Page 56 of The Art of Dying

“Put it down, Mrs. Abrams,” a man said, his accent conspicuously Russian.

“I told you we should’ve left the letters in the drawer,” I said. I moved forward slowly and turned on the porch light, illuminating Naomi holding her Ruger to Mason’s head, and a bulky, terrifying-looking man holding his silencer-equipped handgun to the back of Naomi’s.

The smug look on his face disappeared when he realized Naomi was holding a knife to his groin.

She grinned. “Put it down and get back in your car, comrade, or your boss gets a new face, and your sex life goes from meager to nonexistent.”

Mason’s thug looked to him for direction. Mason—looking annoyed and wholly disappointed—nodded once.

In the next minute, we were alone with Mason, and Naomi nodded to me.

“Kill the light,” she said.

I complied and moved back as she ushered Mason through the front door and inside.

“Oh my hell!” Caroline said, walking into the living room.

I held my finger to my lips, gesturing with my other hand to the kids’ room behind her.

“Caroline, you said earlier to tell you what I need from you to help,” Naomi said.

Caroline wrung her hands, visibly fighting the panic welling up within her.

“Watch the black car parked at the curb. If a giant of a man with a scar on his right eye steps out, tell me.”

Caroline nodded quickly and then rushed over to the blinds, peeking through. “He’s just getting in now.”

“Good,” Naomi said. “Karen, lock the door.”

Mason raised an eyebrow. “Oh,shecan call you by your real name…”

I did as she commanded, then grabbed Caroline’s hand and squeezed. Without taking her eyes off the car, she squeezed mine back.

“Sit down, Mason,” Naomi said.

He took a few steps and sat on my sofa, looking somewhat bored, as if it were just another Tuesday.

I wasn’t sure if it bothered me more that Mason was sitting on my sofa not far from my sleeping children, or that Naomi was holding someone hostage with a deadly weapon in my home.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Mason said.

“I read your letter,” Naomi said. “I don’t know about Quincy, but where I’m from, asshole, them’s fightin’ words. You’re going to tell us everything, and you have ten seconds to start talking or I’m going to have to buy Kitsch a new sofa,” she sized up the area, “and maybe a rug.”

Mason chuckled. “I don’t know the plan. I just gave it the green light. Delegating is about trust. Once you find the specific person designed to complete the task you require, simply, effectively communicate your agenda so that the work being accomplished benefits the organization.”

My face screwed into disgust. “What’s happened to you?”

Naomi was impatient. “Caroline, don’t take your eye off that car, he’s stalling… with… business advice.”

“Hasn’t moved,” Caroline said.

“No, I’m quite serious,” Mason said. “I’ve learned a bit over the years. I enjoy passing on that knowledge to others.” He looked up at me. “Especially to those I want to bring onboard. Our Japanese partners are very interested in bank rolling a Sudanese coup d’état. Two birds. One stone.”

Naomi put her gun away and then punched Mason with full force. Blood spattered across my sofa, but Mason only looked back at her, emotionless.

I swallowed. This version of him was much more terrifying.

“You’re going to tell us everything we need to know to get our men out alive.”

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