Page 25 of Assassin Anonymous

I pass a few more treats through P. Kitty’s cage, and he doesn’t swipe at me, so he must be in some twilight space, too. Good for him.

“I didn’t think you were real,” Astrid says, digging a pen out of her purse.

“What do you mean?”

“I patch up bad people,” she says, filling out the form, careful to match everything to the information on her new passport, looking back and forth between the two. “People tell stories. Sometimes people tell stories about the Pale Horse. Like he was some kind of supernatural creature.”

Can’t help but feel a little rush at hearing that.

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “You look like the kind of guy who takes off his wedding ring at the bar before he hits on me, and when he flames out, drives his minivan back to his family on Long Island. You don’t look like an assassin. Jason Statham looks like an assassin.”

“First off, thanks for all of that,” I tell her. “Second, Jason Statham is a movie star who happens to play a lot of assassins. He looks like he chews glass for breakfast. He walks in a room and you know someone’s about to get hurt. I don’t. That’s kind of the point.” I give her a little smile, afraid of how it might look, but it’s the best I have to offer. “Anyway, stories are stories. They grow in the telling. I’m just a guy who was good at his job.”

“Was,” she says. “What did you do, quit?”

Part of me wants to tell her everything. The program, a year sober, all of it. But as much as I trust her, which is a fair bit more than most people, I can’t really trust her. Not with this. I think back to the fight with the Russian. If I were at full capacity, he’d be dead and I wouldn’t be here. Instead I’m fighting with a hand tied behind my back. Invoking the name of the Pale Horse might keep me safe for a little while longer. It’s not exactly living in my truth, but my reputation is the best shield I have.

“I’ve been focusing on my golf swing,” I tell her.

She finishes the form and passes me the pen. I fill out mine, almost putting down Mark under name. I manage to fix it without making it look like I tried to. “What did you do while I was sleeping?”

“Watched a lot of movies,” she says. “Ordered dinner for both of us, then ate both of them.”

“Watch anything good?”

“Rewatched When Harry Met Sally. Love that movie so much.”

“That’s a top five all-timer, easy.”

She squints at me. “Would have figured you as more of an action movie guy.”

“I prefer classics, rom-coms,” I tell her. “My life has enough action.”

She rolls her eyes a little at that—totally fair—but then her expression goes flat. She leans toward me and lowers her voice. “So do you have, like, a code?”

“A code?”

“A code. Hit men always have codes.”

More movie bullshit, but that said, I guess we all do have a set of morals that act as our North Star. “I don’t think I’d kill anyone under eighteen, but also never had to test that. You just…you have to be in the game and the math has to work out. Balance the scales in some way. Sacrifice one life to save others.”

“Have you ever killed a woman?”

“A few.”

I let that hang in the air. After it settles she says, “I need to ask you a question. And I need you to be completely honest with me.”

I put the pen down on top of the half-finished form and turn my body toward her. Showing my belly. A little vulnerability.

“I’ve seen your face,” she says. “I know who you are. Do I make it to the end of this?”

Ah. That’s why she wants to know about codes. She’s had time to think and she’s wondering, when we get off the plane and closer to customs, when we’re surrounded by security, if she should run screaming for help.

“I promised you I would protect you, and I will.” She seems a little unsure. “If anything, as someone who saves lives, the math is in your favor.”

“But I’ve saved some pretty bad people.”

“Then you’re Switzerland. I have no interest in going to war with Switzerland.”

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