Page 8 of Assassin Anonymous

Hearing the steps has the same effect it always has on me: a desire and excitement to complete them, and an abject terror at the proposition.

Valencia continues: “No one among us has been able to maintain anything like perfect adherence to these principles. We are not saints…”

This line always draws a couple of chuckles.

“The point is that we are willing to grow along spiritual lines,” she says.

Valencia looks up at Kenji, who nods.

“Thank you,” Kenji says. “Now…”

Stuart’s hand shoots up at teacher’s-pet speed.

“Stuart,” Kenji says, glancing at me, “we have some other business…”

“Nah,” I tell him. “It’s all good. We’re not in a rush here.”

Stuart twists his hands in his lap. “Yeah, so I…”

“This shit again,” Booker mutters, looking at the rest of us like: C’mon, right?

Stuart immediately shuts his mouth, and his eyes drop to the floor.

“Booker, you know that’s not how we do things,” Kenji says, calmly but sternly. “Everyone is allowed space to share, without judgment. The only requirement is that you have the desire to stop.”

“It’s just,” Booker says, waving a scarred hand in Stuart’s direction, “he’s a freak, right? We’re all thinking it. I don’t like that he’s sitting here with us. What we did, we did to people in the game. I killed warlords and terrorists. Not innocent people.” He looks at Stuart. “How the hell did you find out about this, anyway? It’s called Assassins Anonymous. Not Serial Killers Anonymous.”

Kenji looks at me, hoping I’ll jump in. Another difference from a normal AA meeting, where people are given the runway to speak—our meetings often mutate into talk therapy sessions.

“Mark?” Kenji asks.

Booker’s attention snaps to me.

Stuart gives a tentative glance in my direction.

“Couple of things here, B,” I tell him. “You know as well as I do that he got vetted by Kenji, just like everyone else. Second, we take in hit men, and hit men ain’t assassins. You’re entitled to your feelings, but we’ve had this conversation more than once. What we did, we did for money, or the thrill, or because it’s the only thing any of us is good at. Stuart over here”—I gesture toward the cowering figure—“he’s got a real compulsion. The kind of behavior you would more traditionally associate with an addiction. Which means this is the best place for him. Him being here means someone is alive. You want to do carveouts for mercenaries, too? ’Cause that wouldn’t work out so well for Marines who switched over to private contracting…”

Booker involuntarily flexes the muscles in his forearms. I’ve gleaned that much about him from his shares, and he doesn’t like that I have him pegged down to his branch. Marines are the easiest to spot, though; it’s the bravado.

“…but we’re all here trying to be better,” I tell him. “So I think we should support Stuart, not tear him down.”

“Whatever,” Booker mutters, folding his arms.

I look at Valencia. The one I’ve had the hardest time figuring out, because she tends to speak the least. Booker is a Marine turned mercenary; Kenji was a Yakuza hitter. Stuart is Stuart. All I can tell about Valencia is she’s Mexican, but she doesn’t carry herself like military or police, so I figure she had something to do with the cartels.

“V, what do you think?” I ask.

“I think this is a little too much crosstalk,” she says, staring past the circle and through the wall.

“Back to the meeting.” I wink at Stuart. “What have you got for us, Stu?”

“Well,” he says, still looking at the ground, now hugging himself for support. “Last night, I went to this bar near my apartment, because I like their fries. Their burgers are sort of meh, but their fries are good. So I got a plate of fries, and the bartender, she was my type.” His lips curl into a smirk, and I think all of us freeze a little at the word type.

The more Stuart talks, the faster his voice gets: “It’s Astoria, so it’s generally a quiet neighborhood after last call. I could have followed her home, found out where she lived. Or I could have talked to her and learned a little about her. I was always good at that. Getting people to open up to me. But I didn’t. I finished my fries and I paid my bill and I went home.”

Kenji claps, enthusiastically, and the rest of us follow with a little less verve. “Good for you, Stuart,” he says. “How did that feel?”

Stuart tilts his head, digging the thumb of his left hand into the palm of his right. “I still wonder what her head would look like sitting in my fridge with an apple crammed in her mouth, but the important thing is, it’s still on her shoulders, right?”

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