Falco stared at his boots. It was better than watching the spiders. He hated spiders. So he kept his eyes on his boots. Mud globbed into the seams where the leather met the sole. The toes were smeared, the heels caked, leaving no signs of the high-polished condition he obsessed over. He had other boots but these were his favorites. These made him walk like a cowboy, and he liked that. They had cost him more than his poor mother made in a month.
Falco had grown up watching American Westerns, old black-and-white movies that made the actors look tough, the landscape unforgiving, and the women more vulnerable. He liked to wear white button-down shirts with short sleeves and black jeans. Black and white had become his signature. Sometimes Falco even dreamed in black and white. It made the blood look like black motor oil. Cocaine was already white. Lately his dreams seemed to be covered in blood and cocaine… fire ants and spiders.
Falco’s obsession with black and white made it clear — perhaps it was a sign that even his Catholic mother couldn’t dismiss — that he was meant to be an apprentice under the Iceman. That code name brought with it a reputation, and at just its mention, Falco had seen the toughest men show fear, as though an injection of ice had been driven into their veins.
Few had ever seen the Iceman or met him. Those who bragged about getting a glimpse usually didn’t live long enough to verify their description. He knew that would be his destiny if he were ever to betray his new mentor. Now Falco realized that no one would believe him anyway, even if he gave an accurate description. The man’s features were bland, ordinary, and unremarkable. Easy to forget.
Choosing to be called “the Iceman,” although clever, wouldn’t give away the man’s real identity. After all, an assassin “iced” people for a living. Of course, Falco understood there were other reasons, deeper meanings for this nickname. It wasn’t much of a trick, but no one questioned it and neither would Falco dare to.
“They’re hungry today.” The Iceman’s voice brought Falco’s attention to the tabletop, where he had been trying to avoid looking.
He didn’t want to watch inside the Plexiglas box as the spiders fed on the carcasses he had helped collect for this very purpose. Their long spindly legs worked like tweezers, dissecting, pulling, yanking. The Iceman was teasing them with food, only to swipe it away. But these buggers were fast… and aggressive. Faster than Falco had ever seen.
The Iceman said they were “special ones… deadly ones,” and Falco found himself grateful. He wouldn’t be asked to handle them with bare skin like the others. These required gloves and a delicate touch, and thankfully, the Iceman didn’t believe Falco was ready or skilled enough, so Falco might luck out and not have to handle them at all.
“They’re Brazilian wandering spiders,” the Iceman continued, and Falco knew there was a lesson coming. He didn’t mind. He actually liked that the assassin considered him worthy. “Their genus is Phoneutria. It’s Greek for ‘murderess,’ which is quite appropriate because they are the world’s most venomous. One sting is more powerful than a rattlesnake bite.”
He glanced back and Falco knew it was to check his reaction. Satisfied, the Iceman nodded. He poked a long stick through a carefully drilled hole in the side of the spider case. Falco watched as several of the spiders attacked the stick, rearing up on their hind legs. They were fast… so incredibly fast. Two raced up the stick until they ran into the Plexiglas wall.
“See how they defend themselves? Instead of running away, they attack. They’re very aggressive that way. They have to be because they don’t make or stay in webs. Their habit is to wander around in search of prey at night. Then they seek shelter in dark places during the day — log piles, boxes, shoes, and in bunches of bananas. That’s usually where they’ll leave their hatchlings, attached to the peel. It looks like nothing more than a puff of cotton.”
The Iceman pulled the stick out and the spiders continued advancing up it until the stick disappeared out the small hole and they were forced to drop down or cling to the inside wall of the box.
“Do you remember what I told you the last time?” he asked, but now he remained bent over his spiders, his eyes not leaving them, his back to Falco.
Thankfully, he couldn’t see Falco’s eyes dart from side to side, trying to think what it was the man wanted him to remember about the last time. Immediately his mind conjured up the image of how the ants had covered the man’s naked body so quickly, red-black streams of them racing and pouring over the skin like water. And just then a trickle of sweat broke free and slid down his back. It took effort to keep from shuddering at the thought of those ants crawling and biting.
“Find what matters to a man,” Falco said, as if, of course, that was the first thing that entered his head. It had to be what the Iceman wanted.
“What else?”
“Find out what matters most to him, then crush it. Discover his worst fears and make them come true.”
The Iceman nodded. “If you’re successful, he’ll beg you to kill him just to put him out of his misery.”
Falco knew that was the Iceman’s signature and why so many feared him. Other cartels sent hit men and death squads to cut the heads off their enemies and dismember their bodies, leaving them in the streets or hanging from bridges as a warning. The Iceman could find you no matter where you tried to hide, and he would destroy your life and your mind, as well as your body.
“Their venom includes a neurotoxin that acts on the nervous system and muscles. The initial bite causes intense pain that spreads through the body and shocks the muscles. It’s said that men who are bitten can experience painful, long-lasting erections. What an interesting fate for our Casanova, yes?”
Falco felt a shiver slide down his back. He knew the Iceman didn’t expect him to answer, and he remained quiet.
“Bring him in,” the Iceman told him, suddenly jerking his head in the direction of the doorway. He said it loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They’re ready for him.”
Falco’s boot heels clicked on the cheap linoleum, even with the mud that had started to dry. He liked the sound — a click then a clack — a stride that announced confidence. Before he crossed the threshold he could hear the man in the other room already whimpering. No matter how much Falco hated spiders, he knew that by the end of the day this guy was going to hate them even more. And that made Falco smile.