Page 31 of Assassin Anonymous

“Who are you?” he asks. “And what do you know about my father?”

“Look,” I tell him, glancing at the guy behind me, who is slowly moving his hands toward his waistband, like the amateur he is. “I think it would be best if we could speak in private.”

I can hear the man behind me, the skin rasping against the metal of the gun as he wraps his hand around it. All that old programming—it’s not even like it’s coming back to me, it’s just immediately present. I don’t think this guy is really going to shoot me, so I let him pull the gun out and press it to the back of my head. Maybe it’ll make him feel better.

Billy smiles as he watches this unfold.

Problem is, the man with the gun, he did the dumb thing, which is: he got too close. The safest minimum distance to hold someone at gunpoint is twenty-one feet. Anything under that, all bets are off. Guns can misfire. Adrenaline screws with fine motor skills; not everyone has the close personal relationship with that hormone like I do. Aiming and getting a shot off is harder than people think. If he were a professional, he would have taken a few steps back, at least.

I stand still, unbothered, and make sure they can both see that.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I tell Billy. “Just something I think you ought to know. My goal is to have a respectful conversation, and it can’t really be respectful like this. So I’m going to ask once, and I’m going to ask nicely. Could you please tell your friend to put the gun away and give us five minutes?”

Billy was curious, to a point, but he’s grown bored with this. He looks around his pristine office, and I’m not surprised at all when he says, “Take him down to the basement or something. Just not in here.”

“Okay, then,” I say, and before the guy behind me can fully process the command, I dip my shoulder and step back, pushing his gun arm toward the ceiling in case he fires, which he doesn’t. I sweep to the side, pulling the gun from his hand, and disassemble it, dropping the pieces to the floor.

Billy puts his hand on the Taurus and I yell, “Hey.”

He freezes and looks up at me.

“I promise you I will take that one, too. Five minutes, then I’m gone.”

Billy stops. Sighs. Then he waves the other guy away.

Once we’re alone I cross the room and sit in the free chair in front of the desk. Twenty-two feet. He should have taken the shot. Billy leans back, slamming his Nikes on the desk and leaning back, trying to exude power.

Trying to hide the fact that he’s spooked.

“I barely knew my father,” he says. “He died when I was twelve. Even then I hadn’t seen him in years. What do you have to tell me that I would need to know?”

“I killed him,” I say.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel an enormous amount of relief.

Like, that’s all it took? I can just say the thing? Easy as that?

But then Billy launches himself over the desk, knocking me to the ground, and drives his fist into my face.

In the tumble, he manages to avoid the wound in my stomach, and for that I’m grateful, but he sets himself on his knees so he has proper leverage and whales on me. Wordlessly swinging, over and over. Thank god the carpet is thick because the way my head is bouncing off it, it doesn’t feel good, but it could be worse.

I seek the serenity to accept a thing I cannot change: I killed this man’s dad and now he wants to kill me.

My nose breaks. Blood fills my vision. Before I came here I left the concierge at our hotel an envelope with my ATM card and my PIN, and said if I wasn’t back by morning to give it to the woman staying with me. Astrid will be fine. Even if I’m dead.

Billy grabs my collar, looping his hands in it, and pulls me toward him. He holds his fist up. It’s coated in blood, vibrating with power, and I feel like this might be the one to knock me out.

After that it’s down to the basement.

“Tell me your name,” he says. “So I know the name of the man who killed my father.”

I see an opportunity to be honest.

And maybe save my own life.

If I try really hard, maybe I can convince myself that’s all I’m doing.

“Mark,” I tell him. “But I was known as the Pale Horse.”

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