Page 64 of One Minute Out

“And then she disappeared.”

“Four weeks later she went out to a club, a different club, with some girlfriends. They said she started acting strange, very tired, like she was drugged. They put her in a cab to send her back to her flat, but she never arrived. The cab was found burning under a bridge. There was no one inside.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“Harry, either she is still alive, which means I can’t rest until I find her... or she is not alive, which means it doesn’t matter what I do.”

“Of course it does. You want to bring her killers to justice, right?”

“Yes,” she says, but it’s not very convincing.

“What is it?”

“This is my fault. If she is dead... I will die, too.”

She isn’t speaking metaphorically; I can hear that in her voice.

I say, “I don’t need a partner with a death wish.”

The sobs continue for a time, and then she says, “I understand. I am okay. I must see this through.”

I think a moment about my own actions, then say, “I’ve learned something in my years doing what I do. If you don’t feel guilt, then you can’t change. Guilt can be a driving force for good, for doing what’s right. Or it can be a limiting force. Something that causes you to throw away right and wrong, to justify yourself. That’s the weak way to deal with your conscience. The determining factor in whether guilt locks you into evil or spurs you on towards good is your own inner strength. Your own moral compass.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you fucked up. Bad. But you’ve come all this way because you are strong enough to admit it, and strong enough to try to rectify your mistake. That’s all anyone can ask of you now.”

I add, “I’ve fucked up before. I’ve gotten people killed. People who didn’t deserve it. It never goes away, but I tell myself the only thing I can do is to help others.”

“That’s why you are here?”

“I guess you and I have similar motivations.”

She sobs yet again, but her voice regains some strength. “I am okay, Harry. I will do this.”

I understand so much now. What I saw as an almost childlike fear in Talyssa was, in part, at least, an incredible dread about what she would find.

A scared young woman who simultaneously wants to pay penance for what she’s done. And I see her for what she is now.

Dangerous.

•••

Minutes later, I sense fresh trouble. Movement in the dark, down a long passage that runs up from the center of the Old Town, hundreds of ancient stone steps, past dozens and dozens of doorways leading to private residences, raised porches lined with potted plants.

At first I can only tell I’m observing a group of individuals, but as they pass into one of the too-sparsely-placed streetlights, the orange glow reveals a half dozen men, dressed differently than the ones I saw earlier. Whereas the other men looked more tactical in nature, this group looks like a tiny gang of soccer hooligans.

I see dark clothing, facial hair on some, longer hair on others.

Again I use the app on my phone to check the cameras I’ve hidden in stairwells and passages I can’t see from here. Everything seems quiet other than the men moving straight up the middle.

But even though I don’t see others on my cams, I wonder if there are more around.

The men close on my position with confidence, climbing stairs through the night as one. They are cohesive, an organized unit, each man comfortable that the other has his back.

The men’s hands are empty, but that means nothing. They’ll have weapons.

I work with just a few operating principles, but one of them is ironclad: every motherfucker I come in contact with has a weapon.

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