Tales of the Fallen Book I: Awakenings Read Free Page A

more on this job. After all, it was his last. And after all these years, the brass ring was in sight. Time to grab it and get off the ride.
    Mal tried to simplify things, break it down to the bare bones. Jericho White lived in one building, worked in another. He ate at restaurants and shopped in stores, of course they were all topnotch places, but still… Jericho White was just a man when you broke it down. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Something deep down in his gut gnawed at Mal, telling him that this was different. But for some reason he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
    Mal had gone after many men. All were the same. You find their weakness, expose it, and take advantage of their vulnerability. In Mal’s wake you could have followed the trail of dead bodyguards that led from the lobby to the seventieth floor of one of Japan’s highest-security buildings. At the end of the body trail you’d find Sado Hiroki, head general of the Japanese Yakuza, strung up by his ankles above his desk, a pool of blood collecting on his leather blotter, his skin—expertly flayed by one of his prized Samurai swords—situated in his $5000 chair, clothed in his $10,000, hand-tailored suit looking like nothing more than a deflated blow-up doll.
    Follow Mal’s path again, this time deep into the heart of the South American rainforest and you’d find an entire village of guerilla soldiers sitting motionless, side-by-side, forming a perfect circle around a campfire—a little odd at first glance. But as you moved closer, you’d sense that something was more than just a little odd here. Approach further and find a helium-filled balloon pinned to the collar of every headless neck, and a goofy face magic-markered onto the smooth rubber. And as you look down, you see each man’s head positioned between their own legs, neck in the dirt crawling with ants, lids pinned open, eyes reflecting the fire as their cocks—expertly separated from their bodies—turned to ash inside the dancing flames.
    Mal was a master assassin. A man with the God-given skills to cause murder and mayhem wherever he was told to go and sometimes even when he wasn’t told to. The skills had always been there, but it took some work to bring them out after they had been buried beneath years of general malaise and apathy followed by a substantial stint of substance abuse.
     
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    “You want me to do what ?” Mal said incredulously.
    “You are to go into the school. Find room 315. Enter. Then dispense with the teacher. A Mrs. Sally Burnsfield.” Desmond looked down at Mal, his green eyes showing no emotion.
    Mal stared out from their hiding place next to the utility building on the edge of school grounds.
    “Why?” he asked shaking his head, not comprehending the order.
    Crack!
    Mal flew backwards, back smashing hard into brick. The hand struck his face like a bolt of lightning; it hit hard and fast…and it burned. Mal collapsed into a heap next to the building, resting his burning cheek on the cool autumn grass.
    “Jesus-fucking-Christ, Desi.”
    In one swift motion, Desmond reached down, grabbed Mal by his ankle and lifted him up. Mal dangled limp from the giant’s grip. Desmond continued to stare at the school—no sweat, no emotion—a cold, solid statue of a man. Mal tried to get his bearings.
    “What have I told you, Mr. Branch, about taking the Lord’s name in vain?”
    “Don’t?”
    “And what have I said about calling me Desi?”
    “You’re not too fond of it.”
    “Then why do you persist in pushing my ire, Mr. Branch?” Desmond asked. Then he dropped Mal on his head.
    Mal scrambled upright and pushed his back up against the wall and sat there shaking the stars from his eyes. “It’s what I do, man. I’m a smart ass. It’s my shtick. Lighten up.”
    “It is not my duty to lighten up, Mr. Branch. It is my duty to make sure you are trained properly. It is my duty to give you assignments and it is my duty to make sure