"You know... no one ever actually disappears. I know it seems like spies do, like you all know some secret to falling off the face of the Earth. But, really, all you have is a new destination. And contrary to popular belief, you guys tend to travel business class. People see you. They remember. For a price, they will tell you all about it. Where you went, what you claimed to do for a living, what you drank on the plane. It all adds up, those little things. They are all part of the cover ID. In Cadiz, for example, you were a jewelry designer who drank martinis. Gin, of course, not vodka. With two olives. And you were finicky about germs."
"But..."
"In Sochi, you were a paper pusher from Chicago in town on business, but looking for some fun. You drank watered down piss beer and were allergic to peanuts. And your white collars always had a little makeup stain on them. Covering up your tattoo. I wondered how no one else ever noticed that..."
"Mack... what the fuck?" he asked, shaking his head. "Who are you?"
"That's a different answer to a lot of different people. As, I imagine, the answer would be to anyone in your past who asked you."
Something flashed across his eyes at that, something gone too fast for me to even try to interpret.
"Fine. We'll start with an easier question. What do you do?"
"I find people."
"You find people," he repeated, eyes narrowing.
"Turns out I'm pretty good at it. I can even find a supposedly invisible spy no matter where in the world he lands up."
"Who do you work for?"
"The only person in the world I can trust," I told him. I didn't mean for it to, but my chin always seemed to have this tendency to jerk up a bit when I was being snarky, when I was being defensive, when I was trying to cover hurt with hard.
A long, deep breath moved out of him at those words, something in his eyes almost seeming to go sad.
"Yourself," he concluded.
"Yeah, it turns out... you can't trust anybody these days," I told him, eyes sparking, and I couldn't bring myself to care even though I knew that them doing so conveyed the depth of feeling there still, and that whoever felt the most - in any situation, lost.
I'd lost so much.
I wasn't sure if there was anything else I could afford to lose.
Maybe that was why I finally moved in closer.
I could make up all the excuses I wanted to about why it took me fifteen years.
About not blowing his cover, about knowing that some things were bigger than me, more important than my revenge. And sometimes, well, the risk to me for getting too close was too great.
But, the fact of the matter was, I could have moved in. Half a dozen times over a dozen years. I could have gotten to them.
It wasn't a matter of ability.
But willingness.
I understood what was at risk.
I understood what could happen if you screwed around with the most covert parts of the American intelligence community.
I hadn't been ready to face those consequences.
But now?
Now, there was nothing left to take.
Not really.
Nothing of consequence anyway.
So it was time.
"Mackenzie, I never..." he started, letting go of my wrists.
He never what?
Meant to hurt me?
Meant to let me live?
So I could feel the consequences, know keenly the feeling of betrayal, to realize that no one could ever be trusted.
Least of all him, I reminded myself
It didn't matter that my stomach felt knotted, that the closeness was bringing back feelings I thought I had buried, that being near him was stirring things. Dangerous things. Things that had nothing to do with anger, my constant friend these past fifteen years. After I was pulled out of the rubble. After I spent months in the hospital.
Those things were tricks.
Scent and touch memory linked to positive times. Dopamine and serotonin.
Tricks of the mind, of the body.
But I had gotten far too smart to be tricked.
I knew his methods.
I knew what he was capable of.
Lying, most of all.
He was a liar by trade.
And it didn't matter that his trade was behind him.
The techniques, the tradecraft, they stayed with him. They were a part of him.
So it didn't matter what was going to come out of his mouth, what creative ways he would twist the truth.
It couldn't be believed.
He couldn't be believed.
I couldn't trust anyone.
Least of all him.
He had taught me that.
Cruelly.
Brutally.
I took a breath, calmed myself down.
Then shot up, twisting, yanking the lamp off the nightstand, pulling the cord out of the wall, slamming the blunt bottom against the side of his head before he could even try to restrain me again.
I tried not to feel it.
As the whack seemed to fill the room, as blood trickled down from the side of his head, superficial, head wounds just liked to be dramatic.