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Orb

Allan Onik

    Boris stood beneath the abandoned railroad tracks and watched as a stretch limo pulled ten yards in front of him. The tracks were supported by graffiti strewn cement walls and dripped from a recent rain. He gripped a grey suitcase and wiped some sweat from his brow.
    “Dr. Robinsky, glad you showed,” said the man who emerged from the limo. He wore a black suit and bronze, gold, and silver rings. The rings contained etched symbols, though Boris could not make them out.
    “Zek, I have your weapons.” Boris put the suitcase on the ground and opened it. Inside were six grey pistols with cylindrical barrels. “They’re all here.”
    Zek made a motion with his right hand. One of two large men standing behind him moved forward with a briefcase. The case was opened in front of Boris to show its contents of stacked 100 dollar bills and one square, black container. A woman also emerged from the limo. She wore a yellow, red, and blue dress and carried an onyx cane.
    “All forty thousand plus the chip,” Zek said, “and I appreciate your business.”
    The woman whispered in Zek’s ear.
    “Kiala says your aura is faint. She says you are hiding something. You aren’t planning on breaking our deal? You know I’d find you.”
    “Of course not,” Boris said, “we’re in this together.” He walked away.

    Summers threw the file down on the desk. Doran eyed it. The name on the file read “Boris Robinsky.” Paper-clipped to it was a picture of a man wearing glasses and a tweed suit. “Is he a suspect in some sort of case you’ve opened?” Doran asked.
    “He’s an Israeli-American scientist,” Summers said, “graduated in three years from MIT with a doctorate in molecular physics and biomechanical engineering. IQ 243. No kids, no wife. Age 57, parents deceased. Currently he’s a consultant for a weaponry enhancement division in the pentagon, servicing mainly black and covert ops. He resides in New York with occasional visits to Arlington.”
    “And? Last I heard being a genius wasn’t illegal.”
    Summers threw a second file on the desk. The name on the file read Zek Rallos. The picture clipped to it was a mug shot taken in a New York State penitentiary. “His name is Zek Rallos. He’s a Russian kingpin with ties to the Gambino family. Spent seven years in the pen for organizing the hits of three Bandito biker outlaws on competing drug turf. He travels with the aid of a clairvoyant he found in a Texas carnival.”
    “I’d like to get my palm read,” Doran chided.
    “A week ago last Sunday an intercept was found in the Pentagon databases. Some pistols were missing that were in reserve for an outing in Afghanistan by a company of Delta Force.”
    “What kind of weapons are we talking about?” Doran asked.
    “Classified laser pistols. X-29 model. And you can guess who designed them.”
    “Robinsky? So why not arrest him now? Got anything on him?”
    “Nothing substantial. And the longer we wait the greater chance we have of taking down Zek. These are serious weapons, not for use by civilians. Could blow the head off an elephant, or derail a subway car. And a man this smart has to have an eye kept on him. He’s one of the brightest in the country.”
    “He’s gotten himself into trouble?”
    “Men like him are often like children. Easily toyed with despite their capacities. He’s a manic-depressive that often stops taking his happy pills. Zek is taking advantage of him. He’s neck deep in a pool of shit. Go to the Big Apple and collect evidence—the Bureau demands it.”

    Boris opened the mirror cabinet in his bathroom. He picked up a prescription bottle reading “Risperdal” and popped a tablet into his mouth, crunching it and swallowing it. He walked into his main living space. It was a small room with scattered wires, computers, and mechanical devices. He walked to a safe in its corner and imputed a code. Inside were stacks of 100-dollar bills and a black box. He took out the box and closed the safe. He walked to his desk with the box and cleared off a few empty and dented Pepsi cans and fast food wrappers. He placed the box amid some jumbled wires on the desk and opened it. Inside was a square, black chip roughly the size of a golf ball. He put on some white gloves and opened a drawer containing small, metal hand tools. He set to work.

    The Old Man wore custom leather biker’s gear and silver hair in a ponytail. He carried a QSZ-92 pistol behind his Colors and was followed by two large bikers, each wearing spiked brass knuckles. Zek greeted them in his office.
    “I appreciate you’re situation,” Zek said immediately, “but even if the Banditos send their Breed counterparts to me, it won’t change my stance. I control the Meth in this city. Why not go back to Detroit? New York is saturated as it is.”
    The leader of the Breed motorcycle gang gritted his teeth. “We’ve been working without boundaries long before you settled here. You don’t have the men or the resources. I’ve got 50 men on Harleys surrounding this building. They act at the snap of my fingers.”
    Zek’s office was located in an abandoned building in midtown. The only finished room was located in the facility’s basement, its entrance hidden under plywood. It contained an imported Persian rug, Italian leather chairs, and high priced paintings picked from art galleries across the city. Kiala wore a purple dress and sat in the room’s corner, playing with a stack of tarot cards. Two of Zek’s men stood behind him wearing Italian suits. “I knew you were coming today,” Zek said, “I also knew you would try to kill me.”
    “Let’s be frank,” The Old Man said, “you, that bitch, and your hired meat are as good as toast. Throw your weapons on the desk. No negotiations.”
    Zek pulled a Browning Baby pistol out of his jacket pocket and slowly placed it on the desk. The Old Man nodded to Zek’s men. “And them?”
    The two men pulled X-29s out of the front of their belts and quickly unloaded beams. The beams were green and lasted only an instant. The bikers were reduced to ash. “Finish up the ones outside,” Zek said casually. The two hired guns walked their lineman-sized frames up the stairs that led to the outside of the abandoned skyscraper. Zek took a bottle of Hennessy cognac out of the top drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. Kiala dropped a tarot card on the floor. It read “Death.”

    When Boris turned the top half of the orb it clicked and glowed purple. “Finito,” he mumbled under his breath. He depressed the circle on its top and his apartment swirled, blurred, and burst with a lateral wave. He opened up his window and walked on air to the top of the next skyscraper. The sky was purple and swirling with bats. A bartender wearing a tuxedo puffed up from the graveled ground and handed Boris a Bud Light. “I’ve never seen you here, mister,” the bartender said. When he opened his mouth a purple light spewed out.
    “Call it a hike,” Boris said, “temporary.” He chugged his beer and took in the 11