Act I
Agent Daniel Warlock was a blood-stained mess. His face and scalp were caked in shades of dried brown blood and fresh, still seeping, crimson. Beneath his torn clothes peeked bruises and cuts on his arms and legs; his hands were raw at the knuckles – a vibrant example of “you should see the other guy, or guys.” However, Warlock, sitting in a neat, orderly, well-manicured 16th floor office of the Intel Central HQ was a stark contrast to his battered appearance.
“Once again, you just couldn’t follow orders could you, Warlock?” Intelligence Central Senior Officer (ICSO) Edward Mathias’ eyes locked on the wrecked man sitting across from him.
“I can explain, sir…” Daniel began as he wiped his face with his shredded sleeve.
“No! You let me explain! You were ordered to simply follow Viper and report on his movements. That order made sense because, oh let me think; he has a small army of about 20 or so henchmen covering his ass and we would need an assault team to take him!” Mathias’ brown forehead glistened. As he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the forming beads of sweat, he raised his left hand with a stiffly pointed finger to keep his best agent quiet. He pushed the handkerchief through his thinning, tightly curled grey hair and continued. “Dan, you are our best agent. You have pulled this country’s ass out of the fire a dozen times, but your recklessness is costing lives and this department millions, and one day, your bull-in-a-China-shop approach is going to blow up in all our faces! Until further notice, you are suspended. It is with pay, so don’t push your luck.”
Daniel stood up, his legs wobbly. “Sir, Viper is planning to crash our information networks; if he’s successful, the entire eastern seaboard crimefighting network will collapse. Files of fingerprints, DNA, and video evidence will be corrupted. How can you ask me to walk away from this mission? I know I can be reckless, but as you said, my style gets the job done.”
“Not this time Warlock, and don’t think we are not aware of what is going on here. The only reason you didn’t bring Viper down in your take no prisoners raid is because of his insurance.”
“His insurance?” Warlock’s face feigned surprise.
“He has Cassia as a hostage keeping you at bay. Yes, we know everything about your screw up and not too well-kept feelings for her means you are compromised; now, we must figure out how to get her out, alive. Altogether, another reason for you to take your butt home.”
“Yes, sir.” Warlock’s consent sounded earnest, though Mathias suspected it was not.
“This time, we got your back, Warlock. Now, get to the infirmary, and then take your ass home.” Orders given, the ICSO stood and nodded toward the door. Warlock knew that there was nothing more to say.
Act II
“Hey, new guy, put down that damn book; you’re paid to lookout, not to read. Sides, we got new orders. Viper says we gotta stay on duty for the rest of the night. He’s got some kind of precious cargo, and he’s expecting company to come and get it, if you get my drift.” Dex, the crew boss, approached. A short, thick squat of a man, the fading light made the scars on his face more severe. Henchman 13 turned all his 6’ 5” frame to face him. He closed the book and dropped it in a cubby shelf in the adobe fence.
“I can lookout and study at the same time. I heard you coming, and sorry, I can’t stay. I got a test in the morning,” Henchman 13 firmly stated.
“What kinda test you talking about? Like high school? Man, how old are you?”
“Thirty-one, and it’s a college test. Don’t want to be no bodyguard for the rest of my life.”
“Is that how you see this gig?” Dex began. “You must be blind, man. Look around you. Hell, I make six figures a year, tax-free.”
Henchman 13 looked around the grounds. Viper’s Spanish villa-styled compound was “wedding ready clean.” Topiary shaped like animals and insects dotted the landscape along the curling driveway. Off in the distance, Henchman 13 could see the stucco and adobe mansion with sweeping arches, wrought iron fences, and floor to ceiling windows. The man has money — lots of it.
With that, Henchman 13 smiled. “It’s nice, but a lot of that is dirty money from what I hear, so what you gone do if someday Viper goes down?”
“Goes down? The man has lawyers up the wazoo, and he has us to protect him. I got his back and he’s got mine. I’ll go down with him, but again, that ain’t gonna happen any time soon,” Dex firmly stated.
“Then, why you trying to get me to stay overnight?” Henchman 13 asked.
Dex took a deep breath. “How much did you used to make a night as a bouncer in the City? Here’s triple.” He took out a wad of $100 bills and peeled off six of them and stuffed them in Henchman 13’s shirt pocket.
Henchman 13 said nothing.
Dex smiled. “You know this is easier. Just look tough, keep people off Viper’s back, and rake in the money. Why even go back to school?” In the long quiet that followed, they both did their job and looked around for “company.” After a 360o spin, Henchman 13 spoke.
“You ever follow college basketball?” he asked.
“Only March Madness. Couldn’t put a winning bracket together to save my life,” Dex offered.
Henchman 13 continued. “A few years back, college basketball was my life. I was one of the point guards for Rider University. During my freshman year, the team got some attention cause of me. I was a college freshman starting right out of high school. I knew I was on my way to the NBA, or, at worse, the D league or European leagues. Either way, I would get to play basketball for money. Lots of money, money I could do things with, like take care of my folks. At the time, my dad had diabetes and kidney issues, and my mom was carrying the family. I was playing basketball, but I knew I was gonna make it to the pros and take over caring for my family.”
“Yeah, you and every other son-uv-a-bitch that’s touched a basketball in college,” Dex snorted.
“Hey, man, I broke freshman scoring, steals, and minutes records. I was just about to get an agent on the side.”
“So, what? You didn’t get drafted.”
“I didn’t even make it to the second season. We had a preseason scrimmage at Princeton, just down the street from us. Got there early, box dinners from some place called Olives; good stuff, and I was feeling pretty good. I like Princeton. Well, I liked Princeton, but it’s the play my career ended. I tore my knee up in the second quarter for a damned scrimmage.”
“Don’t tell me; they couldn’t fix you up.”
“They could and kinda did, but while I rehabbed, something I was keeping hidden came out. The school found out that I couldn’t read or write; functionally illiterate, they called it, me.”
“How’d you get into college?”
“By being good at basketball, cheating, and I was getting help; I always got help. Even at Rider I had tutors. I didn’t even know what it meant to be illiterate. Everything was over my head because I couldn’t read or write. I started failing classes. I just couldn’t make up for all that lost time.”
“And that was it? So, you gave up on making it to the pros.”
“I needed more surgeries, but once I started failing classes and I wasn’t playing, I had nothing going for me. I had nothin’.”
“Ugh,” Dex grunted. “So, why you going back to school? You can’t ball anymore, you got a good job here, why the hell bother yourself with school and studying?”
Silence. Henchman 13 wasn’t expecting to be confessing. Yet, over time he had learned that people need to share and once started, it was difficult to stop. Plus, he was leaving the organization after passing the test. Telling Dex this would make it easier to leave tomorrow.
Henchman 13 continued, “You ever been embarrassed, Dex? I mean really embarrassed.” Dex said nothing. So, he resumed. “A year into my college career, I find out I was illiterate, could barely read, could barely write. I knew I couldn’t read or write that good, but I thought it wouldn’t matter once I made the pros. Still, I always thought I would have time to get it together. I could take some of my money, hire a tutor, close the gap.”
“I was happy justa get out of high school,” Dex offered.
“Well, I had 12-plus years of school, and all I got to show for it was the look on my momma’s face when she learned that I couldn’t read or write, and there was no way to make money other than using my body to intimidate people. My father died, so he didn’t know about it, but my mother, while she said she understood, I recognized the shame in her eyes.
“After I dropped out of Rider, I lived in Princeton for a while, I worked at a grocery store called McCaffrey’s, the Princeton Public Library, any place that needed a big, strong body. Eventually, I starting bouncing at Club Nouveau in the city, and that’s when I ran into you. Well, I’m done. Tonight’s gonna be my last with this organization.” Henchman 13 took the money Dex had placed in his shirt pocket and stuffed it in Dex’s jacket pocket. “You keep the money. Not making the pros hurt me, but being illiterate hurt my mother, and I want to see her eyes light up when I cross that stage in a couple of weeks with my associate’s degree, then, one day, a bachelor’s degree. Seeing me get those degrees just might replace the hurt of my early failures, so I got to take this test in the …”
Before he could complete the statement, what sounded like firecrackers in the distance interrupted him. Henchman 13 and Dex ran toward the sounds.
Epilogue: Two Days Later
ICSO Edward Mathias, Post Mission Log, June 26, 2025:
“I recommend Agent Dan Warlock for special commendation. While his methods are impulsive and relentlessly violent, he has brought an end to Viper’s, aka Vincent Issac Petrulus’, unlawful empire. Viper’s plan to destroy our information network was thwarted, and his control of the east coast drug trade is no more. His money laundering operations are collapsing, and his political cronies are being arrested as I record this log entry. On a personal note, he saved Agent Cassia Armas; although, she stated during her debriefing, she had freed herself before he interfered. She and agent Warlock are on a well-deserved vacation. Given Agent Daniel Warlock’s commitment to justice, Viper is dead, as is his lover, Shayla Kaporov, as well as all of his 22 henchmen. Their deaths are of no consequence. Close log entry.
John Kizzie is a guitarist with a studio called the Guitar Lesson Spot in downtown Princeton. He has also taught English and guitar classes at the University of St. Elizabeth in Morristown. He has previously published short stories in U.S 1 and is currently working on his third recording project and first novel. His wife, Amy, is a prolific creative artist making jewelry and other artistic home decor pieces.
