Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

“Come on. We have to go.”

He could see his friend wrestling with it, doing the same thing they had done earlier. Trying to decide whether he could live with either set of consequences. Struggling to find a way out. And for a moment, Mitch wondered what would happen if Alex refused.

Then he heard a voice behind him.

“What’s the hurry? We just got here.”

THE SECONDS HURT.

Jenn had never realized it could work that way, that time could have physical weight and sharp edges. That each slow tick of the clock could cut. While she and Ian sat on the couch, helpless, Mitch would be pitting himself against Victor. And she’d seen the light of too much self-sacrificial joy in Mitch’s eyes. He had finally torn down the walls he’d erected to hide from the things he had done, and it was killing him. He wouldn’t act cautiously, wouldn’t hang back. No, he’d go forward in typical male fashion.

Which meant they were his only chance. And every second they sat here, prisoners in her living room, was one closer to too late.

The scissors had gone warm in her hands, the metal slick. Though they were a lousy weapon, they were what she had, and some comfort.

The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, said, “I’ve got them.” A pause. “Yes.” His eyes were cold and steady as some deep-sea creature. “OK.”

Beside her, Ian whispered, “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” She saw the man watching them, didn’t bother to hide her words. “You?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Hold on. You have to hold on.”

“You remember the game I told you about?”

“Jesus Christ, are you kidding?”

“Prisoner’s Dilemma. Remember it?”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

“Remember what I said? It’s about iteration. The point is that you play over and over.” For a moment, she thought she saw the faintest crinkle of skin around his eyes, like he was trying to tell her something. “But if you know you’re only going to play once-”

“I know, I know. Then you betray.”

“Right.” He coughed long and hard. When he could breathe again, he said, “Especially if it’s the last game. Or if there’s something truly important at stake. Something larger. Then you betray. You make sure you get out.” His gaze locked on her.

“Jennifer, Ian, do me a favor?” The man smiled. “Say cheese.” He pointed his phone in their direction, and she heard a faint click. He’d taken a photo. A trophy, and another violation. They were toys for him, a way to amuse himself.

“If all you wanted was a picture, you could have asked,” she said. “I might have posed.”

He smiled. “That’s a generous offer. But this way is better, I think.”

“What do you want?”

“Little late to play innocent, don’t you think, sister?”

“Yeah, but what do you want ? Why are you here?” It was part anger, part hope that he would tell her. “Did Victor change his mind? Because you can’t get into that safe-deposit box without me. Even if you have the key.”

“But we’re not trying to get into the bank, are we?” His eyes hardened. “Are we, Jennifer?”

“Oh God,” Ian said. “You’re here to kill us.”

Jenn looked over at him. He was wax and sweat, all pale and runny. How hard had he been hit?

“Alex has the stuff you want, and you know that. So once you get it from him, you’re going to kill us. Right?” Ian leaned forward. “Please. Tell me that much. I need to know.”

“Why?”

Ian’s arms were trembling. “Listen. I’m a trader. I make deals. Let’s make one.”

“Like what?” The man sounded genuinely amused.

“You know that we got the chemicals when we robbed Johnny Love.”

“So?”

“So we took money, too. That’s the reason we did it.” Ian’s eyes darted. “Promise to let me live, and you can have it.”

What the hell was Ian doing? He couldn’t possibly believe that a promise meant anything. Could it be some sort of play? Was he making a move, trying to distract him?

Then the words hit more clearly: Promise to let me live.

Was he selling her out? Was that what he had been saying, with his reference to the game? Explaining in advance what he was going to do, assuaging his conscience for betraying her?

Jenn stared at him: expensive suit spotted with vomit, skin pale and shiny, arms shaking. He didn’t look much like the cocky player she knew, the one who hid behind a mask of wit and sarcasm. The man she considered a friend.

She thought back to brunch, Ian talking about the game, its results. How if both people betrayed, they both got medium prison time; if neither did, they both got just a little. And the worst result of all, if one was faithful and the other betrayed. One walked free and the other suffered for a decade.

Is that what he was setting her up for? If so, then according to the rules of the game, the best thing she could do was betray him right back.

Only, what would that mean? How could she betray him?

More important, did she want to?

She’d no sooner thought of the question than she had the answer. It was like the dream she’d had earlier, the one where she was pregnant. When she’d woken, she’d been genuinely sad that it was just a dream. Not because she wanted a kid. Because she wanted things to matter. She wanted to live as though they did.

So screw the rules of the game. Whoever this guy was, he likely intended to kill them. Maybe they could get out, find a way to help Mitch. Maybe not. But either way, she’d rather go out being faithful.

Ian said, “I mean it. There’s a lot of money at stake. More than two hundred thousand dollars. You let me live, you can have it.”

“I know all about the money, Ian. You think you stole it from Johnny Love, but really, you stole it from me.”

“Well, this is your chance to get it back.” Ian paused, let the words sink in. “Look, I understand you don’t trust me.”

“Not too much, no.”

“Let me prove I’m serious.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Ian took a deep breath, then glanced at her. “If you look in Jenn’s right hand, you’ll find a pair of scissors. She picked them up when you weren’t watching.”

VICTOR WORE THE SAME OUTFIT he’d had on earlier, a charcoal suit and a white shirt, the top button open. His hair was neat and his smile broad. Leaning by the entrance of the bar, he looked like a man who had already won.

And there was a reason for that, Mitch realized, looking at the four bottles on the bar top. Looking at himself, a busted rib and cut hand and screaming headache; at Alex, blood drying on the side of his face from the broken glass, the wound on his eye bound in butterfly bandages. Both of them unarmed and worn down and out of their depth. And, Mitch realized, not done with the discussion they’d been having. He wasn’t sure which way Alex would have gone. Which meant that, again, each stood alone.

Johnny Love was behind Victor. He had on a mauve silk shirt. The pistol in his hand was bright chrome.

Game over.

“Where are you off to, Mitch?” Victor slid his hands in his pockets.

“Just… away from here.”

“Away from me, you mean.” The man shook his head. “That’s not playing by the rules.”

“You’re selling chemical weapons, and you’re talking about rules?”

Victor’s eyes hardened. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“Let me ask you.” He knew he should be frightened, and was, but there was more than that. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was just exhaustion, and the fact that he couldn’t think of any other way to behave. “How do you live with yourself?”