Page 40 of Assassin Anonymous

“No. There is a group of people like us, who have laid down their weapons. A support group, to help us transition into a new life. One without killing. After I kill my brother, I will drop my sword and seek them out. See if I can make another life for myself.”

I reach into my coat to check the tablet. He side-eyes me and his hand reflexively goes for the blade. “Checking the cameras.” He nods and relaxes. The party has yet to arrive.

“So what is it?” I ask. “Like AA for killers?”

“Exactly that.”

“We’re not really addicted to this, though, are we? It’s not like heroin.”

“It’s a pleasure-reward system,” Kenji says. “You do your job. You do it well. You earn money or praise. Your brain produces dopamine. You get used to dopamine, so you look for more.” He side-eyes me again. “You know what I mean.”

Not a question.

Because yes, I do.

It feels good to be good at something.

“It doesn’t have to be a drug to be addictive,” he says. “Sex is addictive. Gambling is addictive. The thrill of winning. The risk of losing. The danger. There was a study in which they found people who kill, people like us.” He taps his head. “We have deficiencies in the prefrontal cortex of our brains. That affects judgment, decision-making, self-control. Many of those same things are present in addicts.”

Never really thought of it like that. Or gave it any thought, ever. What I do is what I do and I learned to stop parsing it while midair in Singapore.

“Do you think you’d ever stop?” he asks.

“Always figured it would be nice to have a farm one day. A dog. Something quiet. Sleep in every morning. But to be honest, this is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. It’s hard to think of not doing it.”

“The program is not just about not killing,” Kenji says. “It’s about surrendering the ego. The idea that we’re granted the right to make decisions that aren’t ours to make. I would like to do that. And maybe, one day, make amends for the things I’ve done.”

“Amends?” I ask. “Like, sit down with the families of all the people you killed and say you’re sorry? Jesus, man, I’m not passing judgment on how you want to live your life, but that just sounds humiliating.”

“The difference between humility and humiliation is willingness,” Kenji says. “Ultimately, it’s not for them. It’s for me.”

There’s a crunching sound in the distance. Tires. I check the cameras. The men inside are scrambling so they look like they haven’t been goofing off for the last hour.

“Showtime,” I tell Kenji. “You don’t have a gas mask, do you?”

“I do not.”

Damn it. Only brought one. I was really looking forward to using the BZ. Oh well, have to do this the old-fashioned way. I take the HK417 assault rifle off the holster on my back and give it a quick check. “Sakai is yours. I imagine we’re not getting drinks after this, but it was nice to meet you.”

He presents me his hands, one cupped underneath the other.

Perched on his palm is a small, intricate paper crane, folded from white paper.

I pick it up. I consider sticking it in my pocket but don’t want to damage the delicate beauty of it, so I place it inside the case I brought the HK in.

“If you ever decide you would like to find that farm,” Kenji says.

“Thank you,” I tell him, not entirely sure how I mean it. It’s a kind gesture, and I’m happy to know he’s finding his own peace. But I don’t feel like this will be anything other than a really good story and a cool souvenir.

Because I’m not addicted.

I can stop any time I want.

There’s a shout from down on the street, and the sound of a gate rolling up. I check my rifle one more time and say, “Let’s go kill a whole bunch of people.”

7

It isn’t the mountains ahead that wear you down. It’s the pebble in your shoe.

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