Page 65 of The Darkest Half

I never ask questions that do not need to be asked. She knows what she is doing and how to lead and coordinate her missions. I do feel that the missions in Germany are taking longer than they should, but I will not interfere. I must trust both her abilities and her judgment.

But I miss her—that I cannot deny or ignore. I miss her and think of her every single day. And, of course, I worry about her. Because at any moment, I know one of a million things could happen, and I would never see her again. But it is the same with every other person in our line of work, including me—especially me.

It is what it is. We chose this life, even if I had less choice than she, and it is what we love. It is what we were born to do. And no matter what happens in life, the thing we were born to do will always find us. It will always find everyone. Even those of us who were only ever born to die.

I am glad that that nearly broken kidnapped girl escaped her captors in Mexico and hid in the backseat of my car that night so long ago. I am glad she put a gun to my head and forced me to take her with me. There is nothing in our time together that I would ever change if given the opportunity.

We complete each other. We are the same person.

We are Faust.

Niklas

Turns out, I did get what I’ve always wanted: a simple, uneventful, boring-ass life. Compared to a life of killing, running from killers, and always looking over my shoulder. And I’m lovin’ every second of it. Or what’s left of it anyway. I’m kinda pissed that it took half of my life to get to this point—that is, if I actually get to live until I’m eighty, then it’d be half.

I don’t miss my brother or Izabel much, but that’s mostly because I’m still exhausted by that life, and they were a huge part of it. Most of it I just want to forget, to put behind me and never look back, but it’s hard to do when the only two people you care about in the world are still part of that world.

But in my time away, I’ve had many opportunities to think. And I’ve come to one conclusion: maybe I wasn’t really in love with Izabel, after all. I was in love with the idea of her, with the idea of someone loving me back the way she loved my brother.

Yeah, sure, a huge part of me loves the shit out of her, and I can’t deny that I wouldn’t welcome a relationship with her if she weren’t with my brother, but…hell, I don’t understand it, really, what my feelings are for her. And I don’t think about it much anymore. I think about her, but not so much about my feelings for her. Whatever the hell they are.

I think I’ll just sit here and enjoy this early-morning Mexico sunrise.

I relocated to Yucatán, Mexico, to a city that never sleeps and is always alive with activity. I get woken up every morning at nine sharp by a man pedaling a covered street cart screaming into a bullhorn that he’s selling raspados. I can’t sit at a red light in my car without someone force-washing my windshield or back out of a parking space without a guy guiding me and yelling, “Dale, dale, dale!” These people never actually ask for money, and I imagine most who pay them only give them five pesos, but I always give them more. Much, much more. Last week, when I went to the same grocery store three weeks in a row, several guys scrambled toward my car when they saw me entering the parking lot. They cleaned the windshield, washed the tires, “guarded” my car until I returned, and even covered the windshield and driver’s side door with cardboard to keep out the sun. And by the time I came outside, ten guys were yelling, “Dale, dale, dale!” and guiding me out of the space, fighting without actually fighting, for the job.

I paid each enough money to last them a year.

Some people might find these things exhausting, but I find them refreshing. Life is much simpler here. I can drive ninety miles per hour through any part of Mexico and never have to worry about being pulled over by a cop—the cops tend to stick to checkpoints, where they make the most money. The only people who seem to be in a hurry here are the taxi drivers who are just as hotheaded as those in L.A. or New York City. Everybody else—slow as fucking molasses. I like that too. And not that “cheap” matters much to a guy with several million dollars in the bank, but it's kinda nice paying a street vendor with coins rather than bills for a complete meal.

I’ve been here for over nine months, and still no word about Izabel.

It’s why I came here, to Mexico, of all the places in the world I could’ve chosen. Were it not for Izabel, then I would’ve gone to Australia. Not sure why other than Australia is just different from everything I’ve already seen and experienced.

But what does Izabel have to do with why I chose Mexico? Well, I know the woman, her past, what she endured, where she came from—what made her who she is today. I remember, on several occasions, hearing her talk about how all she wanted to do was help girls who’ve been trafficked for sex in Mexico. And her mission to Mexico with Naeva wasn’t the last time she intended to come back here.

She’ll be back eventually, and I’ll most certainly hear through the desert grapevine about it when she does. I know my brother won’t interfere or send anyone to watch her back—if he did, Izzy would be pissed if she ever found out. But I intend to be here to watch her back when she does show up—and I couldn’t give a shit less if it pisses her off.

But for now, I’m just going to enjoy the peaceful life I’ve finally been granted.

Because I know it won’t last.

Izabel

It’s been nine months and six days since I came to Germany with my unit. I was glad Victor gave me missions so far away from him in New York City. Not because I wanted to be away from him, but because I had to be.

“Push, Izabel,” Yana Moroz, right-hand to me in my unit, tells me; all I can see through the slits in my clenched eyes is Yana’s blond head between my legs. “It’s almost here.”

I push even harder this time, and seconds later, I give birth to Victor’s…

“Definitely a boy,” Yana announces, and the baby cries.

I name him Zuma Victorio Faust.

I never did get my tubes tied as I’d intended after leaving Mexico with Naeva and Leo Moreno. I told Victor that I did it, and I don’t know why I lied other than I just didn’t want him to have that much more to worry about. I never wanted to have more children, not only because of the life I lead and the dangers I face every second of every day, but because I had a daughter already and, to this day, have never been able to know her. I’ll never pursue her, either. Not because I don’t want to see her, or know her, or be the mother to her I was never allowed to be, but because I don’t want to turn her quiet, normal life upside-down. It would be cruel to drag her into my world after living a completely different, safe life from the moment she was given to her adoptive family.

Perhaps it’s also cruel to bring yet another child into my world, but at least Zuma will have been born into it; he will somewhat understand it.

I couldn’t let Victor know about the pregnancy. He had just taken over The Order and renamed it the worst name I could ever think of. Hmm, maybe that’s why I gave our son such an unusual name—subconsciously getting back at Victor?

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