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  He aimed the gun at her face.

  THERE WILL BE OTHERS

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Saturday, June 1 1:02 AM

  Subject: Operation Falling Stars

  Conflicting reports.

  Did we get him or not?

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Saturday, June 1 1:02 AM

  Subject: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  Your idiot didnʹt follow instructions.

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Saturday, June 1 1:06 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  What do you mean?

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Saturday, June 1, 1:06 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  What part of ʺSHOOT HIM IN THE FACEʺ is hard to understand?

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Saturday, June 1 1:10 AM

  Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  I know him. Heʹll go back and finish.

  ***

  When the killer appeared in his room, John experienced two emotions: confusion and despair.

  Confusion because he didnʹt understand what the other man meant by ʺI already killed you once.ʺ John understood instantly that this was probably the man who had shot him, and understood that he was likely someone who did it professionally. He was a hitman, an assassin, a soldier. Someone whose life was death.

  John knew this the same way he knew the manʹs gun inside and out, the same way he knew a hundred ways to break a personʹs arm.

  Still, the killerʹs confusion didnʹt seem to come from Johnʹs survival. It seemed deeper than that. The man appeared…unhinged…on some fundamental level. Almost driven to the edge of madness. And the manʹs confusion seemed to leap to John like a virus leaping from one sick child at a playground to another.

  The despair was a stranger feeling. Surprising. John knew he was going to die. And he felt regret not for the passing of his life, but only for the fact that the mission would go undone.

  The mission will fail if I end here.

  He still didnʹt know what the mission was. Only that it was critical. That it had to happen if….

  What?

  If the world was to survive.

  He almost started in his bed. Would have done so if he hadnʹt been staring at the end of his existence.

  The man shook his head. His gun was still twitching, micro-movements that wavered just enough to remind John how badly strung-out the guy was, but not enough to miss.

  The man was a professional. He did not miss. And that, no doubt, was the source of his confusion.

  As if hearing Johnʹs thoughts–and likely to reassure an ego bruised by apparent failure, the man said, ʺI donʹt miss. I donʹt ever miss.ʺ He shook his head again. Then grinned, his lips pulling back so tightly they almost disappeared against his teeth. ʺDoesnʹt matter. Wonʹt happen again.ʺ

  Someone ran into the room.

  Of course the only person it could possibly be was one of the assassinʹs confederates. And of course it was no one of the sort.

  It was a woman. She was petite, almost elfin, with fine dark features and eyes that would have been kind if they werenʹt ablaze with a mixture of rage and terror. She wore pink pants and a top that was decorated with rainbows and teddy bears and John decided he liked the shirt immensely.

  The assassin swung around. The gun went from John to the newcomer. He felt no relief, though, only an increase of fear. He didnʹt want anyone else getting hurt on his account.

  ʺHow many goddam people do I have to kill today?ʺ said the gunman.

  The woman stopped short, jerking to a halt so fast that her feet almost went out from under her. One of her feet left a dark red smudge on the white tile floor. She had had to run through blood to get here.

  She was terrified, but her anger won out for a moment. ʺSorry to inconvenience you, a-hole,ʺ she spat.

  The gunman growled. An animal sound that did not belong in a human throat. Appropriate, though, because it was obvious that this man had renounced humanity some time ago.

  There was a small vase next to Johnʹs bed, with a pair of red daisies leaning out of the top. Nothing special, but he had an instant to wonder who had sent the flowers, to suspect for some reason that it was this very woman who had interrupted the killerʹs plans, before he grabbed the vase and flung it at his would-be attacker.

  The glass vessel flew the ten feet between John and the killer and smashed against the manʹs head. The gunman pulled the trigger on the PSS at the same time. The gun coughed quietly and a bullet splintered the doorframe only a few inches from the nurseʹs head. She ducked away but didnʹt make a sound.

  The killer lurched forward but was already retraining the gun on the nurse. Pulling the trigger.

  The second bullet hit the other side of the doorframe. No vase this time: Johnʹs arm was the thing that knocked his arm out of line. He had flung himself out of his bed the instant after he flung the vase, following it as it flew across the room and hitting the killer only a moment after the glass shattered across the other manʹs head.

  The killer spun around, facing John. The killer head-butted him. John managed to pull to the side fast enough to avoid having his nose shattered. Took the hit on the cheek. It hurt badly and his eyes watered, blinding him.

  The killer drove the gun at him. John jammed his arm under the manʹs wrist as the gun went off once, twice, three times. The bullets sizzled by, passing so close to him that the noise as they split the air was louder than the click of the PSS firing.

  The killer was already moving again. John barely made out the motion through the veil his tears had drawn over his vision. He slipped to the side and felt a thumb gouge against his temple.

  Nearly blinded.

  John stopped reacting.

  He stomped down, planting his heel on the killerʹs foot and trying to crush the small bones and fibular nerve there. The killer grunted: even through his shoes Johnʹs hit had been painful.

  At the same time John drove his knee into the other manʹs crotch. The killer swung sideways, prepared for such a move, but John was counting on that.

  Fighting was a chess game. One played at a hundred times normal speed. While free-falling through a pitch-black elevator shaft.

  As the killer shifted to the side, John drove his foot sideways. The assassin had to twist his leg slightly to move his hips away from Johnʹs attack on his groin, and now Johnʹs foot found its way into the slight curve inside the other manʹs knee. He pushed out and down. There was a loud pop.

  The killer didnʹt scream. His eyes widened and he gasped, but even the pain he had to be feeling–a knee that now bent in a direction it had not been designed to go and that would probably never be the same after this–did not steal the fight from his soul.

  He tried to use the gun again. Not to shoot John, but as a blunt weapon. He slammed the side of it at Johnʹs temple. A blow that could have fractured Johnʹs skull.

  Most people instinctively jerk away from that kind of attack. John moved toward it. The gun bounced off the back of his head–an awkward angle that stole most of its power. It hurt, but the move transformed it from a crippling or even killing blow to an inconvenience.

  Johnʹs face was next to the killerʹs. He ripped the other manʹs ear off with his teeth. Moving so fast that though blood flew in an arcing spray, none of it touched him.

  Now the killer did scream. The pain gave the other man strength. He swung the gun again.

  Again, John managed to be one step ahead in the chess game. Hoping for a quick checkmate, because he was getting tired.

&n
bsp; The assassin brought the gun down in an arc. John dropped back, almost falling down. He caught the other manʹs hand but this time didnʹt try to stop it from moving. Instead he drove it around. Hoping he could move fast enough to avoid being shot as the gun crossed his body.

  He was.

  He used the other manʹs momentum. Drove the gun into the killerʹs chest.

  Got his finger on the other manʹs trigger finger. Pulled it. Again. Again. Again.

  The last pull was a dry click slightly different than the others had been. Empty.

  The other man sagged.

  John looked at his face. His eyes were open. Unseeing. Or perhaps seeing something that no living person could comprehend. Fires so bright and hot that they blinded and left one glassy and mindless.

  John let the man fall.

  The nurse was still standing just inside the doorway. Her mouth a perfect ʺOʺ of shock, surprise, terror.

  ʺYou okay?ʺ he said.

  She nodded. The mouth stayed round. He almost laughed. Didnʹt. He knew the urge was a reaction to the fight, to the death that had almost touched him and that had come to rest instead upon another.

  He felt sad about what had just happened. He had had no choice. But still….

  ʺWe should…we should call the police,ʺ said the woman. Her voice started out tremulous. By the end she was speaking firmly. John glanced at her. She looked solid. Couldnʹt be more than five-foot-five, but he got the sense that she was strong. Sturdy as a mountain.

  He shook his head. ʺWait,ʺ he said.

  She didnʹt move.

  John rifled through the killerʹs pockets. He didnʹt touch the gun. It was useless anyway.

  In an inside pocket of the manʹs jacket John found a wallet. He opened it. Looked through its contents.

  The nurse spoke. ʺWhatʹs your name?ʺ

  ʺI donʹt know.ʺ

  ʺYou donʹt know?ʺ

  He shook his head. Taking out the cards in the wallet one at a time. Looking at them closely.

  ʺHow can you not–?ʺ Her voice was trembling.

  ʺWhatʹs your name?ʺ John couldnʹt look at her. He needed to attend to what was in his hand. But he didnʹt want her to get hysterical, either. Not with what was coming.

  ʺSerafina.ʺ

  ʺPretty name. Spanish?ʺ

  ʺPortuguese.ʺ

  ʺWell, Serafina, why donʹt you just call me John. Thatʹs what it said on my chart, and itʹs as good as anything.ʺ

  ʺJohn…how did you do that?ʺ

  John glanced at the dead man below him. ʺI donʹt know that either.ʺ

  ʺNo, not the fighting. I mean….ʺ He sensed her gesture at the bed. ʺYou shouldnʹt be able to get out of the bed. Forget about fighting a murderer, you should still be fighting to live.ʺ

  John shrugged. ʺI guess I heal fast.ʺ

  She was silent a moment. He turned over the last card. Shuddered.

  She stepped backward. No longer in the room. ʺIʹm finding a phone. The police.ʺ

  He stood. Moved toward her nearly as fast as he had run to the killer when he threatened Serafina. ʺYou canʹt,ʺ he said. He grabbed her arm.

  ʺLet go of me!ʺ She tried to twist out of his grasp. Couldnʹt.

  ʺListen.ʺ

  ʺLet go of me.ʺ

  ʺThen listen.ʺ

  ʺNot until you let go!ʺ

  ʺPlease, listen.ʺ He spoke softly, pleadingly. Something in his voice must have convinced her. She stopped fighting. For a moment at least.

  ʺWhat?ʺ she said.

  ʺWe canʹt go to the cops,ʺ he said.

  ʺWhy not?ʺ

  Because I have a mission, he thought. Because I donʹt have time for that.

  Out loud he said, ʺBecause thatʹll probably get us killed.ʺ

  Serafinaʹs brow furrowed. ʺThatʹs crazy.ʺ

  He nodded. ʺI know.ʺ He jerked his chin behind him, at the killer. ʺHe was a professional. And heʹs not alone.ʺ

  ʺWhat do you mean?ʺ

  ʺI mean heʹs got someone helping him. Maybe lots of someones. And theyʹre very powerful.ʺ

  ʺWhat are you saying, that the cops might kill us?ʺ

  He shook his head. ʺI doubt it. But theyʹd definitely put us in a pair of isolated rooms until they could take our statements. And while they did that another killer would come and blow our brains out.ʺ

  She laughed. ʺThey donʹt let just anyone in those places, you know. Itʹs not like they have a special go-to-the-front-of-the-line pass for killers…and….ʺ

  Her voice drifted away as he held up what he had taken from the killerʹs wallet. Just the front one, then he fanned them out for her to see them all.

  ʺI assume weʹre in Los Angeles?ʺ he said.

  She nodded. The ʺOʺ mouth had returned.

  The top card identified the killer as Los Angeles Police Department detective Sean Richards.

  The one under that said he was FBI Special Agent Keith Jonas.

  The next one: Secret Service.

  NSA.

  CIA.

  ʺHe had an entire bowl of alphabet soup in his wallet,ʺ said Serafina. This time John allowed himself to laugh. Just a quick chuckle, then he grew serious.

  ʺTheyʹre real, too, near as I can tell. Which means either heʹs the biggest overachiever in history, or heʹs got someone who can pull some very serious government strings. Someone who can essentially get him anywhere he needs to be. Like–ʺ

  ʺLike an LAPD interrogation room.ʺ Serafinaʹs dark face grew pale. She was, John realized, extremely beautiful, but now the beauty was shaded by terror that manifested in circles under her eyes and a tightness at the corners of her lips.

  ʺYeah,ʺ he said. ʺLike an interrogation room.ʺ

  ʺHow do you know all this?ʺ

  He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. The closest human beings have to a nonverbal way of expressing complete ignorance. ʺI donʹt know. But I knew how to kill that guy. And I knew to look for this,ʺ he said, fanning the cards again. ʺI wonʹt make you go with me. But Iʹm leaving, and I think youʹll be safer with me.ʺ He looked at the killerʹs body. ʺBecause there will be others. There will be more.ʺ

  Serafina grinned. Some of the color came back to her face and a wicked glitter illuminated her eyes. ʺYouʹll need pants.ʺ

  John realized for the first time that bandages still swathed his chest. He wasnʹt wearing much else.

  He tried to smile through his full-body blush–the blush that was all-too visible to Serafina.

  Then the smile faded. ʺLetʹs find some fast,ʺ he said. ʺBecause I think weʹve only got a few minutes before more of them come.ʺ

  TO JUDGE AND ATONE

  From: POTUS

  To: 'X'

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:51 AM

  Subject: Operation Falling Stars

  Iʹm so sorry about the erroneous report. The back-up operatives are already on their way in.

  From: X

  To: Dicky

  Sent: Friday, May 31 12:51 AM

  Subject: RE: Operation Falling Stars

  I didnʹt know you had back-ups. Sigh.

  I suppose it doesnʹt matter. Send them in if that will make you feel any better about the colossal screw-up youʹve lorded over so far. Not that you waited for my advice on this.

  But donʹt think theyʹre going to have any more luck than the first one did. Your men donʹt have the capability to deal with this one.

  I think Iʹm going to have to outsource.

  ***

  Not for the first time, Isaiah stared through a scope, centered the crosshairs on his target, and wished that he could simply deliver death and pain. Those were easy.

  Messages were so much more difficult.

  But he banished the thought as soon as it came. After all, he thought–and he heard his grandmotherʹs voice say the words in his head–if it were easy then everyone would do it.

  The sound of
his grandmotherʹs voice, even imagined, managed to wring a smile from him. She had been the one person he knew growing up who was, simply and genuinely, good.

  Every Sunday she made cookies. Occasionally sugar cookies or snickerdoodles, but Gramma Bainʹs specialty was chocolate chip. The kind of cookies that were so gooey they required a handful of paper towels, and woe to anyone who dared eat them while wearing white.

  She made them for everyone. All the kids in the neighborhood were free to stop by Sunday evening and have cookies until they ran out. The only thing they had to do in return was stick around for the evening scripture, which was never onerous. Gramma Bain usually read a short one, something from the Beatitudes or a single verse out of Proverbs.

  ʺJust something to keep your souls as sweet as your teeth,ʺ sheʹd laugh.

  Then she died, and childhood ended, and the bad times began.

  Isaiah missed her. Every day. Sometimes he missed her so much he could smell those cookies. Mostly on days when Katherine was doing poorly or when he had to kill someone in a particularly ugly way. Because Gramma Bain had always been so good, and Isaiah knew that no matter how many people he killed, heʹd never be as good. Would never see her again.

  Because she was in Heaven, and heʹd never get there.

  The man in the cross-hairs picked up a tortilla chip and swiped it through the salsa on the table. The salsa looked good, even at this distance. Lumpy. Some people whipped the ingredients, turning them into slurry. In Isaiahʹs opinion, that no longer counted as ʺsalsa.ʺ Salsa–real salsa–had to be lumpy so you knew you were eating real dip and not just a tomato milkshake.