I
Jack Markkenan walked into That Bar on the Corner with cold, gray eyes and a demonic scowl plastered to his face. He barely glanced left when he walked past the new barman that replaced Jimmy Haskell–who’d owned the bar for twenty-odd years before his back injury that forced him to semi-retire–and gave him a grim nod. The new barman felt a visceral chill claw its way up his spine and grabbed the phone under the counter, dialed then waited a moment before saying in a low whisper, “cold blood”.
The new barman nodded and Jack went on without a word toward the door on the far right, in back of the bar. He cracked his neck, hunched his shoulders and let them fall and sweat began to charge down his temples like soldiers to war. His heartbeat began to increase in speed, his breathing became laborious and his scowl more demonic. Hurry the hell up, will ya? Jack thought I ain’t got all night. Finally, the door opened and Jack sped in like criminals avoiding police cameras. Down the metal stairs and past the cages they kept the women and children too young to walk the streets and make cash, the smell of must, shit, and piss barely fazed Jack when he came upon a dark gray metal door that had to be twisted open like a vault.
He grabbed the handle and twisted counterclockwise with relative ease and yanked open the door then walked inside, slamming it behind him. The room was pitch black, Jack felt along the wall for the switch then flicked it and the room lit up. A single beat up and rusted brown table sat in the middle with a light bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull chain phenol socket that no longer worked and a chair on either side. Jack walked to the table and pulled up a chair then sat down–the sweat pouring from his temple in full force.
What the hell is happening to me? Jack thought I feel like a fucking furnace. The thick, gray metal door opened again and Jack looked behind him, a person accompanied by a large guard was brought in with a potato sack over his head and plopped down in the chair none too gently–the scowl on Jack’s face made his lips look like they were going to fold in on themselves when the guard removed the sack and revealed that gorgeous face. The face that suckered him. He had gray eyes like Jack except his were radiant and filled with life while Jack’s were cold and steely.
His black, straight hair flowed down to shoulder length with no signs of dandruff and he had the most relaxed look. His thick brows and deep-set eyes–along with full lips and perfect jawline–gave him that model look everyone found so attractive. Jack stared into his eyes with a furious gaze that could melt steel but all he saw in Pretty Face’s eyes was serenity, a reflection of himself he could easily get lost in like on that night in the penthouse when they took the substance together, a sense of enlightenment and transcendentalism–not that Jack believed any of that–that frightened him when he looked for too long so he ripped his gaze away from Pretty Face’s.
“Too beautiful for you?” Pretty Face asked, “I know, sometimes I frighten myself.”
“Shut up,” Jack breathed heavily, “you know why I’m here.”
“So it isn’t to take me to dinner?” Pretty Face asked, “and here I thought we had something.”
Jack said nothing–preoccupied with steadying his breathing and restoring his heartbeat to a normal rhythm.
“You can’t control it, Jackie boy,” Pretty ace smirked, “you let it take you for a ride you won’t soon forget.”
“Shut up and answer the question!” Jack said. “Just what the hell did you do to me?!”
“I,” Pretty Face said calmly, “did nothing. The substance, on the other hand,” he paused, “is making you human.”
“What?” Jack said when his internal body temperature spike and sweat started drenching his brow, “who the hell would want to be human?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Pretty Face said, “how many Coldbloods actually enjoy this substance,” he paused, “how many get bored of having an internal body temperature of negative forty degrees, never being able to copulate unless it’s with another Coldblood or someone with a fever of one-hundred-ten, never being able to experience emotion intensely enough to give a damn,”
Jack said nothing.
Pretty Face continued, “and most of all, how many despise the fact that life is meaningless. How it sucks the fun out of everything, how the only directive is survival at all costs and the proliferation of our race.” He smirked at Jack’s distressed expression, “you seem to be the only one who likes being a Coldblood.”
“I do,” Jack said, meeting Pretty Face’s serene gaze head-on, “it’s why I’m the best at what I do.”
“And what exactly is it that you do, Jackie boy?” Pretty Face asked, “You never told me.”
“You never asked,” Jack replied, “even if you did I still wouldn’t have told you.”
“Fair enough,” Pretty Face said, “I’ll tell you the antidote, on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Tell me your story,”
“Which story?” Jack said, “I have a shit-ton of them.”
“Tell me about your day on the substance,” Pretty Face said, “how did you feel? What did you do? Who’d you do it with–if you did it at all? Was your job any easier or more difficult than you ever dreamed? I want details, Jackie boy, it gets boring in this godforsaken place.”
Jack laughed a harsh, derisive laugh, “So I tell you a bedtime story and you give me the info for the antidote,” Jack breathed heavily, drenched in sweat, “that doesn’t sound like the Pretty Face I’ve heard about.”
“Well,” Pretty Face replied, “You don’t exactly look like the infamous Jack Markkenan I’ve heard so much about,” he continued, “the Gray-eyed Killer, the Silver Marksman, the Gray Ghost . . .”
“I like the Silver Marksman, personally,” Jack said when his body temperature started cooling down, “the most accurate nickname.”
“Ah, you have a sense of humor,” Pretty Face lips curled, “are you sure you want to be rid of it?”
Jack glared at him.
“Alright,” Pretty Face put his cuffed hands up in surrender, “I understand. Some people take pride in their race while others despise it–blaming it for their lack of fulfillment in life.” He sighed, “That look in your eyes clearly states which you are.”
“You think?” Jack said.
“Tell me your story, Jack Markkenan,” Pretty Face said, “or Silver Marksman if you prefer, and–if it’s good–I may tell you the antidote.”
Jack scoffed, “I doubt it’s suited to your sensibilities, pretty boy, but alright. I’ll tell you how my day went . . .”
II
Jack stood on the rooftop in the middle of a January blizzard with snow and hail cutting his face–looking out over Cobalt City, Chicago, the toughest place on the east coast–watching for the Skullgang that just robbed Cobalt Citizen’s Bank on Fifth street. The Skullgang were using white pickup trucks–Ford F-150’s, Escalade’s, Chevy Silverado’s–and wearing all white to camouflage with the snow. The streets were deserted and whatever cars did come by weren’t white but often red and blue, sometimes black.
The blizzard didn’t faze Jack at all; in fact, Jack loved the blizzards–which is why he chose Cobalt as his home when he first moved to the states. The way the frigid winds washed over his skin, the way the hail cuts with a sting most couldn’t endure, the electricity that ran through his nervous system whenever harsh conditions struck, and the focus. Definitely the focus. When it was warm outside, Jack was cool; when it was cool, Jack was cold, and when it was cold, Jack was ice cold.
The harsher the weather, the better Jack became at what he did, and what he did was catch criminals and bring them to justice. Ice cold Justice, Jack thought. Jack walked to the edge of the roof and dug through the snow revealing a long, black case and unzipped it. He took out his L115A3 sniper rifle, assembled it, loaded the .338 Lapua mag, adjusted the Schmit and Bender 5-25x56mm scope, and was ready to fire in less than thirty seconds. The L115A3 wasn’t just any old sniper rifle, it was one of the most accurate rifles in the world. There was something else about this rifle other than its accuracy, range, and effectiveness–it was all silver.
The rifle glistened in the night and reflected the moonlight with the words Silver Marksman printed in a darker shade on the side. Jack heard the engines of the pickups a mile off as they turned the corner from Eighth street and made their way down Byrd Boulevard. The truck sped through the snow as if they were on a California highway–going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. Jack took a closer look through the scope and saw they had chains on the wheels allowing for stability–even so, Jack thought, they oughta be more careful. Jack aimed the rifle and took a calculated shot without too much thinking and the bullet cut through one of the links which cause the pickup in front to make a rattling sound as it drove through the blizzard. Jack took three more shots and got the same result, he didn’t wanna kill anybody, just slow them down a bit.
Jack disassembled the rifle and put it back in his case, picked it up, and took it with him. He jumped from one rooftop to the next like a child on a trampoline, tracing the Skullgang’s route back to their hideout. They turned off Byrd Boulevard into Eleventh street onto Adams Avenue–a strip of mom-and-pop shops, fast food, and even faster bars and one-night stands. Jack ended up on the roof of Monty’s Pizzeria and watched them as they got out the car and went into Banton Chinese and picked up takeout they must’ve ordered. Quite the confident ones to spend money they just stole, Jack thought on take-out of all things. Jack began to reassemble his Silver Marksman then thought better of it and simply waited, they came out as if responding to his decision and got back in the trucks and drove off.
Jack looked over the rooftops and traced the best route to meet them at then glanced in the direction they were driving, he ran in the opposite direction and took a fire escape down then crossed the street and headed up to the next rooftop.
When Jack got to the roof he heard one of the trucks–the Escalade–turn the corner and saw a glimpse of it a couple blocks from where he was. He triangulated the angle he’d need to make a shot from sixteen-hundred yards–a shot even the most experienced marksman have trouble with. Jack smirked as the angle and trajectory came to life in his head and that cold electricity ran throughout his body, he ran and jumped three rooftops and found a good spot then assembled his rifle in less than a breath and took three shots in the space a thought enters and leaves the mind.
He listened as the shots rang through the blizzard and three faint clinks sounded, signaling direct hits. Jack heard the swerving in the distance but no crash and assumed the drivers were more skilled than anticipated. Figures the Skullgang would pick people who could actually drive, Jack thought. He ran and jumped three more rooftops which left him on Fifth Avenue. The pickups didn’t turn when they passed which meant they were probably headed to the warehouse district, Jack saw one of the truckers stick his hand out and give a signal and the others went separate ways without warning. They know, Jack thought and followed the truck going toward the warehouses.
***
It was a desultory trip. Jack had to jump five rooftops, take shortcuts through at least three alleys–helping someone who was getting mugged in the last one, and almost got made by the truck twice. Jack was tired. Jack was pissed. When he got to the warehouses, something had happened to him that never happened to a Coldblood: His body temperature rose. A Coldblood keeps an internal body temperature of negative forty degrees and can sustain even lower and harsher temperatures–they were often born in the deepest, coldest parts of the woods in the dead of winter and left out to frost.
So, when his body temp rose and he started sweating, he knew something was off. I’ll deal with it later, Jack thought and assembled his Silver Marksman and scoped the warehouse out. Through the scope, he could see men sitting around a poker table–the chips stacked on one guy’s corner while the rest lay bare. Must be a helluva player, Jack thought, to take everything but their shirts. Jack listened in the distance and heard the door open, another person had come into the room with a bag full of the green stuff and laid it on the table with no grace–the guy with all the chips smirked and nodded approvingly. Jack was sure he’d seen that guy before, the slick, black hair, the hard lines in his face, the deep-set blue eyes, the crooked nose…yeah, Jack had seen him before.
In fact, Jack knew exactly who he was. Cameron Frost aka Frosty, Jack thought, we meet at last. Sweat dripped from Jack’s brow and down his forehead along the bridge of his nose as he scoped the place out. Frost was in conversation with the guy that came with the money and nodding intently. I’d bet good money they’re talking about yours truly, Jack thought when he turned abruptly but a second too late. The last sound Jack heard was a crack upside his head before everything went black.
***
A heavy fist struck Jack’s jaw like a Mack truck bringing him back to reality. He came to tied to a chair in the same warehouse he was scoping out, Cameron Frost holding Jack’s Silver Marksman. The sight of this made Jack furious. Usually, he would get ice cold when he was made, calculate his odds of escape, size up the one in charge, and make conscious and deliberate moves to free himself from captivity. He’s been through this before, so he knows Cameron Frost’s type.
The guy who likes to look calm and serene but probably has a sadistic streak to him, the guy that doesn’t do the dirty work but likes to pull the strings–even on those above him, the guy who always likes to be the smartest and most cunning one in the room. Yeah, Jack had dealt with this type before and they were always easy to unhinge. All Jack had to do was appear more calm and serene than they did, which would usually be easy. Jack was in a hot rage, his blood began to boil and pressure began to rise, he started seeing red.
He tried to control it but the self-satisfied smirk on Frost’s face told him he was failing miserably. What the hell is happening to me? Jack thought. Coldbloods don’t get hot, damn it! Frost nodded over to the poker table and one of the goons got him a chair, he pulled it up and sat down–the back part facing jack–and leaned forward, setting Jack’s Silver Marksman beside him.
“Jack Markkenan,” Frost said, “the Silver Marksman, the Gray Ghost, the Gray-eyed Killer,” he paused, “you don’t seem that impressive.”
“Cameron Frost,” Jack tried to contain his unfamiliar rage, “we meet at last.”
“Oh, so you know of me?” He said. “I’m flattered,” he sighed and placed both hands under his chin, “So, what are we doing here, Jack?”
“I’m hunting down lowlives who can’t make their own money so they take it from others,”
Jack’s veins were protruding from his neck, “what about you?”
“About to kill the thorn in the Skullgang’s side,” Cameron said with a mocking grin.
“Is that so?” Jack asked, shaking his head and sweating profusely.
“You don’t look so hot, Jack,” Cameron mocked, “or is that the wrong choice of words?”
“Nothing that a bottle of nitrogen and an aspirin can’t handle,” Jack smirked.
“Your blood is hot, and you know it,” Cameron rose from the chair, his goon took it and the Silver Marksman while Cameron rolled up his sleeves, “either I caught you on a bad night or you’re not as cold-blooded as the rumors make you out to be.” He walked up to Jack and punched him in the face, “let us find out, shall we?”
***
Frost and his goons beat and tortured Jack for two hours without stopping–breaking eight of his ribs and three fingers, blackening his left eye, and cracked his skull to the point blood fell from his head down his temples and face. Cameron and his goons stopped to check their progress and Jack still looked as intimidating as he did from the start, he cracked his neck and spit out blood and three teeth unfazed–those steel gray eyes never leaving Cameron.
“Well, I’ll give you one thing, Jack,” Cameron received a towel from his goons and wiped his hands, “You’re at least as tough as rumors say.”
One of the goons handed Cameron a black flip phone and Cameron took it, signaling Jack to hold on while he takes the call–as if Jack had any choice. The rest of the goons waited there, looking at jack with wary eyes and wondering how anyone could endure the type of punishment they just laid down and not be fazed even a little bit.
Jack’s breathing had been laborious throughout the whole thing but he hid it well, his internal body temperature still rose which meant the substance he took with Pretty Face hadn’t worn off yet–Jack didn’t come to this conclusion until a little later–and that his temperature would continue to rise until either a, he died, or b, he found a way to cool his body down dramatically.
Sweat soaked through the blood and dripped into his eyes, Jack tried to blink the blood and sweat away to no avail; his vision got blurry and eventually, all he was seeing was red–literally and figuratively. Jack heard footsteps and assumed Frost had returned–confirming it when a fist struck his face and caused his jaw to snap to the right.
“That was a call from the boss, Jack, and I got some bad news for you,” Cameron said, “you’re gonna be sleeping with the sharks, permanently.” he continued, “Alright boys, get in any last punches you want, fuck him up but don’t kill him. We’ll let him drown in blood to let the sharks know it’s chow time.”
Cameron walked out of the room and the goons wasted no time going to town on Jack–breaking three more ribs and fingers, reopening clotted wounds, and blackening the other eye so Jack was completely blind. He passed out when that familiar Mack truck fist hit him upside the head and when his chair fell over they untied him and dragged him to the pickup, taking the Silver Marksman with them.
***
Jack had been unconscious for the whole ride, they stopped at pier eight–the place hardly anyone goes because its defunct–and lugged his body and sniper rifle out and threw both into the water then got back in the truck and drove off. Jack’s body sank for some time and he came to when he was on the verge of drowning. Jack embraced the cold water. He let it soak into his wounds. He saw his Silver Marksman sinking on his left and reached for it with broken fingers, the case cold in his hand. His internal body temperature began to drop dramatically and he gained the strength to snap his fingers back into place–the pain mixed with the rush of coldness an exhilaration Jack had long forgotten.
He held his breath as long as he could before deciding to swim out, his ribs screaming protest and his lungs pushing with a will of their own. When he reached the top, he took a couple deep breaths then plunged back down into the frigid water. He stayed there for another two minutes then rose again and swam to shore. When his bare hands touched the snowy ground he felt an invigoration he thought he would never feel again, he pulled himself up and just lay there–letting the blizzard consume and restore him. It was negative five degrees outside–nowhere near the coldness required for Jack but it’d have to do–and Jack was at least grateful for that.
His black, long sleeve shirt and black jeans clung to him like a second skin, his military boots were soaking wet and his feet felt like they’d been frozen in Antarctica–the best feeling. Jack heard footsteps in the distance, the sound of crunching snow a blessing to his ears. Jack wasn’t fazed because he already knew who it was, how could he not? That harmonic two-step rhythm of the person walking had saved his ass dozens of times. She looked down at Jack with an annoyed but pleased look on her face.
“For a Coldblood,” she said, “you sure act like you’re hot shit.”
“Love you too, Marge,” Jack sat up then rose, shaking the snow off.
“What the hell happened Jack?” Marge asked, “You had Frost right where you wanted him.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said, “but I’m going to find out.”
Marge looked at him, confused, “What are you talking about?”
“My body temp shot up while I was working,” Jack said, “If I had to guess I’d say it went as high and ninety degrees.”
“What?” she looked at him incredulously, “You’re a Coldblood, your temp doesn’t rise.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jack said, “it must’ve been that substance Pretty Face gave me.”
Marge looked at him disapprovingly.
“I’d been having headaches and Pretty Face can get substances for that, at a good price.” Jack said, “Didn’t think he’d give me something that’d mess with my genetic makeup.” He continued, “I was wrong, and now he’s gonna pay.”
Jack asked Marge, “where’d you park?”
She walked away and Jack followed her. When they got to the car, Jack cleaned his wounds, put on a light fleece jacket and walked off, leaving the Silver Marksman with Marge.
“Take care of her for me, will ya?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Marge closed the trunk, got into the car and drove off.
Jack walked all the way to That Bar on the Corner.
III
“And here I am,” Jack said, “in the basement of a brothel fronting as a bar talking to a guy that looks like a girl and has sex with other guys to blackmail them into doing what he wants.” Jack added, “I bet those cuffs were chosen by you, weren’t they?”
Pretty Face smirked, “We all have to make our way, Jackie boy,” he started, “you have your combat skills and I have my looks.” He continued, “And since you’ve been a good sport, I’ll tell you the antidote.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, “I’m all ears.”
“There is no antidote,” Pretty Face said, “the substance I gave you is a placebo, nothing more. The reason you heated up was that someone switched out one of my veils. I don’t know what they intended but all they seemed to accomplish is pissing you off and wasting my time.”
Jack said nothing.
“How about this, Jackie boy,” Pretty Face said, “since we’ve both been duped, how about we work together.”
Jack leaned forward, “You want me to find the guy that switched your veil.”
“At least you’re not slow on the uptake,” Pretty Face chuckled, “but yes, you find that person, do as you will, then bring my veils back if they haven’t already been sold in the Black Market.”
Jack considered this, “And what do I get out of it?”
“The opportunity to knock some heads and a free veil from me personally.”
Jack nodded, “Alright,” he said, “know where I should start?”
“I would start where you left off,” Pretty Face smiled deviously, “the Skullgang.”
“How much time I got?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“See ya then.” Jack got up and walked out of the room, slamming the thick, metal door behind him.
“You think he’ll be able to pull it off?” The guard who brought Pretty Face in asked.
“Pull what off?”
“The job.”
“What job?” Pretty Face asked with that devious smile.
“You mean . . .” The guard put it together, “you tricked him?”
“Of course I did,” Pretty Face said, “he’ll chase the Skullgang for a few days and be back to himself in no time.”
“What about your veils?”
“What about them?”
The guard put it together again, “they weren’t stolen, were they?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Pretty Face grinned, “Now, Brandon, take me to my special room. I have an appointment with a very wealthy man who has a morally shameful secret.”
Brandon grabbed the chains and pulled Pretty Face from the chair and escorted him out of the room and to his special room, the gray metal door closing silently behind them.
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