on. The trees thickened, the winding walkways wound off other places, and the people seemed to drift away with them. Solitude closed in under the strange trees of a foreign country. His big shoulders slumped a little as the stiffness fell away. He wasn’t at peace even with himself, he never was. But it helped not to have to bear the suspicious stares of his fellow humans. He let his steps slow and listened to the birds chattering in the trees above him. They were loud. But it was a cheerful cacophony, kind of like the screaming children at the playground. The noise of just being. No haunting regrets. No fears in the night. Just worrying over where their next meal came from.
He had that worry too.
Methuselah fingered the white card in his pocket again for the thousandth time, his mind rushing off to the strange character in the black outfit who had flicked it out of the dark night on a rooftop. This contact had better be a decent one, or he would be hungry tomorrow. Heck, he was hungry now. He let his steps come to a slow stop and stared up at the birds. He picked out one shiny black bird with half a hamburger bun dangling from its beak and guessed why there were so many of them near the playground.
“That’s a grackle,” a voice commented to his left. Methuselah turned slowly toward it, his joints loose, refusing to startle. A part of him felt a flare of surprised gratefulness. Most people took one look at his scarred haunted face and looked away without daring to offer even neutral comments.
He found himself staring eye to eye with the speaker. That was a surprise too. They were icy blue eyes, framed by blond hair that waved near the man’s shoulders. His muscles bulged under a blue t-shirt that should have been a size larger. But Methuselah had a hard time finding shirts that fit too, and didn’t judge.
“The name suits,” Methuselah said. His voice sounded like wood being dragged across gravel, and it always would after the smoke damage fourteen years ago. But he wished again he could at least sound friendly if he couldn’t look it.
The stranger didn’t startle away. Instead a grin broke over him, and Methuselah idly wondered if this man worked in shaving commercials; he looked like it.
“Don’t it though? They’re obnoxious and everywhere, and they yell all the time, and it can even sound like ‘grackle.’ Don’t feed them or they might never leave you alone. I still haven’t found a real cowboy here, but I’ve found plenty of those birds. But I have to go find someone now. I hope you find something more interesting than a grackle to watch.”
“Thanks,” Methuselah growled. The stranger walked off into the trees, glancing at his phone as if checking something. Methuselah strode off too. He was still early, but he wouldn’t be if he kept staring at birds. The ground began to change from the manicured, carefully kept grass. It grew taller, and a little prickly. Thorny vines started to invade, plucking at his jeans. The trees thickened, and so did the debris of old decaying leaves underfoot. Obviously most people didn’t venture into this part of the park.
A flash of blue caught his eye and Methuselah quickly sought it out. The stranger moved out here too. The man kept glancing at his phone. Huh. Methuselah turned a little right, to get more distance from him, and checked his pin again. His contact was supposed to be a quarter of a mile ahead of him, and he was right on time.
At 10:35 exactly, Akmed Methuselah bin Hadith stepped out of the overgrown tangle of deserted parkland into a small, forgotten clearing. A man in a plaid golfer’s cap sat at a crumbling concrete bench. He was feeding a flock of grackles.
The stranger stepped out of the trees across from Methuselah. The two men stood stock still, their eyes darting from each other to the man in the cap. The grackles yelled and screamed at each other. The man on the bench upended his bag into the flock of birds and laughed as they scrambled for what was left. He stood up, his cap at a jaunty angle, his hands slipping easily into his pockets, and smiled at the two huge men flanking him in this secluded corner of a downtown park.
“Gentlemen, you are both very punctual,” the man in the cap commented. He had a very Irish accent. He spun to the one in the blue shirt and shoulder length perfect blond hair. “Jones, isn’t it? I heard you did a decent job with that Black affair, ready for more?”
“I pushed a button,” Arnulf Jones answered, a scowl crossing his perfect face. “I’m hoping for a little more this time.”
“Well, if you agree, you’ll certainly get it,” the man in the cap grinned. He turned to the hulking Arabian standing like a boulder in the bright Texas sunshine, his scarred face carved like a stone, and just as readable. “Methuselah Hadith.” The man in the cap’s smile softened. “I’m glad you’re here.” Methuselah felt his throat tighten with emotion as he read the real phrase behind it; I’m glad you’re out of there, and ready to move on to new things. So was he. But would he still be glad after he found out what sort of thing this was?
“Who are you?” Methuselah demanded.
“Sean O’Leary,” the man introduced. “I am very, very happy to see you gentlemen today, because there really aren’t many people with your unique skill sets willing to use those skills for the type of things I need.”
“What things?” Jones asked, and Methuselah could hear the hesitation in the other’s voice.
“Och now, I can’t tell you everything right away,” Sean said with an apologetic shrug, “I haven’t really met you. But I do have a mission all ready for you if you’re willing, and that I can tell you about. It pays well, and you’re needed.”
“What?” Methuselah growled, letting his impatience carry in the tone.
“I have a shipment that needs delivered deep into Cuba’s red zone.”
“Shipment,” Methuselah said. Jones heard the sick disappointment in the gravelly word, and felt the same roll in his stomach. He had hoped he was getting out of this kind of world!
“Now hold on a moment, don’t go leaping to conclusions based on past bosses,” Sean said, drawing himself up with dignity. “I don’t mean that kind of shipment. This is food, medical supplies, bibles, and enough pesos to rebuild an entire village. Which is what it’s needed for. The communists burnt down the last one.”
“Bibles?” both hulking specimens asked, and their heads tipped. Sean laughed at their identical reactions.
“Yes, you ignorant duffs, ordinary Christian bibles you find in motel rooms and don’t think twice about. There are many people who desperately want bibles and can’t get them. Sometimes for lack of funds, sometimes for lack of supply, often because it’s outlawed.” Sean lost his laughter. “Listen, this isn’t easy, and it certainly isn’t safe. There are at least two different militant gangs who know about this shipment, and are watching to sweep in and steal the goods and kill my delivery boys. If you say yes, you are basically turning smugglers, with the bad guys ready to take you down, and are going to be lost to all outside help for months (maybe even a full year, if you stick around to make sure that village is rebuilt). You’ll be in strange territory with no one to rely on but each other and the God Who sees all. But you’re needed. There were eighty-three people in that village the guerillas burned down because they hated the small church thriving in its midst. Villagers from newborns to elderly, and the gambit in between. They’re out there trying to hide in the jungles and survive on what they can find, and praying every moment for a miracle. I have the miracle. But I need the angels to deliver it.”
“‘Angels?’ I’ve been called worse,” Jones’ chuckled. His blue eyes shifted and met Methuselah’s black, hard ones. The grackles yelled and fought over the last few crumbs as the two just stood there, weighing each other, and this strange new life flung at them. A grin, tight and wolfish, spread over Arnulf Jones. His eyes flicked back to Sean. “I’m in.”
“Yes,” Methuselah rumbled, and three grackles took flight at the enthusiasm of his volume. “When?” Sean reached into his pocket and pulled out two manilla envelopes. He held one out to each man.
“Plane tickets, maps, detailed instructions, and a very small installment of your pay.” Methuselah peeked in the envelope, and his eyebrows went up. That was a large stack of cash. “Your flight leaves in six hours That should give you enough time to gather what you might want. I had my boss make sure any supplies you actually need for the venture (including weapons, of a very good grade I’m told) are waiting at the airport when you land, with your stack of deliveries.” Another grin crossed the Irishman’s face. “And I chose this meeting place for another reason too. We’re only a few streets away from the Stockyards. I figure that also gives you enough time to see a real cowboy.”