The assassin.
Mark’s eyes shot open as his mind snapped back to focus. He sat upright and gasped, nearly choking on his own breath. He realized he was in a car, hurtling through the snow-hushed world. In another life, the landscape would have seemed idyllic, serene even. But not in this world. Mark slammed his finger down on the button that controlled the window, but the sheet of glass at his side didn’t budge. His head swimming, Mark pressed the button again and again, harder and harder, desperate for air, but nothing happened.
“It’s locked,” a voice said, next to Mark. “You just need to breathe, Mark. Breathe.”
In his panic, Mark hadn’t even considered who was at his side, driving the car. But he knew. That voice was forever seared in his mind, the voice that told him he was a dead man.
Mark turned to face the assassin.
“What are you…,” Mark said, struggling to speak. He studied the woman, who had her eyes fixed on the road ahead. He should be dead. Or at the very least, he should be tied up until they reached the place where the assassin was going to kill him. “What the hell is going on?” Mark finally blurted out.
“I found you before the Russians did,” the assassin said. “You’d be dead otherwise.”
The assassin looked at Mark, and he swore she cracked a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Mark allowed himself a moment to digest … everything. And still, none of this made sense. He could have woken up with a set of horns growing out of his head and been less surprised. “But … why?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but you’ve seemed pretty intent on killing me.”
“Things change.”
Mark nodded like he knew what the assassin was talking about. But he didn’t. “Like, what kind of things?”
The assassin glared at Mark, studying him like he was a callus on the tip of her finger; the sooner she could remove him, the better. “Look, this isn’t some charity case, all right? I was on the fence about killing you when I picked you up. And I would have but … damn it, you’re good at causing problems for people, aren’t you?”
“I excel at it.”
The assassin grunted, and the car fell into uncomfortable silence. Mark—who took four hours to talk about three hours of his workday, Sarah often joked—wasn’t any good at silence.
“So what was it?” Mark asked. “That changed your mind, I mean. Why didn’t you kill me?”
The assassin pursed her lips and exhaled sharply. “You have two options in front of you, Mark. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not in Russia anymore.”
Butterflies fluttered in Mark’s stomach, a feeling he couldn’t remember having since he was a teenager. It was a feeling of pure joy, joy tinged with profound relief. Even when Sarah broke the news of her pregnancy, Mark still felt a hint of worry crowding the happiness inside of him. But this, this was different. He could have cried, but he figured the assassin wouldn’t care for that kind of display. His reaction didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that he was free.
He’d gotten out of Russia.
Mark studied the world outside his window with fresh eyes. Now, it did seem idyllic. It seemed peaceful, and Mark felt the same peace creeping deep into his heart. He had the urge to have the assassin pull the car over so he could get out and run. Run until he was out of breath, at which point he’d drop to his knees, feeling the cold ground beneath him, and laugh until he cried. But, again—tears. And catharsis probably wasn’t on the assassin’s agenda. So instead, Mark kept things strictly business.
“Where are we, then?”
“Finland. Nearly to the airport. You’ve been out for over twelve hours.”
Mark remembered the condition he was in when the assassin had found him. Not only was he exhausted, but he was also likely frostbitten from his plunge into the frozen pond. The assassin had tended to him, he realized.
“My clothes,” Mark said. “You got me out of those clothes.”
“You were hypothermic,” the assassin said, flatly. “I had to.”
Mark was reminded of Ania, who had shown him similar kindness. Saved his life, in fact. Mark wanted her here with him; he wanted her to still be alive. He’d gotten her the revenge she’d craved, but it was no comfort for what’d happened to her. Mark’s burst of elation slowly gave way to anger as he considered the lives ruined by these damn games. Games of power and greed that satisfied few and terrorized many. It reignited Mark’s drive to make every single person responsible for what’d happened to him pay. Gregori’s death was satisfying, particularly since it fulfilled the promise he’d made to Ania. But Mark’s work wasn’t complete. There were still loose ends.
“So, what now?” Mark asked. “We’re going to the airport, but what happens when we get there?”
“I’m going to give you a fake ID, passport, and enough money to keep you going. You can take all those things and disappear. While you were unconscious, I took a photo of your bloodied face, almost blue from hypothermia, and I sent it to the people who assigned me this contract. In your condition, you made for a convincing corpse.
“I also shared that photo with certain Russian channels that are sure to spread the word throughout the intelligence community.
“What this means, Mark, is that the Americans think you’re dead, and so do the Russians. You can disappear, and no one will ever even bother looking for you. Find a job that pays cash, live a quiet life. In time, you can find a way to send for your wife and child, assuming—”
“Assuming Sarah isn’t murdered by someone from either side,” Mark interrupted.
“It’s still a possibility, yes,” the assassin said. “Someone may want to close the circuit.”
Mark closed his eyes and imagined. For a moment, he allowed himself to fantasize about a quiet life in a small town in Finland, living out his days in peace. After everything he’d endured, just the idea brought him so much comfort. He pictured Sarah and their baby making it there, somehow, and he could see how happy they all were.
But Mark knew it was impossible. His vision was a fantasy, and he hadn’t come all this way to indulge in make-believe.
“Sorry,” Mark replied. “But I can’t do that.”
The assassin shook her head and let out a quiet groan. “I figured as much.”
Mark cocked an eye at the assassin. “How so?”
“You could have fled before, but you didn’t. Instead, you went hunting. First Viktor, then Gregori. You want revenge.”
Mark considered this, but his quest for revenge, since Gregori’s death, had taken a nebulous shape in his mind. Someone in the United States had partnered with Gregori and, together, they used the persona of Sergei Vishny to secure various contracts and make untold millions. For some reason, Mark’s work securing the Verge deal was their masterstroke, but he couldn’t understand why. A major piece was missing: the identity of Gregori’s partner. While Verge’s contract was undoubtedly lucrative, that couldn’t have been the only reason why Gregori and his mystery partner’s scheme climaxed at this point. If Mark had to guess, based on what he knew of Vishny, they had already made millions. There was something else going on, and the danger that unanswered question was hiding made him shiver.
But the assassin knew. She knew what Mark didn’t.
She had to, Mark reasoned. She must have discovered something that persuaded her of Mark’s innocence and forced her to spare his life, defying her employers and putting herself at risk.
Then it came to him: Gregori’s laptop.
“You know, you still haven’t told me why you decided to let me live,” Mark said.
The assassin craned her head toward Mark and met his gaze with a smile loaded with mischief and danger. “I haven’t, have I?”
“You know who’s behind all this. You cracked Gregori’s computer?”
“You were smart to take it,” the assassin replied. “The old spy wasn’t as cautious with his laptop as he should’ve been. It took hardly any time at all to break thr
ough his security.”
“I want to see it,” Mark said, his voice telling the assassin that it wasn’t a request. He had risked his life for the information stored in Gregori’s hard drive, and it was his to consume.
“You can,” the assassin assured Mark, “but ask yourself if that’s something you really want. Just because you return home, that doesn’t mean you have to make trouble for yourself. The shadows are a fine place to live, Mark. Believe me when I tell you that.”
“I do, I believe you,” Mark said, and he meant it. The assassin had saved his life, not only by deciding not to kill him, but also by ensuring that he didn’t die from any number of causes: hypothermia, falling into the hands of the Russians, starvation in the wilderness. After escaping from Gregori’s cabin, there were no shortage of ways Mark could have expired. And the assassin was helping him again, trying to nudge him down a more reasonable path. Mark got the sense it wasn’t a path the assassin would take, either, but that didn’t mean she failed to see the value in it, the same as Mark should. But he couldn’t. Someone had played a role in Mark’s death sentence, had violently torn him away from his wife, his career, and his home, and that someone had to pay. If not only for Mark’s peace of mind, then for the danger this person posed to countless others. An enemy was out there, not only hidden but also positioned in a place of power. And Mark was the only person who could do something about it.
“If you believe me,” the assassin offered, “then why don’t you take the safer route?”
“Because of Dustin Wheeler,” Mark said with a smile.
The assassin shrugged. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Dustin Wheeler was a kid I knew in the sixth grade who got beat up pretty much every day. We walked the same route home from school, and this group of assholes from the year above us started following him home just so they could rough him up. I walked by a few times, acting like I didn’t see anything. I just minded my own business. But then Dustin called out to me. He was … he was such a mess of a kid. He picked his nose, was terrible at sports, and he said the weirdest shit. We weren’t friends, we hardly even knew each other. But here he was, begging me for help.
“I didn’t even think about what to do next. I walked right over to the kid closest to me, turned him around by his shoulders, and landed a right hook across his stupid face. That little shit went down like he’d just been hit by Mike Tyson. It was amazing. What was less amazing was the three other kids who were still there. And they didn’t like their buddy getting knocked out. So they turned away from Dustin and beat the shit out of me instead.
“Every day for the next week I stood up for Dustin, and every day I got beat up. I got a few shots in here and there, but nothing compared to what they gave me.
“But after a week, those kids stopped bothering Dustin. Maybe they lost interest, maybe they got busted by someone who saw what was going on. Personally, I like to think it was because they got tired of dealing with me. They had it easy beating up Dustin. He didn’t resist, didn’t threaten to tell on them. He just took his beating. But me, I made those punks work for it. I made it hard for them.
“So why don’t I take the safe route? For one, I’m clearly too stupid. But also, damn it, I can’t help but pick the right route. I’m a glutton for punishment that way.”
The assassin was silent as a plane flew low overhead. Mark looked around and noticed that their rural surroundings had transformed without him even noticing. Just like that, a European city was now crowding Mark’s vision. He was caught off guard, but the locale meant very little to him. As long as it wasn’t Russia, Mark would happily embrace wherever he happened to be.
“You’re going to make things harder for me, you know that, right?”
“I know,” Mark admitted. “And if what I’m going to do, if it’s going to cause real problems for you, I won’t do it. The last thing I want is someone else dying because they tried to help me.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. “I already collected the money for this job, and I know how to lay low. I’ll just have to hope the people who hired me aren’t more resourceful than they seem.”
Mark sucked in a deep breath. With his sights set on a specific course of action, he was eager to discover what the assassin already knew. A sliver of him wanted to really make sure that he wasn’t putting the assassin in danger, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Mark needed to know what was on Gregori’s laptop.
“So what was it?” Mark asked. “What did you find that was so compelling that you decided to save my life?”
The assassin eyed Mark, her tongue running along the inside of her cheek. After a moment, she nodded to the back seat. “Go ahead and take it,” she said. “It’s best you see it for yourself.”
For a moment, Mark hesitated. He had imagined that seeking evidence in Gregori’s computer meant sifting through bank records and emails, mundane work that would expose who the old spy was connected to. If Mark had to guess, the assassin wasn’t one for theatrics; she wouldn’t have him slog through Gregori’s bank statements to get him to that point. No, Mark concluded, it wasn’t a paper trail that the assassin discovered. It was something else entirely, and that made him nervous.
“Go ahead,” the assassin urged. “It’s waiting for you.”
Slowly, Mark reached back and grabbed the laptop. He opened it, but the keyboard was in Russian.
“Just click the right mouse button to log on,” the assassin said. “I removed the password protection.”
Mark did as he was told, and the computer’s home screen filled the monitor. In the center of the screen was a video window, all black with nothing but a white PLAY triangle in its center.
“Click it,” the assassin instructed, and Mark did.
The nighttime video was grainy, but Mark saw enough to know that the recording was centered on Gregori, standing beneath what looked like an expressway overpass. He seemed to be waiting, impatiently, for someone to arrive. Gregori was anxious, pacing, checking his watch over and over, scanning the area all around him. He muttered something in Russian to the guard standing behind him, but the bulky guard said nothing. Gregori slammed his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, stomped it out, and was about to light another one when someone else arrived.
“You’re late,” Gregori grumbled, but the person he was talking to—a man—had his back positioned to the camera so Mark couldn’t identify him.
The man apologized, and Mark swore he recognized the voice. It was familiar, but the ambient noise of the recording muffled and distorted it just enough so Mark couldn’t hear it clearly.
From there, Gregori and the man launched into a banal exchange. It was brief, but it covered things Mark already knew, specifically the details of the money they were about to make and if Mark had been thoroughly positioned as the dummy spy. The man assured Gregori that an investigation had been mounted against the entire spy ring, centered on Mark, and they were all primed to be rounded up and shipped out with the pulling of a few strings. Gregori threatened that the man had better be sure—they couldn’t afford any surprises. The man scoffed.
“And the software Verge will deliver to the Pentagon, you’re certain that your team has it ready?” the man asked.
“I’ve had the very best Russian hackers thoroughly ensure the software will give us exactly what we want, and it will be installed without issue. No one will ever know it’s there,” Gregori said. “Not until it’s too late.”
“There’s no second chances on this one, Gregori,” the man said. “It has to be perfect, because if it isn’t, everything we’ve done will have been for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t call becoming wealthy beyond our wildest imaginings ‘nothing,’ my friend.”
“This isn’t about money,” the man stated sharply. “Not for me.”
Gregori smiled. “I wish I shared your idealism, but I don’t believe the system can change. Not even with this.”
“I don’t want it to change,” the man
said. “I want the system brought to its knees. I’ve had to suffer, for years, surrounded by so-called colleagues who had no interest in serving the public good, who had no interest in doing anything other than serving their wealthy masters and bringing our government grinding to a halt. It was an insult, working with these people who’ve morally bankrupted the principles of my nation. I want them to know. I want them to understand that their abuse of power is what made me do this. And they’re going to pay the price because of it.”
“They will pay,” Gregori assured the man. “They will pay.”
They shook hands. “I’ll see you on the other side,” the man said. “I look forward to disappearing.”
“A new beginning awaits,” Gregori said, and he released the man’s grasp. The man turned, his face fully in the camera’s focus, and Mark could only stare, his body trembling like the frozen lake’s icy grip had returned, as the video ran for ten more seconds to its completion.
It was Dale.
“What the fuck?”
“Seems there’s no honor amongst conspirators; I imagine the Russians recorded that chat as collateral, just in case,” the assassin said. “The other man, the American. Do you know him?”
“I—I—yeah. I know him. His name’s Dale, Dale Schmidt. He was my mentor … my friend. He did this to me? Why?”
Mark thought he’d feel rage the likes of which he’d never known when he learned who was behind his harrowing ordeal. That he’d be suffocated by his own anger and its accompanying need for revenge. But seeing Dale—who’d been like a father to Mark—revealed as the man who’d poured gasoline over his life and then tossed a struck match onto it, Mark could only feel sadness. Profound, terrible sadness. He couldn’t accept this as true, and for a moment he allowed himself to wonder if maybe the assassin had set this whole thing up. Maybe she’d uploaded this doctored video to Gregori’s laptop while Mark was passed out, and she was manipulating him into doing something on her behalf. But he was quick to debunk this theory, knowing how little sense it made. He stared at Gregori’s monitor, the video frozen on a still image of Dale’s face, and he knew this was real. Dale had chosen Mark to be his shield. Dale orchestrated everything that had happened—
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