Page 79 of Assassin Anonymous

“Probably not a very good one. But he has no reason to suspect you, right?”

“Right.”

“He’ll come to us. We have his friend. If he’s going to be pissed at anyone, he’s going to be pissed at me. When he hears what I have to say, he’ll understand.”

Wait.

The Agency has Kenji?

Does that mean he didn’t sell me out?

I’ve lingered too long. But there’s no sound above me. Are they not in the apartment? I wait another second, my free hand hovering by the pistol, which suddenly feels hot and alien on my belt. After a moment, I risk it and climb back up. There’s no sound, no nothing. I clamber back in, then dash over to the window and watch the SUVs pull away from the curb.

If the Agency has Kenji, then he didn’t turn on me.

They’re using him to draw me out.

And since I got rid of my old phone, and the secured messaging app I used to communicate with Ravi, he had no way to get in contact with me.

Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, empty lungs for four.

What do I know?

Zmeya told me the Agency had gotten slapped around a bit and was currently on the ropes. So it behooves them to get me back to work. But Ravi knew where I was this whole time; he was paying Ms. Nguyen to keep an eye on me. Which, putting aside the discomfort of knowing that my life isn’t exactly what I thought it was, it raises the question: Why didn’t he come to me sooner?

This all started with Kozlov, who stabbed me, planted me with a tracker, and took my notebook.

He stabbed me, but left me alive.

Oh.

Enough of the picture snaps into place that I can at least see the outline of what’s happening.

This is a power grab.

Some foreign player is looking to depose the Agency.

The notebook serves two purposes: it gives that player a ton of intel about Agency operations, but it also sends me into panic mode, turning me against them—and if you want to hurt an organization like the Agency, your best bet is to turn their biggest asset into an enemy.

The Agency must have some kind of inkling about this. And even if they don’t know about the program, they knew where I was—they must know I’m close to Kenji. So they scooped him up, maybe to protect him, maybe for insurance, maybe to help find me.

I go back to the safe, open it, dig out the six-month chip, press it to my lips, and place it in my pocket. The one-year chip stays. It doesn’t feel right to carry something I haven’t earned yet. I stash it with the gun, remove a few stacks of bills from the duffel bag, and shove them in my coat.

Only one thing matters: Kenji is alive and the Agency has him.

So I’m going to get him.

—

Lulu throws me a little eyebrow when I step through the door of the diner. The place is mostly empty. The old man in the brown suit is doing his crossword at the back, and there’s an MTA worker sitting at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. I walk to the register and tell her, “I’d like the hungry man’s breakfast, please. No sausage, extra bacon.”

Lulu stares at me for a moment, like she didn’t understand what I said, then without moving her eyes from me, raises her voice and says, “Rodney, we need to close up for the day.”

The MTA worker looks over and shrugs, throws some money on the counter, and leaves. The man in the brown suit remains. Once the door closes behind us, Lulu crosses over and locks it and flips the closed sign, then leads me back to the kitchen. I put P. Kitty’s carrier behind the counter and follow. The kitchen is cramped and immaculate, the stainless-steel surfaces gleaming, like you can’t tell the last time it was used. She takes me to a door in the back, which opens onto a narrow staircase. We head down into a basement that smells like standing water, where there’s another door, and she fishes a heavy key chain out of her apron, then opens it up.

Inside is a room roughly the size of the diner, the walls adorned with lighted panels that softly flicker to life. Each one is loaded with weapons, from pistols to assault rifles.

“What do you need?” she asks.

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