Chapter 10

10

Anger may in time change to gladness; vexation may be succeeded by content. But a kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life.

—Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Jericho, New York

One Year Ago

Sara places the large green plastic bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, then slides onto the couch next to me, nestling into my side as I spread a pink fuzzy blanket over our legs. I reach for the bowl and balance it on my lap.

“Can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a little hurt trickling into her voice. “I know it’s a classic. Just never got around to it.”

“That’s not a criticism.”

She kisses the side of my neck, her lips warm on my skin. “I guess it’s only fair, considering all the baking shows I subject you to.”

“First off, I love the baking shows. Second off, I’m just excited to share this with you. It’s my favorite movie of all time. And the only Christmas tradition I ever really had.”

“One of your foster moms showed it to you, right?”

“When I was a kid.”

It’s a lie. But at this point I’ve told Sara so many lies, it may as well count as the truth, because anything from before I met her doesn’t matter.

I hit the play button, and the church bell rings as the Liberty Films logo appears, and then the title card: Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life , flooding me with a feeling of contentment, that I made it another year.

And we sit there in our flannel pajamas, the dim room lit by the television screen, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree behind us—I can barely believe I’m here, or that I deserve this. The moisturized, manicured palm of domesticity.

The real truth, the first time I really saw this, was one Christmas Eve in the barracks, stationed in Kurdistan with a bunch of loudmouth meatheads. Something about the movie transported us away from that razor’s edge between duty and terror. By the end of it, my face and my throat ached, because that wasn’t a place you could safely cry. Ever since, I’ve watched this movie every Christmas Eve, by myself with a bottle of bourbon, and I would let the alcohol drown the complicated emotions it stirred.

But watching it with Sara, something about it plays different. As Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey stands on a snowy bridge, ready to throw himself off, I don’t have that same feeling in my bones—of understanding where George was coming from.

Because when you spend as much time around guns as I do, sometimes you wonder what it would be like, to wrap your lips around the barrel. You appreciate the precision of death.

Right now I just want to reach out and offer him my hand, and I’m that much more thankful when the angel Clarence shows up to stop him.

The way someone can just reach out their hand to you like that.

It’s been ten months now, of dinners and hiking and movie nights curled under a blanket with popcorn. The truth about who I am getting stuck in my throat. I’ve tried. One night I showed her The Professional , thinking I would tell her: that’s kind of like me. That’s what I do. But the way she cringed at the violence of it kept me quiet.

As the movie unspools and we finish off the popcorn, Sara pulls herself closer to me, and occasionally I glance down at her to make sure she’s still awake, to see the smile on her face, and I can’t tell which I enjoy watching more.

And when it ends, she looks up at me and smiles and says, “That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.” She kisses me, long and soft, then pulls back and says, “There’s still time to run, you know. You’re sure about this?”

“Meeting your mom and your bro?” I ask. “Sure.”

“It’s a big step. I told you my brother can be tough on my boyfriends.”

“Yeah, but I’m charming.”

She smiles. “Mark…”

Her eyes go soft and she’s treading water in a pool of something she wants to tell me. I recognize that look because I spend a lot of time there myself. The water tickling her nose, the threat of that true thing she wants to say, wondering whether it’ll turn into a life preserver or the stone that drags her down.

And then she proves how much braver she is than I am.

“I love you,” she says.

Every single other thing in the world drops away and nothing exists but the two of us on that couch. My breathing technique is useless, the air gone from my chest.

She kisses me again, then nuzzles my neck, and I can’t tell if she’s being intimate or trying to hide from the glare of the aftermath. “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” she says. “Or if you’re not there. Truly, I mean that. But I am, and it’s how I feel, and I wanted you to know.”

We kiss, again, and linger in that space. Her finding that relief, of having said the hard thing, and me wrestling down my shame, at not being able to return the favor.

Not now. Not in this moment.

Because I love her. I do.

And if I tell her that, then I owe her the truth about me.

She pulls away and smiles. “You’re going to stay up for a bit?”

“You know me,” I tell her.

Sara stands and pecks me on the forehead. “Oh, and hey, on your way up…don’t slip, okay?”

My hand goes to the spot on my head that opened up when I killed Amato. “Never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“We never even got into the ice-skating rink, so, no, I will not,” she says, then retreats to the kitchen. I click through the TV, hoping to find a documentary that’ll bore me enough that I want to sleep.

Her words ringing in my ears.

It didn’t use to be like this. It used to be that I slept like a baby pumped full of Ambien. That night I met Sara, after we had sex, I was up until sunrise, alternating between watching her sleeping form and staring at the ceiling, searching for words that could even skirt the edge of what I was feeling.

Still can’t find the right words, still can’t sleep.

On her way from the kitchen to the staircase she stops at the tree. We already stacked the presents we got for each other underneath.

I’ve never bought anyone presents before.

No one’s ever gotten presents for me.

She adds one more to the pile, placing it down softly so maybe I won’t notice, but of course I do, because I’m trained to notice things, but I give her the respect of pretending I don’t.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Sara says as she climbs the stairs. “Early morning.”

“That’s what coffee is for.”

Once she’s cleared the staircase and I hear her footsteps padding around the bedroom, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a few fingers of rye, then restart It’s a Wonderful Life . Because I want that little hint of my old life, but also, I want to understand what it is about the movie that suddenly feels different.

And as the whiskey does its work, I think I get it.

It’s George’s journey with Clarence. Touring George’s life to discover how the world would look without him. His brother drowned as a child, the town in shambles, the people in his life sad and broken.

If I were gone, how would the world look?

A lot of people would be dead.

But a lot of people would be alive, too.

There were the six members of the Islamic Jihad Movement, planning a dirty bomb for Times Square during the summer tourist season. The fourteen members of the People’s Liberation Front in Ethiopia behind an ethnic cleansing campaign. Twelve members of the Paraguayan Congress, a shadow wing of the country’s communist Patria Libre party, which was responsible for hundreds of kidnappings, bombings, and other armed operations.

The math on those was clear.

Then there was Michael Albertson, the British journalist who uncovered direct evidence of Russian tampering in U.S. elections. A matter of national security, I was told. And Carol Gyzander, the environmental activist planning a debilitating attack on the Kuparuk River oil field in Alaska. People could die, I was told, plus all the chaos it would cause to the U.S. market.

Sometimes the math is fuzzy.

And even if I was saving lives, they were theoretical.

The only number that matters is the hard number of the people I’ve killed.

Some nights when I can’t sleep, I sit and contemplate the paper crane that Kenji gave me. It sits on a bookshelf in my apartment, and I have yet to open it, for fear of how that might change the equation. And some nights, it’s because I can’t shake the scream of Antonio Amato’s daughter, finding her dad dead in a bathroom in Bryant Park.

I take a sip of rye and savor the sting that trickles down the back of my throat.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I pick it up and find a text from Ravi:

Got a job for you. Tried to wait until after Christmas but it’s an ASAP op. Flight leaves from JFK in three hours. I’m waiting in the Terminal B Chili’s. Text me when you’re close and I’ll order you a drink.

I stare at it for a moment. I’ve been renting a storage locker close by for exactly this kind of situation, so I wouldn’t have to go all the way home to get my gear. But I glance at the staircase, and the tree, and that wrapped first edition of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath that I am dying to watch Sara open, and there’s not even a decision to be made.

Me: Sorry, bud. Got plans for the holiday.

There’s a long pause. I imagine Ravi’s expression of confusion and indignation. My heart slams against the inside of my chest.

Ravi: You don’t get days off.

Me: Then I want to talk to my union rep.

Ravi: This is serious.

Me: Call in Azrael.

Ravi: Azrael is on something else. And the Director asked for you.

Me: I’m not available.

Ravi: No one sees these chats but me, Mark. So I’m speaking to you as a friend when I say: this is not a smart move. There will be consequences.

Me: I’m sorry, Ravi. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important. After everything I’ve done, I think I earned a night off. Merry Christmas.

And I turn off my phone.

Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, empty lungs for four.

A laugh erupts in my chest. That was easier than I thought it would be. I just said the thing. And sure, there’ll be some fallout, but that’s for tomorrow.

Anyway, what if I just quit?

I have enough money to retire. I could get a job, something normal people do, just to keep myself busy. No more math.

I don’t even know what an exit strategy from the Agency would look like. If it’s even possible. Then there’s the question of the enemies I’ve made, none of whom know my identity, but if it ever got out, the danger I could put Sara in the path of…

Then I remember: I’m the Pale Horse. It’ll be fine.

This right here, this is what I want.

When I get in bed, Sara will wake up a little and stretch over to let me kiss her, like she always does, and I’m going to tell her I love her, and I’m going to fall asleep in her arms, and tomorrow after her family leaves I’m going to tell her the truth about me.

Simple as that.

I can do this.

The rocks glass is empty. Probably one more will put me to sleep by the time this movie is over. I hit the pause button and stand, my joints popping, and look at the present Sara placed on the pile. Pick it up and give it a shake. It’s small. Something rattles inside but I can’t tell what.

I’m about to put it back when I hear the subtle scrape of a careful footstep at the back of the house. Not wanting to create any noise, I slide the package into my pocket.

Everything drops away and I go into work mode, moving through the kitchen, grabbing a chef’s knife out of the wooden block on the counter.

My phone is encrypted. Can’t be tracked. I always watch for tails on my way over. There’s no real way to tie me to being here.

Right?

Probably just a neighbor, coming home late or stepping outside for a smoke.

Unless the Agency thinks I went rogue. Did Ravi have someone watching me and now he’s sending them in? In the sea of people I’ve killed, did someone figure out who I am and came looking for revenge?

Maybe not the first mistake this person has made, but definitely their last.

I move toward the sunroom at the back of the house, where there’s a door that opens onto the yard. There’s a figure jostling with the lock. I duck into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the open doorway.

If this were my own apartment, I would cut their throat and deal with the mess. But I don’t want blood on the floor to spoil our Christmas plans. I need to subdue him, quietly, and figure out what the hell is going on.

My hand hurts. It takes a moment to realize it’s because of how hard I’m gripping the knife. My vocation requires standing on the precipice of life and death, and usually I feel a vibration of excitement, something approaching serenity, like this is what I’m here to do.

For the first time, I’m angry.

Whoever this is, they want to come in here and take this all away from me.

The door creaks open and the figure steps into the house. From the reflection of a mirror near the front door, I can see more of him: bald head, thick neck, wide shoulders. Maybe this won’t be quiet. I run through the Rolodex of hitters in my head, try to match someone to the shape. Can’t come up with anyone.

I press myself flat against the wall and let him step past me into the living room. He’s carrying a bag, which he drops when I come around him and wrap my arm around his throat, putting him in a blood choke. Cut off his oxygen. He tenses against me and with the other hand I bring up the knife.

“Make a sound and I will…”

He’s strong, and I’m a little drunk and I let my anger cloud my judgment, so I respond a second too slow when he leans forward and tosses me over his back. I smash into a china cabinet, glass and shattered wood pelting my head and shoulders. The knife goes flying somewhere into the room.

Okay, so tonight may be the night I come clean to Sara, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is getting back on top. The guy comes at me and I sweep his leg. His front foot kicks out and he manages to stay up, his legs spread at an awkward angle. He throws out his arms to steady himself, so I slam my fist into his crotch, and his face scrunches as he tumbles to the floor. I scramble on top of him and crack my fist into his face so hard his head bounces off the hardwood.

“Do you even know who I am?” I ask. “And you come here like this?”

“Where is—”

I throw my fist and his nose shatters.

Again, and his breaking teeth gouge my knuckles.

I grab him by the collar and pull him close. That god-energy screams through every cell of my body, the most savage part of me fully in control.

Someone wants to take this away from me and I will not let them.

“The smart thing to do would be to keep you alive and question you,” I tell him. “But I’m going to find out who sent you either way. And I want them to understand the depth of the mistake they made. What happens if someone ever even looks at that woman upstairs.”

And I wrap my arm around his neck, bear down hard, and yank, separating his skull from his spinal cord.

Just as his body goes slack and I feel the life leave him and the god-energy crackles at my fingertips and I revel in the ecstasy of the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the lights flick on.

“Lucas!”

Sara is standing at the top of the staircase, holding her bathrobe cinched to her waist. Eyes wide, mouth open, staring at the body on the floor.

I’m thinking up an explanation when I realize she just said her brother’s name.

With the lights on, with the haze of violence cleared from the air, I can see that the bag the man was carrying was full of presents, the carefully wrapped packages spilled across the floor. Sara dashes down the stairs as I check Lucas’s pulse, as if regretting that he’s dead might change the fact that he is.

Sara stands above us, and I suddenly feel smaller than I’ve ever felt. Words jumble and clog in my mouth. I have to remind myself to breathe. I stand, slowly, my hands up.

“Please, Sara…”

Her face twists through a messy jumble of emotion: disbelief, anger, fear. She doesn’t know what to settle on. And I’m so desperate to fix it, so desperate to make this right, that I say the worst possible thing in this moment.

The cruelest thing imaginable.

“Sara, I lov—”

She puts up a hand to cut me off, her face red, and she screams, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And she dashes up the stairs as my head swims and I struggle to keep down the whiskey in my stomach. I stand on unsteady feet and hear her voice. “Please, I need you to send the police…yes, he’s still here…yes, that’s my address. Please, hurry.”

I want to plead my case. It was an accident. I mean, it wasn’t an accident, it’s what I was trained to do, but I didn’t mean to. I want to open my chest and show Sara the ruins of my heart.

Sirens whine in the distance.

So I struggle into my boots and my coat, grab my wallet and my keys, and I’m out the back door, the cold Christmas Eve air searing my face.

And miles later, I stop in the shadow of a grocery store that’s closed for the night to catch my breath, and remember that small box she placed under the tree, still in my pocket. I take it out and tear it open.

When I discover the positive pregnancy test inside, I fall to my knees and yell into the cold asphalt until my lungs feel scraped raw and there’s nothing left for my body to give.

—

“Mark!”

Ibrahim is leaning over the counter at the front of the bodega, the maroon kufi on his head artfully askew, looking at me like I’m not wearing pants. I check to make sure that I am. Still in my flannel pajamas. Paired with a leather jacket and heavy-duty boots, it would look out of place anywhere else, but I’m in the West Village, so it flies.

“You good, bro?” he asks.

“Yeah, man, sorry.”

“You been drinking?”

I run the fingers of my left hand through the webbing of my right hand, my knuckles cut up and aching from where I broke Lucas’s teeth. “A little, yeah.”

“Get some Gatorade and take a few Advil before bed,” he says.

I turn my attention back to the freezer case, and the colorful pints of ice cream. All the delicious stuff I never get to eat. Cookies and cream. Brownie batter. Cannoli. There’s a cannoli ice cream now? I’m out of the loop. Given my digestive circumstances, this isn’t an area where I need to be well-versed.

I check my phone. Four missed calls. Two from Sara. Two from a number I don’t recognize. The police will be looking for me. Doesn’t matter. Sara didn’t like to sleep in beds other than her own, and I told her my apartment had a roach problem, so we always stayed at her place. The cops have my first name, a fake last name, and the most dangerous organization in the world covering my tracks.

They won’t find me because I’m not a person.

It wasn’t them I was running from, anyway. It was the reality of who and what I am.

A monster, driven by blood and money and adrenaline.

I was fooling myself that I was worthy of her. I wasn’t made for human things. And realizing that, what is there left to do?

George Bailey, I suddenly understand, lacked commitment.

I won’t make the same mistake.

I open the freezer case and take out a pint of cannoli ice cream. Then cookie dough, and a cherry vanilla. I end up with six pints in total. I’ll chase them with my SIG Sauer P365. Then the only person who has to worry about the mess is whoever finds the body. I’ll do it in the bathtub. It’ll be easier to clean. That seems like the kind thing to do.

It’s almost funny, how easy it sounds.

But maybe that’s because oblivion has been a constant companion.

A Pale Horse, and his name that sat on him was Death…

As long as I’m doing this, I may as well go full tilt, so I head for the shelves in the middle of the store, hunting for mac and cheese, the kind that comes with gooey cheese lava in the shiny pack. I remember having that when I was a kid. The one foster mom I actually liked, who went and got herself a boyfriend who wanted a “real” kid so she eventually sent me back, she would make it for me. I must have been seven or eight because the lactose intolerance developed when I was nine.

This is what I want. My last meal.

I’m going to eat all of this and enjoy these final moments of my stupid, cursed life.

It takes me a little searching to find—this isn’t an item I generally go for—but then that perfect orange and yellow box leaps out at me, and when I grab it off the shelf, a little ball of fur peeks out from behind the gap and says, “Meow.”

I jump back, dropping all the food I’m clutching in my arms.

“Hey, you found him,” Ibrahim says from somewhere up front.

The cat is just past the stage of kitten but still not full-grown. A dull orange, his fur matted, he stands at the edge of the shelf and meows at me like an excited toddler. I give him a scratch behind his little ear and he flops forward off the shelf to the ground, then scrambles to his feet and rubs against my legs.

All that dangerous air built up inside me releases as I laugh. “You little dumbass,” I tell him. I lean down and he leaps up, clinging to my chest, digging his nails into my leather jacket. I press him into the crook of my neck and have to stop myself from squeezing him too hard, like I can absorb the affection into my skin. I bring him to the front. “Does he have a name?”

“Some of the kids from NYU call him P. Kitty. Like the rapper?”

I stroke the back of the cat’s head and he nuzzles closer to me. “Stupid name for a cat.”

Ibrahim laughs. “I think it’s an awesome name for a cat. You want him? I can’t take care of him.”

“You literally sell cat food. Every good bodega has a cat.”

He nods toward the cook station. “You know Manny, on the morning shift? He’s allergic. I can’t lose him.”

“Yeah, Manny makes the best sandwiches.”

“The guy is in demand. Someone else will snatch him up if I’m not careful.”

I scratch P. Kitty’s neck. He exposes his throat, giving me better access. “No one else wants him?”

“One of the kids wanted to take him, but they’re kids. I don’t trust them. You live in the neighborhood. You’re not going to ditch him soon as you go home for the summer.” He smiles. “And the little guy seems to like you.”

Animals have a sense, right?

If he feels safe with me, maybe I’m not a monster.

Easy enough to say, harder to believe. I did just brutally kill a completely innocent man in front of his sister—the woman I love, who is carrying my child—on Christmas Eve. Right in front of the tree.

The only thing I know for sure in this moment is: I can’t kill myself now.

What would happen to the cat?