Page 10 of Assassin Anonymous

Stuart takes a few steps forward, and I tense, and I think he sees it because he stops. One thing I’ve learned about him, and a thing I actually give him credit for, is that he’s aware of the effect he has on people. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for interrupting Kenji’s announcement,” he says. “And thank you, for the thing with Booker.”

“Booker sleeps in a bed made of sandpaper. At the end of the day he’s not a bad guy. None of us are. We just have the luxury of recognizing that we’ve made mistakes.”

“I like that,” Stuart says, chewing on it. “The luxury.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. Kenji said it to me once.”

Stuart looks down at the floor. “I get it, though. I’m not like the rest of you. Not really.”

“Hey, Stu.” I turn to him fully and wait for him to bring his eyes to mine. “It’s good that you’re here.”

“Thank you,” he says. “That means a lot, coming from you. Listen…” He looks down at the floor again, shuffling his feet, before looking back up at me. “I don’t have a sponsor yet. Would you consider…doing that?”

A clammy wave passes over my skin as it erupts into goose bumps.

You don’t have to have a sponsor in recovery. Kenji sponsors me, but he doesn’t have one. Booker and Valencia sponsor each other. I never considered taking on a sponsee. Up until now I’ve been happy to defend Stuart—because if he can change, so can I—but taking an active role in his recovery is a different level of commitment. And not one I’m ready for. I’m still trying to handle my own.

“I need to think about that,” I tell him. He nods, and then, without saying anything else, he steps through the darkened doorway at the far end of the room. With him gone, the air feels a little less thick.

A stew of complicated emotions mix in my gut. A little regret, that I might have hurt his feelings. A little relief, that I may have shut the conversation down.

Back in the day, I would have done the math, and the equation would be elementary—ending Stuart’s life would have the potential to save so many others. Then I would slit his throat and leave him bleeding in a ditch.

I’m a different person now. Ultimately I do want him to succeed, but the sponsor/sponsee relationship is an intimate one.

I’m going to have to talk to Kenji about this. He might not think I’m ready.

One can hope.

As I’m about to dump the leftover donuts in the trash can next to the table, there’s a squeak of a footstep behind me.

“What’s up, Stu, forget something?” I ask.

As I turn, a boot smashes into my chest.

3

Pain don’t hurt.

—Dalton, Road House

The Bowery

Now

Three times circling the block, watching for tails, then waiting ten minutes so I could slip past the doorman—I’m pretty sure the Russian is gone, but I still feel guilty about coming here. I bang on the apartment door with an eye on the end of the hallway. The pain is fading into a general numbness, so I don’t feel too guilty. There’s only so much blood in my body.

She may not be home. She may not live here anymore. But a shadow passes across the lens of the peephole. A chain rattles, a lock shunks, and the door cracks open.

Astrid is wearing a lavender silk bathrobe, which serves to accentuate her toned, athletic figure. Her long hair, the color of fall leaves, is still wet from the shower. Her face is smooth and makeup-free, so that I can better appreciate the years in it. As always, the sight of her snatches the breath out of my chest. Everyone’s got their own taste and preference, but to me Astrid looks the way a woman is supposed to look.

Not that I’d ever tell her that. Our relationship has always been purely professional, and I’m about to test how far that’ll stretch. It’s been so long it takes her a second to register that it’s me. Then her face twists in confusion. “Mark? I’m meeting a friend in an hour and…”

She looks down at the jumble of bloody rags I’m pressing to my stomach.

“What the hell…”

“May I come in, please?” I ask.

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