The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) 📖

One more thrust of Doughty’s face into the gravel, then he repositioned, grabbing a handful of greasy hair. He lifted Doughty’s face two inches off the ground, and smashed it down.

THUD!

A line of bloody snot shot out of Doughty’s nose. His eyes were closed.

Silence’s fingers were taut and hard, buzzing with the endurance strength Nakiri had beaten into him.

He raised the head again.

THUD!

More blood, a glob of it that came out in a cough.

He’d heard bone crack that time.

Doughty whimpered.

Silence tightened his machine grip in the filthy hair, brought the head up again.

Felt something on his back.

Something tiny and soft.

A small voice. “Silence…”

He looked up. His teeth were bared, grinding. A bead of sweat raced down the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

Mrs. Enfield. Standing right beside him. Blind eyes looking down at him with her hand on his shoulder. Slowly shaking her head.

“Silence. Stop, baby. Stop. Leave him be.”

Silence stared at her.

Her head continued to shake. No. Returning his gaze somehow.

He turned his head an inch to look at her hand, minuscule on his broad shoulder.

Then to Doughty. The man’s eyes were closed. Squirming. Coughing. Lips wet with blood.

Silence wanted to eliminate him, this man who would harm a woman like Mrs. Enfield. A little, old woman. A little, old hand on his shoulder.

But did Silence really want to kill?

Mrs. Enfield’s head still moved side to side. And just like the lessons that had surfaced a few moments earlier—those from Nakiri and C.C.—he’d just received a new lesson from Mrs. Enfield: the importance of mercy.

He leaned into Doughty’s face. The mans’ eyes opened. Wide. Stared at him. Shaking.

Silence spoke through his teeth. “Get. Out!”

Then several things happened at once.

Doughty scrambled in the gravel, got to his feet, crossed the street to his El Camino, and was gone. At the same time, Silence felt soft pressure on his back, a gentle lifting force that did nothing to actually lift him but still guided him. He was on his feet, walking, though he didn’t feel himself moving. All he felt was a bony, dry hand in his, squeezing gently, leading him onto a creaking porch, sitting him down on a swing, bringing his head to her shoulder.

His thoughts became a tempest. Nothing connected. He felt himself tumbling into chaos, threads of reason slipping through his fingers, losing control.

What would C.C. tell him to do? Would she tell him to meditate? To take deep, diaphragmatic breaths?

Mrs. Enfield ran her hand along his cheek and leaned her face against the top of his head.

Silence felt himself shake.

His arms trembled first. Then his stomach. Then his chest.

Heaving, lurching movements. His eyes pinched shut, but no tears came out. His mouth widened, lips motioning, no vocalizations, the only sounds were shudders.

It felt just like that night in the Grand Prix, after listening to the final message from C.C., weeping on his steering wheel.

The same, but different. Crying without crying.

Mrs. Enfield continued to stroke his cheek. Her other arm was behind his back, rocking with his convulsions, hand squeezing his shoulder.

“Shhh,” she said. “It’s okay. Shhh.”

She hummed. He didn’t recognize the song. It sounded old-fashioned. And sweet.

A killer. An assassin. That’s what he was to be. Someone who lived in violence. His future was to be one of revenge. Not just revenge for C.C.’s murder. Revenge for all sorts of wrongs, for justice eluded.

He would be a shadow. He would bring pain and death.

That was no existence. That wasn’t an identity.

One of C.C.’s quotes flashed through his mind, one attributed to Confucius, though possibly misattributed.

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

Revenge flew in the face of C.C.’s peaceful teachings, her aggregate of wisdom from around the world and through the ages. Humanity had concluded that revenge was a poison.

But then his thoughts went away from C.C. To Nakiri. And Falcon. The Watchers. Its mission. Violence, it would seem, was sometimes the only answer to injustice.

Another of C.C.’s quotes, this one from German poet Heinrich Heine.

We should forgive our enemies, but not before they’re hanged.

She’d given him this quote shortly after telling him how destructive revenge could be. She’d smirked as she’d said it. An opposing viewpoint. Contradictions. She always saw things from all sides.

Violence was needed to stop Burton, this man who was on the verge of a terrorist plot against the nation.

Violence was needed to stop others just like Burton, so many others.

And, as his shaking subsided, as his moment an incertitude drifted away, listing out of Mrs. Enfield’s porch and into the pink sky, he realized that he still wanted revenge.

C.C. was right—revenge was a bane. But he still wanted it.

Needed it.

Just as he needed to be a protector, a person who corrected gross injustices.

An Asset.

A Watcher.

Mrs. Enfield’s hand slowed, and the song she’d been humming faded away.

He straightened up and faced her, found her milky eyes waiting for him.

“Better?” she said.

He grunted a Yes.

“I told you, Silence, I don’t need to know exactly what it is you do. Because I know you’re a good man. Whatever’s happening tonight, I know it’s important. You got the energy pouring off you in waves. You do what you need to do. And come back safe to me.”

He took her hand, squeezed it, then stood up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He stepped off the porch and headed for his car.

It was time to see Burton.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Silence would have preferred complete darkness when he and Nakiri arrived at the Port of Pensacola.

As it was, the sky was streaked with blazing purples and brilliant pinks, dark but still giving off plenty of light, which had a surreal golden quality. But it would die off soon, at the 7:24 sunset. That was why the festival’s start time was 7:30—to coincide with Nature’s light show. Six roaring jets would tear through the sky to help ring in the festival, giving Mother Nature a helping hand with the theatrics. The Blue Angels flyover.

Silence tugged the zipper of his black canvas jacket, cinching it tight, hiding all hints of the white shirt beneath.