Page 25 of Nine

“When you say you had to, what do you mean?” I push.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he says, as he exhales a cloud of smoke.

“Give me a break; you’ve had me locked up in a basement for three days. And being here isn’t much different. I see you’ve put Bones on security duty outside the bedroom door.”

“That’s because you’ll run,” he says, as he puts out his cigarette.

“Keeping me against my will. That sounds like a hostage situation to me.”

“I’d like to think of it more as protective custody.”

I stare out over the water. I can feel him looking at me, but I don’t turn my head.

“So, are you going to answer my question or do you plan to keep on evading it?”

I finally look at him. This time he looks away. I feel like this is the beginning of a game of cat and mouse, but in this scenario we’re both trying to be the damn cat.

“The question was what? Why I had to do the things I did for The Savior?” He places his hands on his knees.

I nod.

“I have a sister out in Virginia. She’s happily married, with two little kids. She has the whole white picket fence life.” He pauses. “After my brother died, The Savior came looking for me. He said I was obligated to fulfill my brother’s debt and come work for him as his personal executioner. I resisted, but he had my sister’s address. He threatened to kill her and her babies. There wasn’t much to think about. I didn’t sign up for this willingly. I was forced into it, but I did it to protect her. I spent every day looking for Victor just so I could make it all end. So when I say I had to do it, that’s what I mean.”

I catch myself staring at him like he’s some kind of angel. Trig is not what I expected at all. He’s totally a dark hero. Here he was working off his brother’s debt, while protecting his sister and yet he still made time to come to my aid.

“So, how long have you been doing this whole hitman thing?”

“Eight weeks, more or less.”

I look surprised. “And how many people have you—”

“What? Have I killed?” He licks his lips. “Fifty-six.”

Oh my god. My stomach is sick. Fifty-six. He’s killed fifty-six people in eight weeks. I don’t know why, but hearing an actual number makes me feel uncomfortable. Today alone, he took out three men.

“I told you not to ask questions you can’t handle.”

I slide away from him and take a deep breath.

“I want to know how it goes. The Savior would what, just call you up and say kill this guy, and you’d do it? No questions asked?”

“I didn’t get to ask questions. I didn’t have that luxury when my sister’s life was at stake.”

“What if the people you killed were good people?”

“They weren’t.”

“You don’t know that,” I argue.

“Look,” Trig says, and reaches for my hand. I pull away on instinct.

He stares. He’s definitely reading me. I look away. As much as this topic bothers me, I still have to know more.

“Is it hard? Is it difficult to take someone’s life away?”

“Not anymore,” Trig answers. “I don’t think about it. I just do it.”

He sounds like me when I describe escorting. It’s such a numb sensation. As much as I want to reach out and touch him, I don’t. He scares me. My dark hero’s hands are those of a murderer.

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