Page 24 of Assassin Anonymous

I think about becoming an astronaut.

I think about the man I killed on the balcony—the crunch of delicate things shredding in his neck and the way his body went limp when his soul left.

I think about how good it felt to jump from a tall building and be saved by my wits.

I think about how good it feels to be good at something.

I think about mainlining adrenaline for a living.

And I shake Ravi’s hand.

“You need a handle,” he says.

“What, like a nickname?”

“You need it from an operational standpoint,” he says. “But as time goes on, that name will serve as a deterrent. Something that’ll shut down certain situations without you having to raise a hand.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” I tell him. “Feels like an asshole move, naming myself.”

Flashbacks to grade school, seeing Predator for the first time and thinking that maybe if I had a cool nickname like Dutch, I wouldn’t get bullied.

It didn’t work.

Ravi gazes at the water, at the neon shapes shifting in the mist. “ ‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death.’ ” He smiles, satisfied with himself. “I’ve been wanting to use that one for a while. But like I said, one in seven. Okay, Pale Horse.” He slaps his hand on my shoulder and leaves it there, giving it a squeeze. “Hezbollah won’t want any fingerprints on this. To them, this never happened, so no one’s looking for you. There’s a flight booked home for you tomorrow night under the name you flew in on. In the meantime, visit the food markets. The Maxwell Food Centre on Kadayanallur Street is my favorite. Get some chicken rice. Some char kway teow. Enjoy yourself.”

He removes his hand and, without another word, leaves me there. I watch him move through the crowd, multicolored lights illuminating his white polo, and then he’s gone. I turn back to the bay, watch the water and the light dance and grow bigger, forming greater and more complicated shapes as the music hits a crescendo.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death.

I’m not a Bible guy but I know how that verse ends. Johnny Cash’s gravel voice sings it in my ear.

And hell followed with him.

The music stops. The lights go out. Water rains back into the bay, and the crowd is enveloped by darkness.

5

The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.

—Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Singapore

Now

A flight attendant who is clearly smiling through exhaustion offers me two blank customs forms. I pass one to Astrid and click the overhead light, casting a yellow glow in the darkened cabin. Astrid places the form down on her seat tray and taps the red-lettered, bolded words: warning: death for drug traffickers under singapore law.

“Should we be worried?” she asks.

“We’re speaking again?”

“I’m serious,” she says, casting her eyes downward at the carrier under the seats, where P. Kitty has barely moved for the duration of the nineteen-hour flight.

Fun fact: pets can’t overdose on CBD. Though I did take the time to dump the treats out of the branded bag and into a Tupperware container, so as not to jam us up with TSA. I didn’t know what the rules were and didn’t care to look them up.

“I think we’ll be okay,” I tell Astrid, shifting around in the seat, trying to get my blood circulating. My body is stiff and sore, but at least the volume of the discomfort is turned down. In the concert hall of pain, I’ve moved from next to the speakers to the back of the venue.

Her tone isn’t exactly warm, but it’s the most we’ve spoken since we got our passports, and I consider that progress. The cab ride to the airport, then the two hours we spent waiting for the flight—mostly she just stared off into space. Since she wasn’t feeling chatty, I popped a handful of Vicodin before the flight took off. I made it through most of the trip asleep or in a haze.

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