Page 36 of Assassin Anonymous

“Copy. Over and out.” I switch off the radio and smash it.

“What now?” Astrid has her belongings assembled into a small backpack we picked up in the airport, and she’s holding the cat carrier.

“We go for a little boat ride,” I tell her.

“Where to?” she asks.

“Jakarta.”

We opt for the stairs instead of the elevator. As we descend, all I can think is: I should go back and kill them. Leaving them alive is a mistake. They could get free and come after us. They could alert the Agency teams, who’ll get here quicker. They could have hurt Astrid and P. Kitty. It’s not just that the math isn’t in their favor. There’s a tug at the core of me, this feeling in my body like something is missing and watching the life leave their eyes will fill it.

Meanwhile, Astrid is looking at me like she can’t decide if she should thank me or drive her fist into my nuts for getting her tied up in this.

“Pirates?” she asks.

“It’s thought pirates wore eye patches so one eye was adjusted to the darkness. They could transition more easily between above and below deck.”

“And what the hell happened to your face?”

“My face?”

“You look like raw beef.”

“That was a completely separate situation with a different person who wanted to kill me. It’s been a day. Where’d you learn to fight?”

“Why would you assume I can’t?”

There was an efficiency to her movement that makes me wonder how much more there is to this story, but I don’t have time to dig. It’s comforting, at least, that my back is better protected than I previously thought.

The door opens and the lobby is empty. I don’t bother checking out; I don’t want anyone to clean the room and let the goon squad out with time to notify anyone. I feel a twinge on my stomach. There’s some blood seeping through my shirt. Great. Must have torn a stitch. Something else to worry about.

Before we hit the door, I hear “Mr. Joubert?” The desk man in the felt antlers is walking toward us, his hospitality smile shining. “Are you checking out?”

“Uh, no, just moving some stuff to the rental car. We’re headed back up to the room in a few.”

He eyes the carrier but shrugs, then holds out a folded piece of paper. “Someone dropped this off for you.” He hands it to me and goes back to the desk. Astrid peeks over my shoulder as I open it.

I CAN FIND YOU ANYWHERE YOU GO, KOTENOK.

I honestly do not know what’s worse. The fact that the Russian was in this hotel and seems to delight in screwing with me, or the fact that, when we get outside and I check my phone, Kenji hasn’t gotten back to me.

6

Bowing is an expression of gratitude and respect. In effect, you are thanking your opponent for giving you an opportunity to improve your technique.

—Jigoro Kano, the founder of judo

Prague

Five Years Ago

I cup my hands to my mouth and blow into them. Should have brought gloves. The snow is coming down heavy and the awning I’m tucked underneath is barely keeping it off. It’s beautiful, really, the way the snow, illuminated in the yellow sodium-vapor lights, transforms a quiet industrial park into something luminous. I breathe the cold air into my lungs and try to enjoy the tranquility of this moment.

Which will, very shortly, be interrupted by mayhem.

I pull the tablet out of my coat and check the feeds I placed around the inside of the dilapidated warehouse this morning. Still only a handful of thugs, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. No sign of the target: Daisuke Sakai, a kumicho—or supreme boss—in the Yakuza.

Sakai is here to sell a shipment of weapons to the Nationalist Social Club, a neo-Nazi group that’s mostly based in the United States but has recently been stirring up shit in France, Hungary, and Germany. Agency intel says they’re planning something big and violent, and NATO back-channeling has determined that, given the NSC is a homegrown group, this is America’s problem to clean up. In more ways than one, because the weapons were procured from an Afghani dealer and, of course, were originally sold by the United States.

---