8 He Has to Die

"What was all that about?" Blithe pocketed his phone and looked at his son with a raised eyebrow.

Nathan jumped. "I . . . have no idea."

Blithe took in his son's dazed expression.

"Nathan," he said, "You were completely oblivious to my approach. If I'd been sent to kill you, you'd be dead by now."

He approached Nathan and placed his arm on his son's shoulder.

Nathan bit his lip until blood ran. "It won't happen again. Thank you, Father."

Blithe sighed. Those eyes—they reminded him of his younger days. His eyes had looked like that once. Full of determination and pride, full of resolve to reach the pinnacle of the craft. So eager. So naïve. Regretfully, there was no way around it.

". . . are you listening to me, old man? What, are you sleeping already? Is it too late for you?"

Nathan's stream of taunts jerked Blithe out of his reverie. Oh, their next training session would be intense.

"No, son," he grinned. "Just contemplating the meaning of life, something that you know jack shit about right now. So stop talking back to me and let's go eat. I found a neat little restaurant that shouldn't be that packed, even at this time of the day." Nathan folded his arms, exasperated. Blithe's grin widened.

***

"Will you finally tell me what all that was about?" Blithe asked, pushing his empty bread plate to the side.

"Well. . . the guy that looked like an overused toothpick was actually my classmate. His name is Roy, Roy Moore. Yeah, that Moore."

Blithe's mouth grew taut.

"It's not like we're friends or anything," Nathan said quickly. "He's actually a complete moron, just like his father."

Blithe's fist met the table. Nathan recognized his father's expression and fell silent. You can't know anything about my work, Blithe's expression said. But as Nathan watched, Blithe's irritation grew into anger and faded to sorrow.

"I. . . I'm sorry if I made you angry," Nathan faltered. "I. . ."

"It's all right, son. I'm an old man. My emotions are a little screwed up. Just ignore me." Blithe forced a chuckle.

"Okay, Father."

Nathan and Blithe finished their food in a glum silence. The mood persisted into their walk afterwards, though they tried to make conversation again. At times, Blithe made cheerful small talk. But often enough, a tinge of sadness belied his words.

Eventually, the pair wandered into a city garden near the river that flowed through the capital. Blithe abandoned his attempts at conversation there, letting the serene sound of water wash over him. They stood still and listened, soothed.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," Blithe said at last. "I'm sorry that I dragged you into this madness. You deserve to live the life of an innocent child, not that of a killer. I never wanted that for you. All I wanted was to prepare you for the atrocities to come. But this evening, I looked at you and saw myself."

Blithe turned to face his son. "Like you, I wanted to achieve everything. To conquer the world. But when I realized how unrealistic that was, I went for the next-best thing—to be the best at what I did. And I dare say I've managed to do that. But at what cost? What cost to you?"

Nathan swallowed the lump in his throat. He opened his mouth to reassure his father, to say he'd had a happy childhood. But the words wouldn't come. What had the cost been? What if his father had worked a regular job, and he'd spent his time having sleepovers with his friends?

"I'm so sorry, Nate. I might have been a bad father, but I sure as hell will prepare you well for life. Whatever you choose to do, I'll be there for you. Just please promise me one thing. No matter what happens, be happy. Be the kid you are, and enjoy life. Find friends. Enjoy the perks of being young and just. . . live your life to the fullest. Let me worry about the other stuff. Can you promise me that?"

Tears rolled down Nathan's cheeks. He had wanted to be a normal kid. He'd wanted that all along. He just hadn't realized it until now.

"I promise, Dad."

He might have said more if he hadn't been caught up in a bear hug.

***

(Earlier that night.)

"Any news?" asked the tattooed man behind the desk. He was almost lost in the sea of paper in front of him.

"Nothing yet. As I've said, I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out. I'm sure this isn't why you've called me here," said the man on the couch nearby. His tone was calm, even patronizing. He took a sip of whisky.

"Of course not. I just wanted to sort out some things regarding my future campaign. I know that we still have a lot of time, but extensive preparations never hurt anyone."

"Speaking of your campaign, Daeril, how are you progressing?" The man took another sip of his whisky.

By way of an answer, Daeril moved to the couch, handing his guest a stack of documents.

"All the details are there. Just go through them."

The man took the documents in his hands and started studying them.

"What do you think about Blithe?" Daeril asked after a while.

"He's good at what he does and you two hate each other. Apart from that, I don't know much about him. Why do you ask?" The man replied, without looking away from the documents.

"Well, he was here just the other day," Daeril said, "and, well, I must admit that things got a little heated. I assigned his newest target and made a little joke about his son. If you ever want to provoke that man, talk about his son. Ha. That buffoon would actually have killed me. I must admit we're lucky that he has a son. We'd be in real trouble otherwise."

"Newest target?" the man reading the documents finally looked up at Daeril.

"Yes. That idiot Moore. He's had enough fun. It's about time he ended his journey. Who does he think he's messing with, huh? I am the director of Occidendum!"

Daeril stood up, his figure imposing. It hardly mattered that he had spilled whisky all over the table.

"That you are," said the man on the couch. "I bet even the heavens shake when they hear your name."

Daeril raised an eyebrow at the man's dramatic arm movements.

"That's enough theatrics for today, Rafael. I'm in no mood for business anymore, so fuck off. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Just one more thing." Rafael spoke as he slowly stood up.

"What?" Daeril snapped at him as he poured himself another glass of whisky. His eighth, if he had been keeping count.

"Is it really necessary?"

"Is what necessary?" Daeril emptied his glass, smashing it against the table.

"Killing that buffoon. It will just cause unnecessary commotion. Wouldn't it be wiser to sabotage the referendum?" Rafael inquired as he slowly walked toward the door.

"It's a message, my dear Rafael. A message. Don't fuck with me. I'm not killing him because I have to but because I want to. Now piss off. I'm tired of your stupid questions."

"I'll be on my way, then."

Rafael left, his expression gloomy. Once he had cleared the gates, he took out his phone and dialed.

"Blithe, there's no way around it," he said. "I've seen the plans. You'll have to do it. It's too early."