Two Guns 25 - Knockin' on Heaven's Door

Mark started breathing again. The blinding pain was slowly fading, shrinking to a background noise quiet enough to unclench his teeth, open his eyes, allow his finger to step off the trigger and let it reset. With a grunt of effort, he rose from the ground, unsteady on his feet. Every breath brought new stabs of pain; he felt the surface of his light Kevlar vest until he found a hole in it. There's something to be said even for a Type IIA vest, in a pinch - but bulletproof this wasn't, and Mark had to fight back the urge to throw up. Deep breaths, focus on the pain, let it keep you awake...fight against the blackness on the edges. The pain was extreme, even by Mark's standards, but the adrenaline rush kept him on his feet, helped him stagger to the door even as the now unbuckled vest slid to the floor.

In a way, Sharon was marginally luckier. Dead before she hit the ground, she was already getting her wings.

After the apartment door, it was the hallway that tortured Mark, made him fight for every inch. Doors were opened just a crack, fearful eyes on the staggering killer. There was a handrail, and Mark used the hell out of it; he relied on his left arm, using muscles away from where his flesh had been graced by a visit from Mr. Hydra-Shok. By contrast, his right arm was rapidly going numb, white knuckles arranged around the cooling Colt. Doors in front of him closed, doors behind him opened. He didn't hear the footsteps, but when he climbed into the elevator and turned around, he saw the faces.

---

Mark slipped on the sidewalk.

In any other context, it might have been funny, a momentary annoyance at best, but this was then and Mark could feel his blood dripping onto the ice as he struggled to keep going. Some traction, that wasn't so much to ask for, but he failed to gain a foothold for what seemed like forever, flopping about like a fish out of water. He wanted to lie down, to accept the calming cool for the fever in his heart. He wanted it like he wanted the last five minutes to be part of that fever, like he wanted to go to sleep and wake up. He'd even talk to her about it, let her mock him...anything but this.

Get up.

To sleep, knowing he'd wake up in her arms. Somewhere.

Get up.

His right arm started shivering, dropping the Colt onto the ground. He brought the arm in, pressing it against his side.

Get up.

Mark gnashed his teeth, and then he did what he always did, he tapped that hideous strength and he got back on his feet. Adrenaline ebbing and determination soaring, he walked with as much dignity as he could muster, still in mortal danger but back in control. He walked to his car and unlocked the driver's door. The seat welcomed him; it was easier to breathe sitting down, driving back the black from this vision once more. He started the car. He drove away.

Three blocks away, a flurry of police cars sped past him on the road, heading for her apartment. Fatal curiosity acted out again, Mark reflexively turned on the police scanner in his glove box.

"Officer down at 163rd and Riverside, I repeat, officer down..."

Enough.

---

A red light, that's what he would remember, a red light. Brake the car, take into account the slippery road. Come to a perfect stop. Play by the rules.

Don't kill cops.

This light wasn't red, it was rather blue, and that's when Mark realized that he was in a hospital. A real hospital, not a back alley meat shop like Dollar's joint. His right side was still protesting with every breath, even though heavy bandages provided support. Probably broke a rib, Mark thought. It was like somebody had turned a page in his book; removed from the injury in time and space, he made a dispassionate, reasonable guess. There were details, like how he'd gotten to the hospital, but that was to be filed away for later consideration. Mostly, he tried to get worked up again, tried to unravel the tapestry enough to pick out a good suspect and extract payment. Hate had taught him what he knew, kept him safe and sane all those years; love had only tortured him this last week. So much for that.

"You're under arrest," she said. At this stage, Mark was happy to hear even that. Then he realized that it wasn't Sharon saying this. He raised his head off the pillow and tilted his chin forward.

Ayers. Karen fuckin' Ayers.

Hello, hate. Good to have you back.

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" he said hoarsely, his head falling back onto the pillow. Okay, so maybe getting even could wait for a few more minutes.
"No. You don't 'give a fuck' that you almost killed yourself. You don't 'give a fuck' that there's good people out there who dial 911 when they see somebody slump over at the wheel. You don't 'give a fuck' that you're now two cops in the hole," Ayers said, pausing for effect. "I'd say you're pretty good at this, at not giving a fuck. That must be a truly awesome gift from the heavens themselves and I hope you enjoy that little feeling of bravado. I'm blessed in different ways, I'm almost kind of a psychic. From that springs my sincere invitation to revel in your stupidity, because I've read your cards and your life is going to be the definition of pain from here on."

Mark's repertoire of snappy comebacks seemed exhausted for the moment, so he stayed quiet.

"Just so we're clear," she continued, "I wasn't screwing with you yesterday. I've been working all week, phone calls and favors, anything I could get my hands on to trade favors with you. Because I thought that this wasn't the time to go for 100%, just take out the acute crisis and leave the rest for people with more endurance than I have. And hey, it's not like this was personal. I wanted to believe that she was getting to you, that you'd be out of my hair soon enough without anybody getting hurt. I thought, let's be reasonable. I talked to Collins, I talked to you..."
"Collins," Mark said forcefully as his mind latched onto that. "How...how is she?"

For a second, he could feel Karen's look trying to bore holes into his face.

"She's dead," she said, matter-of-factly. "Are you playing with me?"
"No..."
"Then quit acting stupid. You shoot people, they die. Maybe my standards are unreasonable, but I learned that before I went to law school."
"I just had to be sure."
"She's dead, Simmons. EMTs got there about ten minutes after you shot her, but they couldn't do anything. If this means anything to you...I'm not going to go after her. She'll get her funeral and a nice eulogy. The sacrifice of deep-cover work for the OCB. And all the dirt is going to disappear. I still don't have anything on Whitton, by the way. All the little secrets I know are about to get buried."

She stifled a hollow laugh.

"It's too bad we only know who the heroes are after they die."
"And if this means anything to you," Mark began, "I wish I hadn't been forced to do this."
"Forced to?" she spat back, anger driving blood into her cheeks. "Forced to?! Who had his hand on the trigger, Simmons? Don't you even start talking about being forced to do anything. You had every opportunity to back down, to save her and yourself. But your much vaunted loyalty took care of all that awful thinking for you. So don't play the victim. All you are is a coward. A running dog."

Mark kept silent, but that didn't slow her down.

"Fuck your omerta. Fuck your friends, fuck your bullets and fuck you. You don't fool me for a second. It's all good, as long as you don't think about it too much, right? Well, here's something to think about," she said, recomposing herself.

She bowed down to open her briefcase; Mark's arm snaked out involuntarily, like he could fix this with more violence - but the cling! of metal on metal was the only sound he heard, as if the handcuffs that chained him to the bed had only just appeared. No matter; she had retrieved a case file and opened it, now she was flipping through the pages upon pages.

"On the 5th of October," she read aloud, "Sr. Rodriguez asked me to drive him to the Our Lady Maria hospital. I waited outside, and like on Wednesday, I expected him to come back out after ten minutes. I remember that it was very hot that day; I rolled down the window and saw Sr. Rodriguez step outside, twenty minutes after he had entered the hospital. Behind him, I saw a young girl, walking about with ungainly crutches. Sr. Rodriguez helped her down the stairs, and then into the car. He told me to drive them to Sr. Rodriguez's mansion. The girl seemed very serious and reserved; I do not recall them speaking one word on the entire drive...later, in the evening, he had me drive her back to the hospital. She said 'Thank you' when I helped her back up the stairs. That's the only time I saw her..."

Karen dumped the file onto Mark's bed.

"The DEA nailed Silvestro Rodriguez's driver in Panama. We got a ten-page confession this morning - that was part of it. I'm going to give you another hint - there was only one patient in the hospital who fit that description. I think we both know who that was. I know you know who Silvestro Rodriguez is. So, what I'm asking myself here is...and maybe you'll indulge me and answer me this question: Did you know? Did you know that your boss was crooked and supported her anyway?"

It's not possible for a man of Mark's build to snap the chain on police-issue handcuffs without tools. Mark's attempt was still quite credible, though. At least strong enough to tear out some stitches.

"I'm wasting my time," Karen said, almost resigned. "I've got better things to do, Simmons. Better than trying to reason with you. Better than sitting here, making you listen when I can't make you understand." She got up, straightened her blouse, then turned back to him, as if she had to fit one more thought into this. "I have work to do," she said, and then she walked out.

Mark just laid there, a bubbling cauldron of feelings in his head ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. Crimson poured into his bandages.

He didn't acknowledge the winter any more. The blood and the hate were there to keep him warm.

Two Guns 24 - Who Wants to Live Forever?

All the way through the taxi ride, Sharon Collins hadn't looked at the driver. She had asked him to turn off the radio, she talked to him - well, mostly he talked and she listened. He was Polish, of all things; they talked about Sunday Mass for fifteen minutes. Sharon didn't ask him where she could find God again. There was nothing Sharon could do to help Mark, but Detective Collins might find a way. Manhattan drove past her, taking her all the way back to her apartment. It seemed like the snow was letting up a little bit now, though the sky was still overcast. Probably too much to ask for good weather at a time like this. The Beretta beneath her jacket tugged on the holster straps, heavier than before. In a perverse kind of way, she longed to feel the grip of her issue Glock again. Surely, she couldn't show up back for duty without it, and that's exactly what she was going to do - back on duty, try to get this mess fixed from the inside.

"I'm going back home soon," the driver said. "Sell my things, my taxi, go back."
"What for?" Sharon asked, not paying attention.
"There are new leaders now," he responded; Sharon couldn't see his smile.
"But it'll still be in shambles."
"Maybe, maybe," he said. "But I will be with my son. He is a man now, big strong man. My wife, my neighbors...letters are not the same. This country...is not my home. I lived here for fifteen years and it is not my home. What did you do, Woytja? What did you do in the free West? I drove a taxi. My apartment smells like cabbage soup, every day."
"Not good for honest people, is it?"
"Hm?"
"This city," Sharon said, with more emphasis. "It's not good for honest people."
"It's not," the driver agreed.

Sharon's foot touched a small duffel bag on the taxi's floor. One of ten she had found in Mark's house, filled with bundles of cash.

A duffel bag. Full of money. And he had ten.

Crime does pay.

It was enough to pull over, get a coffee, buy new clothes, try to call Mark and hang up after ten beeps. The driver waited for her, thanked her for his coffee. She'd barely broken in one bundle of money from the bag. All the way to her apartment, she counted the bundle, again and again, in lieu of putting it back into the duffel. She figured Mark might need it to make his exit, but now that the taxi was pulling to a stop in front of her home, she thought about that.

"This is for you," Sharon said, handing the bundle to the driver. The man turned around as she tried to open the door; she froze when she saw his face.
"Is this...?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"It's plane ticket money," she replied, and he nodded, understanding.

Random acts of kindness, enabled by blood money. Her moral compass was starting to look like a clock.

She shouldered the burden of the duffel bag as she finally got out. Somehow, she had expected her street to look different, but it didn't. She'd left it snowed in and she returned to it snowed in. Here she was, standing in the snow with hot money and a cold gun. She grabbed a different piece of metal from her pocket and unlocked the front door; a grey cat rushed past her for reasons of its own. Her house didn't have an elevator, so she took the stairs. The wood groaned under her steps, which would've been an insult if they weren't old enough to get away with it; keys still dangling from her hand, she tried to unlock the door but found it already open. Stepping into the apartment confirmed her suspicion.

Mark was there. Sitting on her couch, surrounded by dirty plates and sporting a healthy growth on his chin from lack of shaving. He looked at her with tired eyes.

"You look good," he said.
"You look like shit," she gave back, smiling for him.
"So much for my plan, huh?" he asked, forcing a small laugh through his clenched throat. "I'm tired."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"No...not really."
"You should've skipped town."
"This is the only thing I could do," Mark said, monotone again. "Try to draw the heat, give Alex more time to disappear."
"Falling on your sword, then?" she replied with a bitter undercurrent. "They should've called you Samurai."

No reply; Mark just stared at the ground.

"Did you hear the BOLO, Mark?" she asked. "If anybody finds you, they'll shoot first and ask questions later. This isn't just covering for Alex, it's suicide by cop."
"...maybe," he conceded.
"Do you want to die? Do you want to give your life for the cartel? Alex could have left town at any point, why is she still here?"
"I don't know, but..."
"But what?"
"But I have to."
"No, you don't. You've done enough for her, Mark, more than anyone could expect. But you're done. You're out. They'll kill you if you keep fighting. I couldn't live with that...that happening. Please, if not for you then for me...turn yourself in. We can go down to the station, nobody will lay a hand on you, I swear..."

Mark cut her off by standing up. He turned away from her, slumping his shoulders.

"I love you very much, Sharon. I don't know if I ever told you, but I love you with all my heart."

He took off his trench coat; she saw the suppressed .45 in its shoulder holster.

"But I can't do this."
"That doesn't matter anymore," she said. "I wouldn't be a very good person if I didn't try everything to save your life. I wouldn't be a very good cop if I didn't arrest you. Either way, you're coming with me."
"You came here to get your gun," he said. She nodded, and he knew it without seeing it. "So it's settled. You're the cop."
"And you're the killer."
"If that's how it's going to be..." he said, trailing off.

If Mark hadn't been facing away from her, or using a quick-draw holster, or maybe not wrecked with guilt, he might have managed to draw first. But he was, he wasn't and he was, so she had the Beretta out and aimed at him when he was still moving. In a split second, she had to make a choice.

She didn't.

He brought the Colt up, matching her Beretta with a well-oiled equalizer. Their eyes met, for the first time since she'd stepped into the apartment. Her fire was matched by his ice.

"Fancy meeting you here..." he drawled.

---

Two guns. Good versus evil, wrong versus wrong, right versus right.

Two worlds. Old versus new, 9mm versus .45, cop versus criminal.

Two shots. Loud versus suppressed, fire versus ice, love versus calculation, flesh versus Kevlar.

Two guns. Mexican stand-off, duel of will, duel.

One. One look of regret. One last breath.

Not two. Two never again.

Just one.

Last Man Standing.

Two Guns 23 - Der Kommissar

The cold wind that grabbed Queens in general haunted the Flushing Meadows in particular. Mark grabbed the sides of his trench coat, drawing it closer to his body. He didn't need to glance at his watch to know he'd spent ten minutes on this park bench; assassination requires a good sense of timing. All things considered, he had a rather good spot, owing to the largely empty park; his vantage point gave him a direct look at the Unisphere. Just for kicks, Mark looked at the giant globe and tried to mentally place all African countries in their correct positions. It was slow going, especially after South Africa, but he persisted until he heard approaching footsteps.

Captain Paul Whitton sat down on the bench, joining Mark in looking at the gargantuan steel globe.

"Looks like shit now, doesn't it?" Whitton said.
"I appreciate a good piece of steel," Mark replied.
"Yeah, but this used to be a lot better. Did you ever see it lit up?" When Mark confessed that he hadn't, Whitton sighed. "My Dad took me here for the World Fair. The globe looked fantastic. The real sun was slipping behind the Manhattan skyline, and I watched all the capitals light up, the soft shadows...that had to be like the astronauts looked at the world, you know? Awesome...but small."
"We need to talk about Karen Ayers," Mark said, matter-of-factly. Whitton nodded softly, but said nothing. "Can't we get rid of her somehow?"

Whitton clicked his tongue dismissively.

"What do you wanna hear? That you should go out and kill her?"
"Well..."
"Because that's right out," Whitton said sharply. "I like the agreement as much as the next man, but I'm here to save lives, not to cover my ass."
"I appreciate your idealism, Captain," Mark said. "Really, I do. But the way I see it, something's got to give. I've thought about it, and every other way, somebody important gets thrown to the wolves..."
"And you don't think that Ayers lady is important? You figure everything's gonna be fine if I let you be the wolf?" Whitton replied. "Let's say I forget my personal moral standards and nod off on this, what do you think the DA's office is going to do, huh? Tuck their collective tail between their legs and forget that they have dirt on us? You do that - you just touch her, let alone kill her - they'll go nuclear on us. That doesn't help anybody."

Mark didn't say anything. His train of thought kept running into concrete walls, no matter which track he travelled down.

"Well, you watch yourself, Simmons," Whitton said, finally breaking the silence. "I'm going home."
"Have a good day, Captain," Mark replied.
"You too."

Whitton got up and walked, footsteps crunching the snow and gravel below his shoes. Mark sat there, head cocked to the side, watching Whitton leave. He heard the approach of his second appointment in the distance; another figure on that bench, just three minutes after Whitton had gone.

"Did you get anything?" Karen Ayers asked; there was a click from within the pocket of Mark's coat, and then he handed her a small tape recorder.
"He didn't go for it," Mark said. "I can still get you other dirt on him, but I need more time..."
"Time is what we don't have. What you don't have."
"I just need more time," Mark insisted.
"Simmons, let's not forget one thing here: I'm doing you a favor here. You called me. You want to deal, okay, let's deal, but what are you offering me? You want to give me Alfredo Ingues without the cartel or his daughter, and what good is a case against a dead man?"
"I can't..."
"Yeah, that's a fair assessment, you can't. I come here and this is the way you want to get me Paul Whitton?"
"I will get you Whitton."
"That's good. You for Whitton, that's fair."
"That's not the deal we were talking about."
"That's the deal you're getting. You want to protect that little cartel of yours? That's a juicy, obvious target. You're trying to convince me, Simmons, aren't you? Give me something juicy, something I want."

Hesitation.

"Boris Dolvitch," Mark said through clenched teeth. "I can get you Boris Dolvitch and the rest of the Russian Mafia."
"We're going to get them anyway, once the cops finish sifting through your wreckage at the BAT. You do know that you screwed yourself with that one, don't you?"
"That was a different group of Russians, I can get you evidence to nail Dolvitch and everyone he works with."
"What about you?"
"What about me? Do I look like I need protection? If I go down, then that's how it's going to be."
"Tough words, Simmons."
"I'm more than words, Ayers," Mark said, glaring at her.

Then it was his turn to get up and walk away. With every step there was a sting in his belly, his guts churning and twisting into knots. Whitton he could stomach, though it was a crying shame to feed a good man like that to the grinder. Boris, though...Mark felt sick at the thought, but at the end of the day, Boris was just a friend. Boris wasn't family. And Mark was doing this to save his family, he told himself, nothing too extreme to save the family.

He thought about Sharon.

He'd have to tell her after this, about the choices. She...she'd understand, surely. It's not like Whitton was innocent, nobody was getting framed here; she would have to understand eventually that this was for her sake, too. The inevitable fall of Paul Whitton, without dragging her down. And the family, well, that was a no-brainer. With all the other organizations out of the way, the cartel could lay low, play it legit, watch the heat die down. Mark pictured a nice, long vacation in a non-extraditing country with Sharon, all expenses paid by Senora Ingues. A sacrifice, sure, but that's how the family took care of its own.

It wasn't what Jesus would've done, Mark reflected with a bitter smile. But it would do.

---

Captain Paul Whitton drove home, engine purring and smooth jazz pouring out of the radio like a steady stream of sonic nougat crème. Traffic out of Queens was light, but he drove slowly over the slippery roads, not wanting to chance a loss of control. He was considering things, which meant further loss of pressure on the gas pedal, and he wasn't looking forward to the pot roast for dinner at all.

He turned the radio down and reached into the bag on the passenger's seat. His hand snaked past his badge and issue Glock before grabbing onto a small moleskin notebook; he rested it on the steering wheel, flipped it to Page 7, then grabbed the receiver from his dash-mounted car phone and punched in the number on that page. Red light ahead; Whitton stepped on the brake well in advance, accounting for the lack of traction and bringing the car to a gentle stop. The speaker pressed to his ear reproduced a ring tone, the little representation of potentiality: a call neither taken nor denied.

A click, then a voice. The signal went green. Whitton stepped on the gas.

"Chief, the situation is out of control," the Captain said, not bothering with pleasantries. "We need to move fast on this one."

---

Shuffling through Mark's pad, Sharon walked in fur slippers three sizes too big for her, having rapidly exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the place. The doors to the garage and basement were locked, she wasn't in the mood for reading and there was only so much amusement she could glean from Mark's record collection. Fortunately, she had found a police scanner in a cardboard box of fresh surveillance gear Mark had left in the kitchen; it felt comforting to listen to some chatter with familiar lingo while she assembled the turkey sandwich to end all turkey sandwiches. To that end, she had opened a fresh package of sourdough bread and cut off a few slices with the most unintentionally sinister kitchen knife she'd ever seen; now the task was to pile on turkey cuts, cheese and, well, some slices of ham - for flavor. She watched her creation with distrust, not quite certain of its structural integrity, questioning her decision about having six layers of meat. She grabbed the knife to cut the creation in two, but felt the sandwich slipping at the slightest touch.

A ham too far?

Cussing under her breath, she held down the top slice of bread with her left hand. With the knife sinking in, she could see the sandwich's contents trying to spill out to the sides, but they could not, would not escape her. With a final push, the sandwich laid bare before, cleft in twain with a mail-order ginsu knife. Sharon's triumph was dulled momentarily when she realized that she's forgotten to apply the mustard beforehand and would now have to engage in the culinarily suspicious act of flavoring the halves separately.

One minute later and she'd forgotten all about being hungry.

---

"Dispatch to all units, we have a BOLO on a Mark Simmons, aka Marcus Aaron Simmons, Caucasian male, age 46, about six feet, brown hair, described as muscular, probably wearing long black clothing. He was last seen in the Flushing Meadows Park. Simmons is wanted in connection with last night's killing spree at the Brooklyn Army Terminal. If identified, do not approach, I repeat, do not approach. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous, call dispatch if identified. I repeat, we have a BOLO on a Mark Simmons..."

Two Guns 22 - This is not America

Brighton Beach, Mark reflected, didn't really look all that festive.

It wasn't snowing so much as mudding, the flakes already dirty on their way to the ground and not improving the situation down there. Mark walked on the boardwalk with a plodding rhythm, both to reflect on the situation and to avoid making a very undignified slip on the ice - the soles of his boots were stiff like boards, affording him little grip on the slippery sidewalk. Normally, that would've been worth noting (and correcting), but being too deep in thought, the sole thought only bubbled up on occasion, to be immediately pushed back down by heavier deliberations. He turned his head to glance behind him, catching a glimpse of the Coney Island amusements in the distance; he sighed, but kept walking. The streets branching off the boardwalk were growing heavier on kyrillic signs and children in heavy parkas waging snowball wars; Mark picked one with little advance warning and crossed the street into Little Odessa.

It seemed that, with every step, he nodded to someone else; street vendors, young toughs hanging out in entrance ways, the occasional businessman. Mark liked the certainty in that, announcing his presence and being acknowledged as guest in turn. Being a good Enforcer was about more than knowing how to handle yourself with a gun. Being a respectable arbiter between the families, knowing how to behave yourself, speaking a smattering of their languages and knowing their customs...all as useful, if not more so, than a fast trigger finger.

Boris's front was an unassuming store for men's clothing; the old bastard was quite the tailor, and Mark recognized a few of the mannequin suits as hanging in his own closet. Mark did it how things worked there; he politely declined the first offer of help from the employee, looked around for a couple of minutes, then informed the sales clerk that he'd like to have a custom suit tailored. This led to the sales clerk excusing himself for a minute to formally announce Mark's presence to Boris; then he came back and told Mark to step into the back to talk to the boss about what exactly he had in mind. Mark thanked the clerk, then parted the curtains and stepped into the back. One of Boris's bodyguards asked him to remove his coat, for measuring; Mark had always felt like this was a pretty good idea on how to frisk people while staying in character, so to speak. With a nod from the guardian, it was time to hit the office. Another guard stood at the door, nodded to Mark and opened it for him; Mark stepped into a slice of 70s Americana. He always admired the crampedness of the room, all the photos and half-tailored suits and paintings surrounding Boris's desk. The old man was sitting there, skinny glasses riding the bridge of his nose and his right hand on a mug of deep black coffee.

"Hello, Boris," Mark began; the old man indicated a chair in front of the desk, and Mark sat down.
"Welcome once again, Mark. What can I do for you today?"
"Oh, I figured I'd just check in," Mark said nonchalantly. "See how you're doing."
"I'm recovering quite nicely, thank you." Boris held up his hand; the index finger didn't flex when he moved the others. Mark understood what that meant, but gave no further comment. "How are you?" Boris asked.
"Ah, you know me. I'm bulletproof."
Boris chuckled softly. "That's what we all are. Then we get old."
"I'm glad you're okay," Mark said.
"I was a little worried when they set the trailer on fire," Boris said, sipping from his coffee. "And being clinically dead twice in one week...yes, that's a little more excitement than I usually wish for. Would you care for some coffee?"
"Thank you, but..."

Boris fetched a second cup and saucer from a cupboard behind him, then poured coffee for Mark. In the great continuum of coffee from sludge to dishwater, this definitely fell closer to the former. Mark took a sip and impressed Boris by managing to keep a straight face.

"I need to know what happened to Berkovitz," Mark said.
"I have a question for you, first," Boris said thoughtfully. "When the Soviet Union finally decided to let people emigrate...who do you think they let go first?"
"Okay, I'll bite. They kicked out the gangsters in the 60s, right?"
"Early 70s. But yes. People like me. People they didn't want. Berkovitz's parents were Orthodox Jews, hardliners. His father didn't make it past the border, his mother drank herself to death over it. So that little boy grows up here, and his heart is hardened against Russia."
"Oh, I know another complainer..."
"True Russians complain," Boris added. "I defended the Motherland against Hitler's stooges. He hated it, and that's why he's an emigrant. I am merely in exile..."
"Right. Berkovitz?"
"The little boy who hates Russia grows up to be a police officer. He speaks Russian, they put him into Organized Crime. He goes crooked. We come to an arrangement."
"You never mentioned that part before," Mark said.
"Mark, we're friends, not business partners," Boris shot back without the slightest hint of malice. "He was just another piece of small fry until he made his play to kidnap me from Nikolai and kill me. I have to admit, he was pretty good, but he wasn't a professional. And he bored me with his life story...as if I didn't already know it."
"You're fairly relaxed about all the shit they did to you."
"Why get agitated?" Boris says, sipping on his coffee. "With the precision of clockwork, life repays our evil. Berkovitz is dead, you killed Nikolai."
"Are you sure Berkovitz is dead?" Mark asked.
"I saw him sink into the water next to me with a bullet hole in his head, before Nikolai pulled me out again. That would be difficult to fake."

Mark leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

"At least one loose end tied up," he said.
"Make that two," Boris said; Mark looked up to find the Russian pulling the cork from a bottle of wine. "I owe you this much, at least."
"Only one glass," Mark said defensively while Boris poured. "I've got some things to do today."
"Good things?"
"...no."
"Then enjoy the wine," Boris replied.

Mark rose from his chair, grabbed the glass and raised it to a toast.

"To old friendships," Boris said.
"To old friendships," Mark replied with a slight smile.

---

Mark's footsteps were quiet against the gravel that made up the walkway between the plots of the small Brooklyn cemetery; new shoes, a new black suit, all fresh off the shelves at Boris's shop. After that, a visit to the barbershop nearby, haircut and a shave that still tingled on his cheeks. Mark wanted to look respectable for this.

The cemetery was nearly empty, owing to the cold, which suited the assassin just fine; he slowed his walk as he approached a granite cross, a grave he knew without having seen it before. Alfredo Ingues, the inscription read. 1912 - 1989. Beloved father. Mark looked around, eyes darting from side to side. He twitched in his new jacket against the wind, tried to gather up the right words for an audience of infinite patience.

"I'm sorry," he began, unsure of every syllable. "I'm sorry, Alfredo. There, I said it." He laughed uneasily. "You kept nagging me and I always went for Sir. Well, it's Alfredo now, old man! How do you like them apples?"

Silence.

"I wanted to apologize, I guess I've done that now. Yeah, you know, for not being there...at the funeral. I should've been there. I should've been there and I wasn't. I'm, like I said, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. Heh, you're probably smiling now. Stupid old Mark, all torn up over another body."

Silence.

"But that's just it, isn't it? You're not just another body rotting away. You are...you were the boss. You've been part of my life for so long...so long. And I'm all torn up because I wanted to be there for you, the way you were always there for me. That's part of why I'm here now, you know how I am. I don't like leaving my debts unpaid. And I owe you this, Alfredo. I owe you the respect to come here and honor you. I don't...I didn't talk to Alex about this, but I figured you wouldn't have wanted this to be a big old group hug kind of thing. So..."

Silence.

"So I also want to thank you. For being there. For taking an angry teenager off the streets. For all the things you gave me and taught me. I know it was just business, it's hard to go for the heartwarming stuff when I was your tool for so long. But I believe that, in the end, I was more than a weapon for you. And you're dead and can't tell me I'm full of shit, so that's how I'll remember it."

Silence.

"I'm just that kind of guy, you know...yes, you know. My bad. I take care of things. And the last thing you ordered me to do, to protect Sharon Collins...I've done that. You would've liked her, if you'd seen her...not just the frightened cop that evening. The woman she is. The warrior she is. The way she walks and doesn't know how crazy it makes me. The way she doesn't back down. The way she just...she just loves me. And the way I love her."

Silence.

"And that's what makes this so damn hard."

Silence.

"You don't see it? Well, let me spell it out for you, Alfredo. She's going to take down the family. I know that. So you see, this is all your fault."

Silence.

"We believed in it, didn't we? You had me convinced, all those years, that we're gangsters with good hearts. That there's honor among thieves. But now I look at it and it's just about survival. Where's the honor now, Alfredo? Is it in the things we do or the things we say?"

Silence.

"You're laughing now, you old bastard, aren't you?" Mark said, the first hint of a tear in his left eye. "Silly old Mark. Getting so worked up over nothing. Why don't you tell me how to puzzle this out, Alfredo? Why don't you just say, 'Mark, there's things a man has to do'?"

Silence.

"Because I know that!" Mark said, anger creeping into his voice. "I know that! But this isn't that easy!"

Silence.

Silence.

"No. I'm being unfair. I know what you'd say."

Silence. Mark sighed and wiped some tears from his cheeks.

"You're talking to two people here, you know that, Alfredo, don't you? Only one is going to leave this place. For every one who wins...somebody loses."

Silence.

Mark breathed out with all his might, the way one might to drive poison from the lungs. His muscles tensed, his face hardened, and he turned away from the grave, purpose in the beat of his steps. No more cold, no more confessions. One Mark left behind at the grave, mourning his losses. Another Mark walking away to do what he lived to do.

---

When he passed the gates of the cemetery, he reached into the pocket of his pants and grabbed the keys to his car. With efficient movements, he unlocked the door, sat down in the driver's seat and started the engine. With a bit more force than necessary, he accelerated out of the parking lot, back into the city. His cell phone rang, right on cue.

"Simmons."
"It's me," Sharon's voice came from the other end. "I'm at the station right now."
"Why are you..."
"Listen, this is important. Ayers sent me a little file the DEA built on Silvestro. One of the photos shows him entering the general hospital in Bogota...and I'll bet you dollars to pesos that he went to see Alex there."
"I'll ask her about it, I'm heading her way now."
"Ask her? Mark, this proves that there's something going on here."
"No, it proves that he was at the hospital. It's not much use as evidence for anything else."
"If you'd just ask her the right questions..."
"Don't worry about that," Mark said, his voice flat. "I have a plan."