The Retired Merchant Of Death

  The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft hues of gold and rose as Don Ezekiel Montenegro stepped onto the veranda, The sun like , a bde of gold cutting through the pilrs of the veranda. It painted the tile floor in long, diagonal stripes—bright where it touched, shadow where it didn’t—a silent duel between light and dark. Dust motes swirled zily in the beam, like tiny embers caught in the stillness of morning.

  The air smelled of warmed cy and jasmine, the st remnants of dew curling into vapor as the sun climbed. The wooden beams overhead, worn smooth by decades of wind and fingers, drank in the light, their grain glowing like old honey. A single **gecko** clung to the wall, its belly lit translucent by the radiance, before darting into the safety of shade. For a moment, the world was nothing but this: heat and line, brilliance and border. Then the wind stirred, the sun shifted, and then he exhaled slowly, his bare chest rising and falling as he rolled his shoulders—thick cords of muscle shifting beneath sun-weathered skin. His body was a map of bor: scars like silver threads, forearms carved from years of fighting, a torso so chiseled it looked hewn from oak.

  He arched his back in a feline stretch, tendons tightening, his spine giving a satisfied *pop*. A groan rumbled deep in his throat as he rolled his neck, the stubble along his jaw catching the light. The air smelled of earth, sweat, and the lingering smoke of st night’s fire.

  Then, the ritual.

  His boots sat by the door, well-worn leather—dark as bourbon, scarred from use but still supple. He lifted one, feeling the weight, the smell hitting him first: rich, smoky, the faintest hint of saddle oil and the dry sweetness of aged hide. His fingers traced the grain, rough in some pces, smooth in others, the toe scuffed from countless kicks against stubborn rocks.

  He slid his foot in, the interior still warm from yesterday’s wear, the leather hugging his arch like a second skin. The ces, thick as twine, hissed through the eyelets as he pulled them taut, each tug securing him to the day ahead. When he stood, the soles gave a soft **creak**, the heel settling firm against hardwood.

  A final stretch—arms overhead, his body a silhouette of power against the dawn—before he grabbed his hat and stepped outside, the boots announcing his presence with every stride. The earth knew his weight. The leather knew his shape. And the day would bend to both

  The crisp mountain air filled his lungs as he began his morning.The first crunch of boots on gravel sent Raphael head snapping up—ears like radar dishes pivoting toward the sound. His red brindle coat, striped like embers under shadow, rippled as muscles coiled beneath.

  His face was a shadow cast in permanent defiance—a bckened muzzle sharp as a knife-ssh against his red brindle coatA bck-muzzled streak, he bolted across the courtyard, paws kicking up dew-silvered dust. The morning light caught the russet and bronze bands of his fur, turning him into a living fme as he raced past the chicken coop, past the old iron trough—his entire body humming with purpose.

  By the time his master reached the barn, rapahel was already at his heel, panting softly, eyes locked on the man's face for the command. No bark. No wasted motion. Just the electric focus of a dog who knew his job better than his own heartbeat. A low whistle split the air.

  Like a released spring, Raphael shot toward the pasture, his brindle frame cutting through the mist as the drowsy herd lifted their heads. The lead cow snorted this again but Raphael was already dancing along the edges, all precision and coiled energy, his bck-masked face a silent promise:

  *Move. Or I’ll help you.* The cattle shuffled forward. Somewhere behind him, his master ughed. Another morning. Another perfect choreography of teeth, instinct, and trust.

  The milking parlor hummed to life as Ezekiel stepped inside, the sharp scent of iodine and warm animal flesh thickening the air. His hands moved with the quiet certainty of decades—calloused fingers wiping udders with a damp cloth, the rhythmic hiss-cnk of the milking machine filled the shed as Ezekiel worked, his shoulders rolling with each practiced motion. Beads of sweat traced the line of his brow, One by one, the Jerseys leaned into their stanchions, their breath fogging in the chill morning air, the rhythm of their chewing the only protest. Catching the early sun snting through the wooden sts. Below him, the steel pail grew heavier, froth rising atop the fresh milk like sea foam. Then a single, pointed bark.

  Ezekiel gnced over to see Raphael sitting at strict attention, ears pricked, tail sweeping dust from the dirt floor. The dog’s golden eyes locked onto the pail, then back to his master’s face. Another bark—sharper this time—as if to say, *You are withholding what is rightfully mine.*

  A smirk tugged at Ezekiel’s lips. “*Sangrón,*” he muttered, but he was already reaching for the small tin cup he kept hanging on a nail just for this. The milk poured thick and warm, sunlight cutting through the stream. Raphael’s entire body quivered, but he held position—a soldier at mess hall—until the cup hit the ground. Then, with a noise halfway between a whine and a cheer, he lunged, pping so fast his bck muzzle vanished under white. Milk dotted his whiskers, his chest, the dirt between his paws. Ezekiel watched, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Next time,” he said, “ask nicely.” Raphael’s tail thumped twice, milk dripping from his chin.

  Next time, he wouldn’t. The match struck with a hiss, its fme trembling in the evening air before dipping into the cy mug. Blue fire erupted over the tequi’s surface, swirling like a captured storm as Ezekiel rotated the cup slowly, his calloused fingers immune to the heat. The alcohol burned away, leaving behind the ghost of agave smoke—a sharp, earthy perfume.

  Next, the milk. Fresh from this morning’s milking, still carrying the warmth of the cow, poured in a steady stream to tame the fire’s remnants. Then, the chocote: a rough disc of Oaxacan cacao, crushed in a mortar until it became a dust so fine it clung to the pestle like volcanic ash. He stirred it in with a cinnamon stick, the scent of spice and scorched cy rising in the cooling air.

  Ezekiel stepped onto the porch, the mug steaming between his palms, and took his first sip—**thick, smoky, with a kick like a mule’s whisper**. The sun bled into the horizon, turning the mesquite trees into bck cutouts against the dying light.

  Then—**engines**. A truck rumbled up the paved road, tires spitting gravel. Headlights cut through the dusk, illuminating the dust that swirled like phantom riders around its grille. The engine died, and for a heartbeat, there was only the sound of the cicadas holding their breath.

  The door creaked open. A boot hit the ground. The chocote was still warm in Ezekiel’s hands, the cy mug rough against his fingers as he took a slow sip. The evening air carried the scent of scorched cinnamon and distant rain. He didn’t look up as the boots crunched toward him—heavy, deliberate, the stride of a man who expected the earth to part for him. When he finally raised his eyes, the figure looming before him was exactly as he’d imagined: a face like a hatchet strike, scar tissue pulling at the corner of one eye, knuckles tattooed with faded ink that might’ve once spelled “death before dishonor.”

  The man’s jacket smelled of oil and cheap cigars.

  "You’re te," Ezekiel said.

  The man grinned, revealing a gold-capped mor. "Could help but enjoy the scenery on my way up, beautiful pce you got"A pause. The cicadas screamed in the trees. Then, straight to business: "I need five thousand AKs. Fifteen million rounds."

  Ezekiel swirled his chocote, watching the liquid ripple. "I don’t move that kind of weight anymore."

  The man’s smile didn’t fade, but his fingers twitched—once, like a trigger finger testing sck. "Then why’d you agree to meet?"

  "Because," Ezekiel said, setting the mug down with a soft *click*, "I'm a brooker, I take my cyt for introduction. I know a guy, he used to work for me. He received a rge shipment from the Chinese."

  He pulled a burner phone from his pocket, slid it across the table. "Call him. Tell him I sent you. Only problem he trades in gold or other illicit goods"

  The man picked it up, weighed it in his palm. "Is he reliable?"

  Ezekiel smiled. "He’s alive, isn’t he?"The man pocketed the phone. **"Pleasure doing business."**

  Ezekiel lifted his mug again. "My pleasure”

  Later That night, the glow of the television painted Ezekiel’s weathered face in flickering blues and reds as news anchors dissected the rising tensions between the two rival nations—border skirmishes, troop movements, the familiar drumbeat of war. He sipped his mezcal slowly, the smoky bite lingering on his tongue, his mind already calcuting how this would ripple through the shadows of his world.

  Then—**tires on gravel**. A car rolled into his courtyard, its engine a low purr, too refined for this part of the desert. His hand didn’t move toward the pistol on the table, but his fingers tensed around the gss. A knock. Three precise raps—confident, teasing. He knew before he opened the door.

  **Liora.** She stood there, backlit by the dying sun, her dark curls spilling over the shoulders of a fitted leather jacket. The same smirk that had haunted his dreams curled her lips, and her hips swayed slightly as she stepped inside without invitation.

  "Miss me, habibi?" The scent of jasmine and gunmetal clung to her.

  Ezekiel exhaled through his nose, amused and irritated in equal measure. "You’re supposed to be in Tel Aviv."

  She traced a finger along the edge of his bookshelf, her nails polished the deep red of fresh blood. *"I was. Then I heard whispers. And then… I got thirsty."* Her eyes flicked to his gss. "For more than just alcohol."

  He didn’t smile. "Mossad send you to seduce intel out of me, or is this just for old times’ sake?" Liora ughed, low and throaty, as she closed the distance between them. "Why can’t it be both?" Her hand pressed against his chest, warm even through his shirt. "You always did like multitasking."

  Outside, the news broadcast crackled with another update—missile deployments, emergency summits.

  Inside, her lips brushed his ear. "Let’s negotiate."Ezekiel’s grip tightened on his gss. Damn her.And damn him for already knowing he’d let her stay.

  The moment her lips met his, the world narrowed to the heat between them—her mouth hungry, his hands gripping her hips like a man drowning in her. The taste of her was familiar, a dangerous blend of mint and something metallic, like a bde fresh from its sheath.

  Ezekiel backed her against the wall, his fingers tangling in her curls as she let out a breathy ugh against his lips. "Still impatient," she murmured, her teeth grazing his bottom lip.

  "Still pying games," he growled, his palm sliding under her jacket, searching for the holster he knew she wore.

  But Liora was faster. Her kiss deepened—slow, deliberate—as her hand slipped between them, fingers dancing up his chest in a lover’s caress. Then, in one fluid motion, cold steel bit between his ribs. Ezekiel stiffened.

  The pain was sharp, precise, radiating like fire through his veins. He pulled back just enough to see the glint of the stiletto in her grip, its bde buried to the hilt in his flesh. Blood welled hot around the wound, staining his shirt bck in the dim light. Liora’s breath was still ragged from their kiss, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide—not with fear, but with something darker. Triumph.

  "Sorry, habibi," she whispered, her thumb brushing his jaw. "Orders."

  His knees buckled. The room tilted.Liora stepped over Ezekiel’s body, her stiletto slick with his blood. The knife slipped back into the hidden sheath at her thigh, the motion practiced, effortless. She adjusted her jacket, her breath still uneven—not from guilt, but from the thrill of a perfect kill.

  Then, a low growl rumbled through the room. She froze. Raphael stood in the doorway, his brindle fur bristling, lips peeled back over teeth like ivory daggers. His bck-masked face was a nightmare of fury, his golden eyes locked on hers. Blood scent hung thick in the air.

  Liora’s hand twitched toward her pistol—too slow. The Malinois lunged. His jaws cmped around her throat with a wet crunch, teeth sinking deep, crushing windpipe and artery in one brutal shake. She barely had time to scream before her body hit the floor, her legs kicking uselessly as Raphael tore into her flesh with the precision of a predator who’d spent years waiting for this moment.

  Blood sprayed across the tiles, hot and arterial, as her hands cwed at his muzzle—weak, desperate. The dog didn’t relent. He shook her again, his growl vibrating through her bones, until her struggles slowed, then stopped.

  Silence.

  Raphael released her, panting, his muzzle dripping red. He turned back to Ezekiel, whining low in his throat as he nudged his master’s limp hand. A groan. Ezekiel’s fingers twitched. Not dead. Not yet.The dog barked once—sharp, commanding—as if to say:

  "Stay with me." Ezekiel y on the cold tiles, his vision blurring at the edges. The wound in his chest pulsed with every fading heartbeat, a slow, wet rhythm that soaked through his shirt and pooled beneath him like spilled wine. His breath came in shallow hitches—each one sharper than the st.

  Above him, Raphael stood guard, his massive body trembling. The dog’s muzzle was still streaked with Liora’s blood, but his golden eyes held only grief now. He nudged Ezekiel’s shoulder with his nose, a whine building in his throat.

  Get up. Get up.

  But Ezekiel couldn’t. His fingers twitched toward the dog, strength fading. Raphael licked his palm frantically, as if he could somehow clean the death away. Then, when Ezekiel’s hand finally stilled, the Malinois threw back his head and howled—a sound so raw it split the dawn in two.

  It wasn’t the bark of a working dog. It wasn’t the disciplined arm of a guardian.

  It was the cry of a soul watching its other half slip into the dark. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, the desert held its breath. And then silence

  Ezekiel opened his eyes and the afterlife was nothing like the priests had promised.

  No fire. No brimstone. No weeping angels or gnashing of teeth. Instead, he stood in a field of wild grass, taller than his waist, each bde tipped with silver light as it swayed in a wind that carried no scent but peace. Before him, a river of molten gold curled through the ndscape, its current slow, deliberate—not water, but something thicker, richer, as if the universe itself had bled into this one perfect stream.

  And the souls

  They moved like fish beneath its surface, their forms shimmering, half-human, half-dream. Some paused to look at him, their faces flickering with recognition before dissolving back into the glow.

  Above it all, **portals of violet light** swirled like gaxies, each one a doorway to something beyond comprehension—some pulsed with storms, others with consteltions, all humming a tone that vibrated in Ezekiel’s bones.

  He ughed, the sound echoing strangely in the air. "Guess I didn’t rate hell after all."A voice answered—not from around him, but from within: "You were fire enough on your own."The golden water clung to Ezekiel’s skin like liquid sunlight as he waded toward the shore.

  The figure before him was neither man nor angel.

  Tall, draped in a hooded robe the color of dead stars, its edges dissolving into the air like smoke. Where a face should have been, there was only a void—not empty, but *full*, as if entire gaxies had been crushed into the shadow beneath its cowl.

  He gasped, gold dripping from his lips. "Who the hell are you?"

  "No one. I'm Just a man who's soul just like yours was too hard to kill ." "You were drowning in it. I took it upon myself to rescue you"

  Ezekiel gnced back at the river. The souls he’d seen earlier now writhed beneath the surface, their mouths open in silent screams, fingers cwing at the gilded current as if trying to escape.

  "Bullshit," Ezekiel snarled, but his voice shook. "This is heaven. Or close enough."The figure lifted a skeletal hand toward the horizon, where the purple portals swirled. "Look again."

  The vision tore like a veil. The grass? The grass was not grass at all—but a forest of knives.

  Each bde stood rigid, edges honed to a cruel sharpness, catching the light like a thousand unsheathed swords. It did not bend. It did not sway. It sliced the air with every whisper of wind, a sound like steel dragged across a whetstone.

  To touch it was to bleed. This was no pce for the soft. No pce for the living

  The trees?They stood like ancient sentinels, their gnarled trunks bckened as if scorched by some long-forgotten fire—yet they lived, their twisted branches cwing at a sky the color of bruised flesh. Their leaves were not green, but a dull, metallic silver, edges serrated like the teeth of a saw, whispering secrets in a nguage of rustling bdes.

  And from their boughs hung the Fruit of the damned

  Each one was a grotesque jewel—swollen, pulsating, their skins translucent as vellum, revealing the swirling soul within. Some glowed like embers, others throbbed with a sickly violet radiance, their cores alive with trapped whispers. To touch one was to feel the echo of every life it had consumed: a king’s final breath, a martyr’s scream, a lover’s st sigh—all distilled into a single, terrible bite.

  The air around them hummed with power, thick enough to choke on.

  This was no Eden.

  This was a harvest of the divine

  The golden river?A prison of molten chains, souls dissolving into the current to feed something hungrier beneath.

  "Hell is honest," the figure whispered. "This pce deceives. It dresses damnation in beauty so the damned embrace it."

  Ezekiel’s knees hit the false earth. "Why show me?"The void where a face should be leaned closer. "Because you, killer, still have a choice."