John Hart - Iron House

Michael worked his way back to the mall. It swarmed with people. There were thousands of cars. He drove up one row of cars and down another. “This will do.”

“What?”

He tilted his head at a late-model sedan. “Nondescript. No visible damage.” He parked four slots away.

“And we’re stealing it?”

Michael grinned. “The window’s open. It’s like an invitation. You want to come?”

“No.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Michael…” Her face caught the afternoon sun. “Those men you killed…”

“Those men were coming to kill us.”

“No innocents,” Elena said. “Is this what you meant?”

“More or less.”

“Marietta was innocent.”

“I didn’t kill Marietta.”

“Would you have?” She held him with the urgency of her question. “If things were reversed and it was you back in New York? Would you kill her to get what you want?”

“I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how badly I wanted something.” Michael slipped out of the car. In three minutes he was back. “Let’s go. Keep your head up. Act normal.”

They unloaded their belongings from one car and carried them to the other. Elena stumbled twice but no one noticed. No one said a thing. In the other car and moving, Elena said, “I can’t accept your answer. I can’t sit here and accept what you said.”

Michael drove in silence, Elena tense and miserable beside him. On the interstate, he said, “Some people deserve to die, if not for one sin, then another. When it happens to people like Marietta, it’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?”

“It’s a bigger word than you think.”

“She was my friend. She had parents, plans, and ambitions. A boyfriend. Jesus, Michael. She thought he was going to propose.”

“I’ve never killed a civilian.” Michael waited until she looked at him. “If you’re smart in this business, you never have to.”

“And you’re smart in the business?” She was angry, now, the fear fading. She wanted to lash out, and Michael understood. He’d felt it himself: survivor’s guilt, the first taste of how fast something bad could happen.

“Yes,” he said.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I take precautions to keep the innocents innocent. It means I plan ahead.”

Elena laughed a desperate laugh, white splotches in the center of each cheek. “Plan ahead? What plan? Where?”

Michael sighed heavily, then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. When the hand came out, it held Elena’s passport. The edges of it were crisp against his fingertips. He felt the sudden stillness in her, the parting of her lips. “There’s a direct flight from Washington. If you really want to go, I’ll take you there.”

She took the passport and squeezed as slow understanding twisted her features. “Marietta…”

Her voice broke, and Michael showed sympathetic eyes. He wanted to say that Marietta died easily, that she died a quick death, but that would be false. Jimmy would want to make sure. So would Stevan. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said.

But Elena did not hear him.

She was drowning in guilt.

Traffic thickened as they neared the outskirts of Washington. Michael passed a station wagon-in it was a family with young kids. They were playing with toy guns, the guns shiny and small, the small faces intent. “Tell me the rest.” Elena kept her eyes on the kids. One of them waved, made a face. Elena touched her cheek once, then turned away. She still saw the kid, though: cross-eyed and puff-cheeked, nose pressed white on smeared glass as his sister aimed at his back and pulled the trigger.

“The rest of what?” Michael passed the car.

“The things you haven’t told me.” Elena’s eyes were smudged red. A pearl of blood rose from the crease of a torn hangnail. “Tell me all of it.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I will tell myself that they are only words.”

“Baby-”

“Please.”

So, Michael spoke of the things he’d done. He described life as he’d lived it: life on the streets, and then as the old man’s strong right arm, what it took to do the job and move on. He spoke of other things, too: the one man he could count on, the care he took and the times he’d almost died. He spoke of his love for the old man, and he spoke of her, Elena; how, with her, he wanted more. “A normal life,” he said. “Better reasons to live.”

By the time he finished, they were parked at Dulles International Airport. The sky above was clear. Jets split the air, impossibly large, and Elena was shaking her head. “It’s too much.”

“You wanted to hear-”

“I was wrong.” She looked at the terminal. People lined the sidewalk. Bags were being unloaded. She shook her head. “I can’t save you.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just to understand, to let me try.”

She fingered the passport, cleared her throat. “I need money.”

“I’m more than the things I’ve done.”

“Must I beg?”

She was breaking, and the sight of it killed something in Michael’s heart. This was not how it was supposed to be; not the way he wanted it. He gave her cash without looking at the amount. It was a thick sheaf. Thousands. Many thousands. He took a breath, and gave her the business end of things. “Going to Spain may not keep you safe. Stevan has money, connections. He can find you if he wants to.”

“And will he wish to?”

An ember of hope kindled in her eyes, but it burned small, brief and cold. She worried with her nails at the raw place on her thumb. The pearl of blood had dried to a small crust. “Love me or not,” Michael said, “the safest place is with me.”

“Safest but not safe.”

“No. Not completely.”

Elena nodded at this thing she already knew. She tucked both hands between her thighs, and said, “Do I look scared?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m terrified.”

It showed in her eyes, a quiet but utter panic. She opened the door, and Michael said, “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I can keep you safe. I can make this right.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but I can. Please, Elena. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you.”

“And you think something will?”

“Stevan has a vengeful soul. It’s personal between us, now. He’ll want to make me hurt. Going through you is the best way to do that.” Michael’s voice was very intent, close to pleading. “The safest place is with me.”

“Then come to Spain. We can disappear-”

“Julian is my brother.”

His voice cut her off. She stared hard into his eyes, and there was no barrier between them. “So, you would choose between us?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I can protect you both.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“He’s my brother.”

“And this is my baby.”

She touched her stomach, got out of the car, and even though he could no longer see her face, Michael knew she was crying. It was in the slope of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. She shoved money in a pocket, found the sidewalk, and hesitated. People jostled her. The sidewalk was crowded with women and children, with men in suits and jeans and sunglasses. Eyes flicked over her and moved on. People stood singly and in knots; horns blared where traffic snarled. Elena took one step, then stopped again. For long seconds, she stood still, shoulders rolled, head turning first left, then right. A man bumped her, and she shied, dropping her passport, then bending to retrieve it. A space opened in front of her, but she did not move. Michael got out of the car and jogged through traffic. He worked his way to a place behind her, and when he was close, he saw that the passport was bent double in her hand. He stepped next to her, and when she flinched, he said, “It’s just me.”