Chapter 61

61

At the station, we pick up a car to drive out to the Cotswolds. Sorry—we pick up a McLaren to drive to the Cotswolds.

"You know," I say, climbing into the front seat, "you're basically unemployed. You might want to consider budgeting a little."

"I was right. You are optimistic." He reaches over and helps me fasten my seat belt. "There's no way we're making it out of this thing alive."

He steps on the gas.

On our way out of London, we stop at an abandoned flat near Latimer Road station. Jonathan goes inside and comes out with a suitcase.

"Is that your getaway bag?" I joke.

"Something like that," he says, stowing it neatly between the seats. I'm sure it's filled with his signature pretentious weapons. I'm a little worried that he thinks we need them to meet his handler, but I guess it's better to be prepared. We left our guns in Paris. We couldn't get them past the metal detectors at the Eurostar station. Jonathan wiped our prints and tossed the guns in a trash can at the Gare du Nord.

The Cotswolds are ridiculously pastoral. Fields of green; quaint villages. England is featured in so many classic children's books that it kind of feels like a storybook land.

I settle into the drive. I've tried to get ahold of Sherri but I haven't heard from her yet. I'm not worried, though. It's still early.

"So," I say, "how do you know where your handler lives? Has he invited you over for tea?" I've never been to Sherri's place.

"No," Jonathan says, switching gears. "I tracked him down. He doesn't know that I know."

"Creepy," I note as he switches gears again. "You might want to slow down. Unless you want to burn another identity." He told me that he had a license confiscated on the way to Paris.

"Shit, sorry." He downshifts, twice. "I'm a little nervous." I can see that. He's practically vibrating. His fingers rub his palm whenever they're not busy doing something else.

"Why?"

He frowns. "I don't know…I guess I've never had so much to lose before."

His fingers start to worry again. I reach across the console and take his hand.

—

We are in the Cotswolds in just over an hour. Jonathan's handler lives in a historic thatched-roof cottage at the top of a rolling hill. It's delightful.

We park just out of view, behind a row of manicured hedges. Jonathan studies the cottage, strategizing.

He unfastens his seat belt. "I think maybe you should stay in the car."

"What? Why?"

"You were gravely injured twelve hours ago," he says. "It's not safe."

"It was safe enough to have sex with me," I point out. "Who's your handler? Do you actually think he'll get violent?" I can't imagine Sherri getting violent. In my experience, handlers are much more the IT types. They're the brains of the operation. If they weren't, they'd be the ones doing the killing. Jonathan wriggles in his seat, and it dawns on me: "Oh. You think you'll get violent."

"I might have to be convincing."

"You might choose violence, but literally."

"Exactly," he says. He opens the suitcase. It's not filled with antique weapons. It's filled with some very modern, very gnarly guns.

"Not your usual style," I note.

"Not my guns," he says. "That was a safe house."

"Seems pretty dangerous for a safe house."

"There are armories scattered all over Europe," he says. "You can find coordinates on the dark web. Thomas—or Alfie—told me about that one."

I had no idea. "Why are they there? Who are they for?"

He picks up a gun and a multitool. "Whoever needs them. That's what I love about the internet. It's so egalitarian."

I pick up a Glock. He looks at me. "You know I'm not the kind of person who waits in the car," I say.

He nods. "All right," he says. "Cover me." He means for me to stay behind him, which is fair enough, I guess. I do have to be careful of my stitches.

We follow an angled path toward the house, avoiding the view from the windows.

We reach a side door. Jonathan uses the multitool to cut out the door lock. It falls and I catch it in my hand. He smiles.

"Teamwork makes the dream work," I say. I'm a little jazzed. It's kind of fun to have a buddy, and to be on a job where no one has to die. Just a friendly in-and-out to ask some questions, get some answers. Easy peasy.

Jonathan pushes the door open. It seems I spoke too soon.

He takes a step back, protective. "Is that…?" he starts.

"Blood," I finish for him. A lot of it. In a trail down a far hallway ahead of us.

"Shit," he says.

"Super shit," I confirm.

It's not just the blood. The house around us is silent. So quiet, you almost wouldn't recognize the sound, but I do, and I know Jonathan does: This house is echoing with death.

"Someone might still be alive." I break rank to hurry toward the hallway, toward the blood. I can't help myself. This is massively triggering. The blood, the house, the silence.

After my parents died, I didn't even call the police right away. I was in shock. I had just shot three people, and I wasn't sure how the cops would respond to that. One of the burglars took forever to die, thumping the floor with his fist and gurgling obscenities. I was in a stupor for hours. Another thing I felt guilty for: I might have been able to save the burglars—the people who killed my parents—if I had called the police right away.

Right now, I streak down the hall, careful not to step in the blood or touch anything. I skid to a halt when I see the body. For a second my mind snaps apart. I think I'm hallucinating; I think I'm imagining things.

It's not a stranger on the floor. It's not Jonathan's handler. It's mine.