CHAPTER 5: The Time Has Come

Sleepless hours pass and I’m still wearing the same coat, the same boots and the same bag. Though my eyes don't depart from the sky through my bedroom’s window, they fail to quickly notice the transition of the sinking moon to the rising sun. I’m only able to realize it when the roaring silence is soon grazed off by knocks on my bedroom door. 

Can I do it? Can I survive this deadly mission? 

I lift myself out of the chair without coming up with a clear answer. As soon as I thrust my legs forward, the heaviness I feel inside hampers me from moving any faster. Not only that, when I’m already standing next to the door, I stare at it while mustering all of my courage to take another move. It takes several seconds, a minute or two maybe, before my hand reluctantly reaches and twists the doorknob.

Mama, whose eyes are probably more swollen than mine, forces a fake smile. I try to do the same, but fail. 

Her voice quavers as she whispers, “They’re here.”

The majority of my strength has left me since yesterday morning that speaking becomes an effort to do. I nod instead, before trudging my way down the stairs. In our small living area, papa is fidgeting on the wooden sofa while the Gammas, who are going to escort me to Manila, sit comfortably adjacent to him.

“We can’t waste more time, Alpha Primo expects you to arrive in Manila before noon,” one of the Gammas, named Bato, says.

“Yeah.”

That's a one syllable word that hitches my voice at the back of my throat. 

Mama and papa plant kisses on my cheeks and forehead, then lock me in their arms. The rapid beatings of their anxious hearts agree with my own. Their hugs and kisses, though sending some much needed comfort, aren't enough to completely gobble down the fear that’s twinging through my chest. 

Following that short needed moment, the Gammas accompany me outside our house. As soon as I’m a few steps away from our front door, my parents' sobs pirouette through the crippling air. I’ve already cried all of my tears last night. There’s nothing left, not even a tiny moist to blur my eyes. 

I don’t know and I don’t even have the effort to care if my packmates already found out the reason for my arrest last night. But, judging from the way they’re glaring at me, they’ve probably already heard about it. Each head turns as I walk past them, but I keep my sight straight. Any additional agony that would only wear me out isn’t welcome.

At the borders of our pack is a silver BMW, waiting for my arrival. I insinuate myself at the backseat while two of the five Gammas occupy the driver and the passenger seats. My anxiety augments when the car vibrates and that anxiety envelopes me when the car propels.

“Take these,” Bato, who’s occupying the passenger seat, says. “Once you’re there, tell the Mafia Boss’ guards that you’ll apply to one of their job posts advertised online. Say that applicants are required to apply in person.”

He’s extending a folder with papers inside and a zippered pouch to me. I plod the pouch to my lap while flipping the folder open. I blankly stare at the papers. Then, I try to read the first few lines, but stop when I’m not understanding anything. My mind is so fuzzy that it declines to accept additional stuff to think about. 

Bato perhaps realizes that coz he proactively explains what the papers are all about. He says, “The pouch has your fake IDs, a cell phone with secured contacts and some cash in it while the folder has your fake documents, which contain your partially altered identity. You got a birth certificate, a high school diploma and a certificate of employment.”

I look at the papers once again and force myself to understand what’s written on them. All the certificates have my real name -  Mackenzie Cortez, my real age - 22, my real date of birth - August 27, 2000. The only pieces of information that are altered are my residence, my school and my work history. 

I pitch my focus on the details of my falsified work history and they say that I have four-year experience doing some household chores such as cleaning mansions and cooking high-class meals. 

Seriously? 

My eyebrow raises while my lips purse. I can clean a house, but not an entire mansion unless there’s someone who’ll help me. I can cook, but not high-end meals unless there’s someone who’ll teach me.

“Who thought about these details?” I ask.

“Alpha Primo himself,” Bato replies.

“Why didn’t he consult me first?” I ask again, this time with more noticeable annoyance on my face. 

“What are you irritated about? Stop worrying about your fake job. Focus on your real job,” Bato counters with equal annoyance.

I yield against his argument. Bato is right. My deadly job should be the center of my attention, nothing else. 

Though my head is still aching and doesn’t wanna take in more stuff that will make its pain worse, I have some questions that must be addressed so I won’t screw up.

“The Manila Mafia is an international body of criminals that always excellently circumvents the government’s laws. Wouldn’t anyone from their thousand members make a background investigation on their employees? What if they find out that I’m a lycan who’ll kill them for eagerly showing interest about our existence?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bato responds.

“Easy for you to say coz you’re not in my shoes,” I counter.

He glares at me through his reflection on the rearview mirror, which I respond with an arched eyebrow. We compete on who’s gonna concede in our staredown. Good thing, before my numbing eyebrow flinches, he softens his glare first.

He says, “Alpha Primo is prepared for that. He has contacts and influence. Just do what you gotta do and Alpha Primo will take care of the rest.”

I’ve never worked close to Alpha Primo and I don’t intend to. I don’t know how much influence he has. Well, even if I know… there’s nothing I can do at this point. I can’t turn my back on this mission now. I just have to pray hard that everything will work in my favor. 

Underneath my fake documents is a pile of papers clipped together. The first page shows the hierarchy of The Manila Mafia’s officials. There are several profile photos with information below them. 

Alessandro Ocampo, the 56 year-old Boss of the gang. Underneath him are two other profile photos of men, which are labeled as the Underboss, who are also the Boss’ sons. A 25 year-old Gabrille Ocampo and a 28 year-old Davide Ocampo. The three of them have one thing in common that can’t deny the fact that they’re blood related - their piercing eyes that are already sending waves of agony to me. 

I continue to study the rest of the clipped papers. It has pieces of information about the other high-ranking members of the gang and their illegal operations that earn them billions of US dollars. It says that they have an armed, high-security laboratory of crystal meth in the Golden Triangle. What’s astonishing about this gang is that they're giving several politicians security protections and other services, such as killing their rivals especially during election campaign period, in exchange for the underground distribution of crystal meth throughout the country. 

I swallow the lump of air in my throat at the thought that Alpha Primo’s connection might be easily dwarfed by this gang’s. If my inkling is true, then I must act fast to fulfill my mission before they find out my secret and become their first experiment.

The blistering sun is already bragging itself on the bright sky when we arrive in Manila. 

“We’re here,” Conrad, who serves as our driver, says. “Bato and I will stay here in Manila just in case you might need our help. Our contacts are on your phone. We won’t call you, you’ll call us to avoid any undesirable circumstances.”

“I got it,” I say, defeatedly. 

“We’ll drop you here,” he adds. “The exact address of Alessandro Ocampo’s mansion is also in the folder.”

I nod. My shoulders slouch further when the sole of my shoe connects to the paved, dusty road of the bustling city. I’m only seeing Manila on TV and magazines, but being here now feels surreal. The place is so different compared to where I grew up. Colorful jeepneys take possession of the road and their beeping horns whack my ears while vendors of different stuff congest the sides of the road and compete with each others’ noises.

I wonder how people could live in such a chaotic place like this?

I’m so overwhelmed with my new surroundings that I fail to notice our pack’s BMW has already left me. 

I sigh, then murmur, “I’m on my own now. I hope I won’t get lost here." I pause to sigh again. "No! That’s not even right. ‘I hope I won’t get killed here’ sounds better"

Though it takes a while before I’m able to get a taxi, the trip to my destination only takes approximately ten minutes. 

I slide the folder that contains the Manila Mafia's information at the bottommost part of my bag as the taxi drives through a wide, empty road that leads to Mr. Alessandro’s mansion. The area is heavily guarded by around twenty guys, who are in an all-black uniform and have rifles decorating their muscular arms and chest. 

My palms moisten at the sight. Imagining what my mission would be like is already frightening enough, but being in the actual situation is far worse than that.

One of the guards motions for the taxi to stop. The driver then lowers his glass when the guard knocks on it.

“What business do you have here?” he asks.

The driver looks at me over his shoulders. His face is paler than what I remember it to be. 

I hop down his taxi first, before answering the guard, “I saw a job advertisement online and it said that I could personally come here to apply."

“What job?” 

“An all-around maid.”

The guard lowers his tinted glasses to study me. I try to square up my shoulders to appear confident and genuine, but the weight of my distress keeps pushing my shoulders down. So, I force a smile instead, then ask,

“Can I come in? It’s thirty minutes before noon. I’m sure the house owner won’t want to be disturbed during lunch time.”

That works. The guard stops asking. He fixes his glasses, then motions for his fellow guards to open the gate. A loud screeching noise reverberates as the colossal solid steel gates slide open. Emerging from behind the gates is an exquisite, modern mansion. The mansion's walls are made out of heavily tinted glass with some elements of steel and stones. Surrounding the mansion is massive, lush, perfectly-trim lawn. 

Oh my goodness! Alpha Allen’s residence is nothing compared to this one. How many years of selling crystal meths did it take to build this kind of home? 

“This way,” one of the guards says.

I follow him while allowing my eyes to wander and appreciate the aesthetic view of the place. As soon as we set foot on the mansion's front porch, the intricately carved double doors open. I’m ushered by one of the maids inside and my jaw drops at the sight. If the mansion’s exterior is amazing, its interior is magnificent. Almost everything is color black - the floors, the ceilings, the walls and even the pieces of furniture. Surprisingly, the space doesn’t look dark at all and it's because of the series of the crystal lights that are draping on the high ceiling and the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offer natural lighting. 

“You can wait here,” the maid says while pointing at the large L-shaped sofa.

I bounce when my backside hits the sofa. If I’m to ask, this sofa could be a five-person’s bed. It’s that huge and comfy. 

The maid leaves for a minute, then goes back with a glass of orange juice in her hand. She offers it to me and I take it without a delay.

“Thank you,” I say.

The instant I take a sip on the juice, that’s when I feel an insatiable hunger. With one gulp, I empty the glass. The maid gawks at me, then asks,

“Do you want more?”

I’m about to say ‘yes’, but the maid quickly dips her head and bends her waist when a sudden, soft thumping sound echoes. The steady footsteps come from a familiar man - a man I saw on the profile photo of The Manila Mafia’s officials. He’s none other than Davide Ocampo, one of the Underbosses and the Boss’ eldest son. 

His woody, leathery, smokey scent makes my heartbeats go crazy. His dark, curly, medium length hair compliments the squareness of his jaw. And his gray eyes cause my spine to shudder, not exactly in fear, but something more positive than that.

He sits on the leather couch opposite to me. He then crosses his long legs and rests his arms on the armrest. Unsurprisingly, my eyes blink when he directs his piercing eyes at me. 

“Your name?” he asks.

I clear my throat before responding, “Mackenzie Cortez.”

My muscles tense when his penetrating gaze roams to my body. To dull my tension, I throw a question of my own so I can get his eyes back to my face, 

“Wait. Do you need my birth certificate? My diploma? My….”

“No need,” he says. “You’re hired.”

I gawk at him as confusion swamps me. He didn’t even check my identity? If this is how easily they trust strangers, then how come Alpha Primo labeled them as the most notorious and the deadliest mafia gang in Southeast Asia? Oh well, it’s an advantage for me, so I should stop complaining, right? But something doesn't feel right here. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” I nervously say. “I promise I’ll do my best to maintain the cleanliness of this house.”

I deliberately left out the part about cooking high-end meals, and I hope he won’t ask about it.

The unexpected smirk that takes shape on his gorgeous face fazes me more. But the next words that blow off his lips knock the air out of my lungs.

“I didn’t hire you as a maid. I hired you as my entertainer.”