The Fallen (Angelic Redemption) (3 page)

The first sign of life was a broken motel with a
name that loosely translated into home. Pulling into the parking lot, he left
the car to idle while his always vigilant mind surveyed the surroundings. His
eyes paused on the motel sign which lay upside down after years of harsh
weather, neglect, and target practice. Even with the overwhelming misery of
this place, Joaquin sensed no threat here, at least not to him. Turning off the
car, he enjoyed the silence for a few minutes.

Itching at his chin, Joaquin felt relief at
discovering new facial growth. He was still human and his body could still
change. A momentary reassurance after a wild day of agitation, Joaquin embraced
it as he left his car.

The motel’s front office was accessible through
an open frame with the door leaning against a nearby wall. Joaquin stepped
through to find a couch with no legs and a bullet-ridden counter. Behind the
counter though, two young people were in love.

They smiled at one another, never taking notice
of Joaquin. Staring into each other’s eyes, they whispered sweet promises so
easily made in youth. Once the young man broke his gaze from the pretty
senorita before him and noticed Joaquin, all his youthful hope was swallowed by
fear.

The young couple stared at their customer with a dread
common for those who had dealt with the cartel. Whatever their suspicions,
Joaquin wished he might do something to assuage their terror. Yet he was not a
charming man and nothing existed beneath the darkness in his eyes. He just
wanted a room and small talk felt pointless.

“Do you have a vacancy?” he said in Spanish.

The man considered his answer carefully, finally
nodding.

“I would like a room then.”

“They are not nice rooms,” the woman offered.

Joaquin revealed a tiny grin on his otherwise
stern face. “I should think not. Just a room with a bed will be fine.”

The man nodded and fumbled through a box of keys
to find a suitable room for the stranger. Joaquin placed a few hundred dollars
before the woman who glanced down at the money then back at him.

“Here, this is a good room. Clean and the bed is
pretty good,” the young man said.

Joaquin took the key and hurried away, only
wishing to hide and submerge himself in despair. Even in his foul mood though,
he could not help smiling at what awaited him in his room. Brown carpet, peeling
red wallpaper, and a lumpy bed, the horrid little room felt fitting.

Standing in front of the cracked mirror, Joaquin
studied his reflection. He was just a man, for nothing particularly special
cried out about the face staring back at him. Dark rugged features and a thick
head of chocolate brown hair, Joaquin was handsome, but he was looking for something
more than superficial qualities.

“I’m just a man,” he whispered. “Not a ghost, not
a monster, just a man of flesh and blood.”

His voice provided him comfort, but the words did
not, for he knew the truth. After today, Joaquin knew he was something else and
this realization brought him only despair.

Sitting on the bed, a gun cradled in his large
hands, Joaquin burned with the unbearable desire for answers.

Was this all there was for him? Many people had
many qualities, many uses in life. Then there were those who possessed no
qualities or uses. He was neither. He had just the one quality, just the one
use. He could kill and he could kill well. There had to be more.

He was not an animal, for he took no pleasure from
his gift. A talent he stumbled upon while in a fit of vengeance as a young man
in Columbia. While he was no longer a young man, he was not old either. Instead,
he was nearing that point in life when people asked themselves many questions.

Joaquin asked only one as he sulked in the foul
motel room, while an array of odors left behind from too many horrors filled
his senses. It was a simple question, but he wanted the answer to come from
God.

If he had no other use, then was it time for him
to turn his gift on himself?

No one would miss him - this he knew, but did not
mind. Joaquin did not sit in the sweltering room in the middle of nowhere,
wishing he might have a family or friends. He did not hold the gun in his hands
and ache for a soul mate. He just wanted to know what had made him this way. If
God created him, then maybe Joaquin had some other use besides killing? If the
devil was his maker, then maybe it really was time for him to end his life?

No one else could, this was obvious now.

His last assignment went wrong just minutes after
entering the compound. Joaquin should have been dead this evening and his body
disposed of in a most unflattering manner by the men he was sent to kill. Yet
not one bullet - and there were so many bullets - had even grazed him in the
blistering firefight. Joaquin realized he was invincible and this realization
had brought him to this lost place and his question for God.

“I’m real,” Joaquin said, his voice startling him
even as its authority gave him solace. “I exist. I must have a purpose beyond
this emptiness.”

His outburst settled his nerves some, but not
enough.

“I’m alive. I don’t deserve to be, but I am,” he
said more weakly, falling into a whisper.

Outside in the world, men whispered about him in
all of the dark locales where evil men whispered about assassins. They called
him the Reaper, but Joaquin was not impressed by his own legend. It had been
created too easily and thus had no worth. Nothing had worth to Joaquin, for he
was an empty vessel. Unbreakable, but empty still.

The failing sun granted a peculiar light to the
desolate land and to this miserable motel. Eyeing the gun in his hand, Joaquin
wished he might call it his favorite, but he had no favorites. An empty vessel
cares for nothing, longs for nothing, not even a fish taco or cold beer.

Around him the room shifted, the light creating
shadows and donning illumination into dark corners. Even in moments like these
in a place so awful, Joaquin knew God existed. The devil might be Joaquin’s
master, but God still possessed power over it all.

Setting the gun aside, he knelt on the dirty floor
and slapped his hands together loudly, welcoming the noise. Closing his eyes,
he pondered his words.

“Lord, do I have any purpose beyond what has come
before? Can I be redeemed or am I no more than the evil I commit? Please show
me the answer or else I will stop myself the only way I know how.”

Joaquin kept his eyes closed another minute,
waiting for a sign. Once sitting back on the bed, he wiped sweat from his dark
brow with one hand and retrieved the gun with his other.

A small sign, something mundane even.

Maybe the long dead air conditioner might expel a
puff of cold air? Joaquin stared at the unit affixed to the wall, willing it to
burst to life. Salty sweat dripping into his eyes was the only response.

Joaquin pondered how long to wait for his answer.
Deciding no entity powerful enough to create the universe should need this much
time, he eyed his pistol again.

“I can’t say I blame you for rejecting me, Lord.”

Joaquin wasn’t afraid to die, even if he felt he
should be. He should feel a lot more than he did holding the gun, but this was
the point. He didn’t feel or need anything. Well he had needed an answer from
God, but the Big Guy wasn’t taking his calls.

The gun felt cool against his chin, colder than
anything else in the room. His finger ached to press the trigger, but something
told him he might want to wait, maybe just to consider the gravity of the
moment. Joaquin was finished waiting though.

An explosion startled him. For the slightest second,
he wondered if he had somehow missed. The gun rested in his hand, unused. Yet
another blast rang out. Slipping the weapon into his waistband, Joaquin
sprinted to the window. Peering from behind the curtain, he immediately
identified the cause of the ruckus.

An expensive car - the kind men with something to
prove liked to drive - lurched towards the motel, finally groaning to a halt
twenty yards away. Smoke billowed from the engine and Joaquin noticed more than
a few bullet holes along the passenger side of the car. Easing his hand back toward
the gun, he waited for the driver to emerge.

A pretty blonde fell out of the driver’s side
before finding her feet. Standing in a panic, she threw her head in every
direction, scanning for danger with her arms perched widely, ready for a fight.
Her attention soon turned to the motel.

Whatever she feared was now approaching and she
took off running away from the smoking car. Pausing in the open distance
between the motel and a nearby burned out auto shop, the woman wiped her hands
on her dirty Texas A & M shirt then made her decision.

Instead of choosing the motel, the woman dashed
towards a large dumpster. Tossing open the lid, she hurled herself inside. A
wisp of blonde hair was the last sign of her as she yanked down the lid, just a
minute before two cars sped towards the motel.

Joaquin studied the eight newcomers - well dressed
Mexicans carrying a lot of firepower – as they exited their cars and spread out
around the motel. Joaquin wasn’t really interested why the cartel was chasing
this woman or how she had managed to bring such trouble down on herself.

His mind was on God.

“Is this my sign?” he asked, eyeing the ceiling.

Uncertainty clouded his mind even as he heard the
armed men making the rounds of the motel, banging on doors and kicking them
open when the guests chose not to answer. The men would come to his room soon,
but Joaquin could not fathom if this was the Lord’s answer.

When a woman screamed, Joaquin thought the
American might have been discovered. Gazing outside, he found the dumpster
untouched. Yet it was only a matter of time before one of the motel patrons
snitched. Moving away from the window, Joaquin considered his options and
realized he had none.

When a man thumped on the door, Joaquin answered
and stared at him.

“Do you want something?” Joaquin asked.

“We’re looking for an American woman. Is she in
your room?”

Joaquin did not respond immediately, instead gazing
grimly at the man.

“There is no one in my room but me.”

“Can I look?”

Joaquin again hesitated, forcing the man to stew.
He finally nodded his approval.

“What did this woman do?” Joaquin asked as the man
rushed around the room, barely looking before hurrying back to the door.

“I don’t know,” he said, avoiding Joaquin’s gaze.

Nearby another woman screamed and a gun fired.
Joaquin studied the noises then returned his gaze to the anxious killer before
him.

“All this for one woman?” Joaquin asked with a
slight grin.

The man shrugged, finding no humor in the comment
or situation.

“I do what I’m told,” he muttered.

Glancing upward, Joaquin nodded. “I know the feeling.”

Joaquin’s right hand retrieved the gun from his
waistband and fired before the man finished his breath.

For just a moment, nothing seemed to stir outside
the room, even as Joaquin was on the move inside. As his muscular frame glided
from the motel room door, Joaquin fired upon two approaching men.

Striding towards the front of the motel where
other men waited, Joaquin took this opportunity to glance at the dumpster. At
that moment, the woman appeared and took off running into the harsh landscape.
He cocked an eyebrow at this development, but never paused.

Two men began firing before Joaquin finished
turning the corner, but the bullets only chipped away at the decaying motel
walls. He found himself lingering as they fired, pausing to see if he might
finally feel the searing pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh. The wait
might have been eternal, but his patience wore out. Joaquin fired in quick
succession, each shot hitting its target.

On the move again, Joaquin retrieved a second gun
from a holster inside his shirt and fired in two directions. He hit one man
fleeing, the other blazing a weapon. Both men collapsed, but this only brought
the total to seven.

The panicked cries in Spanish increased as he
turned the last corner and peered into the front office. The young woman
cradled what was left of her lover. Noticing Joaquin approaching, her cries
stuttered as she processed his identity. He paid her little attention for one
target remained and this one knew he was coming.

The man’s first shot missed badly, but the second
one should have killed Joaquin. Firing once into the now fleeing killer,
Joaquin noticed the man’s weapon and phone sail across the floor. The second
object worried him.

More men were coming, likely a number much higher
than eight. If this was any other job, Joaquin wouldn’t waste time fleeing. He
would arm up and slay all takers, but his task today wasn’t about killing. It
was about the woman, still running, now just a speck in the horizon.

Joaquin retrieved his belongings from the motel
room then hurried to his car. In the distance, puffs of dirt spewed into the
air.