Logan and any X-Men used or mentioned or implied belong to Marvel. No money. Don't sue.

Everyone else is mine. Most of 'em I don't really care about, but don't touch Kai or Paul without permission. I just learned a nifty new way to maim a person at the dojo. :)

This'll take place sometime vaguely after "Greenland." It was inspired by something from the movie "Ronin," which I thought was a rather cool flick, btw. Yes, the Kai & Remy story is still in the works, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with this one, so you don't need it. ;-)

I'm actually honestly curious about whether or not this story works. So...tell me. ;-)

Enjoy!

By Kaylee

All these damn kids...they think they know what it's about. They're fighting for a cause. They're fighting for a country. They're fighting for money. They're fighting for excitement. It's all so fucking clear to them. Black and white. Right and right. Not a job too shady, not a life too precious for the right incentive.

But in the end it doesn't matter what you're fighting for. Causes come and go. There'll never be a lack of them. Countries...they rise and fall, live and die, save and spend. Money. Little slips of paper. Little chunks of metal. Grab a leaf from a goddamn tree and a bit of iron ore from the dirt -- there's your fucking money. And excitement? For god's sake, kids...can't you find a better way to experience it?

***

Seven of us in the room. A bit cramped for my tastes. Only six chairs -- our contact stayed on his feet. Contact...employer...what does the label matter anymore? The person who called us here, that's all. The one who'd hand over the dinero when it was all over. Our god, for all intents and purposes, for the duration of the mission. You please your god, you get happy. You displease your god, and you may just find yourself having to kill him.

Disillusioned? Me? Nah...

Other than the money-man, there were two women, three other men, and myself. I'd been in this game long enough to break my attention between the boss and the ones who'd be doing the real work. Been in it long enough to know a thing or two about evaluating the competition, too.

That's what they were, even if they didn't know it. A team of free-standing mercs? Puh-leez. Mercs are mercs because they can't follow the rules...can't walk the straight path of government hire or civilian employment. Sometimes they band together. That's okay. Get a group of people together...give them a common purpose...have them train together, drink together, sleep together...and you're fine. They'll know if they can count on each other, and they'll know just how far. Well and good.

Problem is, units like that tend to cost money. A good bit of it. At least any of them worth their salt do. So when you've got some tangos -- terrorists -- looking to hire some muscle and brains for a job, and they need numbers -- they're as likely to go for hiring some free-standers that'll cost a bit less rather than dishing out the dough for the good stuff.

And if the free-standers turn on each other? What the fuck do they care, so long as they get what they're paying for?

The boss wasn't much to see, this go-round. Short little fellow...wiry muscle and a few scars that meant he couldn't risk a spotlight; couldn't chance his face making it to Interpol's database. Looked white, but he had a Farsi flavor to his English. I figured him as a Mid-East tango. Iran, maybe Iraq. Prime center for terror, these days. Not usually the sorts who pay others.

Unless it's something they really want, and something they don't have the skills to acquire.

He was facing the table as he talked, and to his right was a thirty-something man whose cold eyes and Russian accent screamed ex-KGB. There're a good bit of those types floating around our world these days. Men who liked the game too much to leave it. Men with a grudge for the lifestyle they were told to give up.

Men who won't let go.

Next to him was a kid. Twenty-five, maybe. Cocky son of a bitch. Black guy, European English accent. A baby face that didn't quite manage to hide the too-nervous excitement in his eyes. He was telling himself he was in it for the money, but that wasn't it. It was the rush. It was the thrill. It was the danger.

Idiot kids...

Then came me, and there isn't a whole lot to say on that front. Almost fifty, now. Old for this biz. Was military Special Forces for Uncle Sam for a good bunch of years. Things happened. Cracks showed up. I slipped down through them and into the shadows underneath. Most people back home figure I died. Let them.

It's not so far from the truth, really.

Now I'm a free-standing merc with a gift for sniping. No big thing, that. Nothing to boast about. You don't even see the blood on your hands.

Most of the time.

Beside me sat a tall woman with a sort of lean elegance and grace that said she'd either once been part of the elite class of society, spending her nights wining and dining with blue bloods, or she'd been trained by some folks who really knew their stuff. Not even an accent to her English -- totally inflectionless, totally cold. She might've been English, American, Canadian...hell, any country large enough for a good spook agency that breeds blondes with startling blue eyes and porcelain skin could've spawned her. She'd been in it long enough to be jaded. Only took one look at her assessing, darkly humorous gazes to tell that. Had to have started young, too, because she didn't look older than her late twenties.

Maybe she just had a good plastic surgeon.

Beyond her were two who'd come in as a pair, and who'd apparently been hired as a team -- which made me think they were a bit sub-level to the quality of people I prefer working with. I doubted our employers could afford a quality tandem unit.

But looking at them, it was hard to see where their weak points might be. Both were short as hell, but that didn't say much. Don't have to be tall to know how to pull a trigger or push a button, after all. The guy was doing pretty much what I was -- surveying the crowd rather than the speaker. White guy, thick dark hair, dark eyes, a bit of an accent that was hard to place. I put him at a few years younger than me; which said that he'd been doing this for a while...maybe long enough to start to realize the truth about it all. He was in better shape than me, though. Didn't show the years at all in his body -- only in the lines of his face and the depth of his eyes. That's where it shows the most, you know. In the eyes. That's where it's hardest to hide that time's stopped carrying you and started dragging you along by the scruff.

Body language put the girl with him as his lover. Girlfriend or wife...didn't really matter. Wasn't a big thing. I doubted the others even noticed, babies that they were. Just a sort of comfortable closeness between them and a casual touch here or there. That surprised me a bit. Emotional bonds don't hold long when your job's about shutting down the emotions to finish the operation.

Hell, maybe they were just good actors.

She had longish brown-red hair braided back, eyes that matched, and skin a shade or two darker than her man's. Where the blonde woman beside me was all refined elegance, this girl was contained strength and quickness. She was maybe thirty. Spoke English like an American, with a trace of something else in there somewhere.

I put those two as free-standers with a past -- they'd spent some time with a legit black bag agency, I'd swear it. Maybe they'd slipped to the wrong side of the fence a few times, and now were on the run and taking whatever chump change they could for their services. Because the more I looked at them, the more I was convinced that they were pros, pair or not.

So this was the bunch I'd be working my last job with. And it would be my last job. There was a little old pub in a quiet English town waiting for me. Almost fifty is too damn old to be hiring your gun out. Most of our types never make it to my age. Once the cash for this one was in the bank, I was kissing this dark little world goodbye.

But mulling over the future isn't a smart thing to do when you're dealing with a present that might explode at any time, so I shoved those thoughts away.

The contact gave us the info we needed. A disk. Three and a half inch piece of plastic with some tech thrown in. That's what we were being paid to risk our lives for this time. The ex-KGB asked what was on it. Boss said not to worry about it. The English kid wanted to know who we were working for. Boss said 'Three Eyes.' Most of us smirked, though the kid didn't seem to get it. Didn't know the lingo yet. Didn't know when he was being told to mind his own fucking business and not worry about who was transferring the funds.

Disk was in a briefcase. Briefcase was attached to a set of handcuffs. Handcuffs were linked to the wrist of a French businessman. Businessman was guarded by a half dozen of the good kind of guards, and another half dozen guns for hire. And all of these were here in the center of elegance...Paris, France.

They wanted us to take him on his way to a meet where he was supposed to sell the disk to some foreign agency that we were supposed to believe was a legit company. The blonde woman wanted to know why we'd be attacking when they'd most be on guard. Contact told her the timetable was set, and she could either deal with it or walk now.

No one had any illusions about what happened to a person who walked.

We were given the specs to work on and room numbers at the local hotel, then told to get planning and have the details laid out by morning. Job would take place the morning after that, so he was giving us a little time to think we were totally prepared.

And then a little cash was handed out -- a taste of what else was supposed to come -- and we were dismissed to head off and get to know each other over maps and schematics and weapons.

***

Liquor loses its appeal at my age, when you need all your wits about you to keep up with the younger generation. Most of the rest started tossing back a bit once we reached the hotel. The English kid, the couple, and the ex-KGB seemed most inclined for it. Blonde woman took a brandy, but only sipped. I waved off the offer when the short guy raised a glass.

"We need something to be called by," ex-KGB said after we'd all spent a few minutes staring at each other. "Names, that is." His gaze swept each of us. "Or as close to those as any of you will give."

"Why don't you start?" the English kid asked.

He called those frigid eyes to him with his question, but was evidently too cocky to flinch. Ex-KGB nodded after a moment.

"Ivan."

English nodded right back. "John."

"Kat," supplied the blonde. She caught my look and smiled. "Short for Katrina."

"Paul," I told them, then glanced at the other woman.

"Kai," she said. Raised an eyebrow at the blonde. "Short for 'Kai.'" They traded that entirely unfriendly look that women sometimes get -- the instant dislike that you know up front nothing's going to change. Women are like that. Territorial. They're fine on their own, but get them with men...

"Logan," the guy put in. Then looked my way. "You're the guy who was with the Blackhawks in Chad a while back, aren't ya?"

"Might be." That was ten years ago, back when I still thought I was ageless. Once, I called those the good days.

Now I know better.

"And you?" I asked him, knowing I wouldn't get an answer. Not an honest one, anyway.

He shrugged. "This and that. Whatever comes up."

"And your girl?"

The woman gave me that raised eyebrow look. I could tell she was pissed at my deliberately callous way of describing her, but she didn't raise an issue over it. Must've known I was just testing for a rise. "Same as him," she told me -- me, and not the rest of the room, I noticed. "We met up at 'work.'"

I nodded. Looked at English -- John. "You?"

"Let's just say I've been around," he said with a hint of a smirk.

Ivan snorted. "Sure you have. Little boy like you."

"At least I'm not yelling to the world that I was KGB," John countered acidly.

"Da," Ivan answered with a shrug. "I was KGB. I was proud to serve my country, before she was corrupted by the selfishness and depravity of the West."

"Yeah," Logan sneered. "We all miss the good ol' USSR, don't we?"

Katrina muttered something in German. Probably trying to pass it off as her native language, but I knew it well enough to realize she was faking. Wrong emphasis on a handful of key words you learn to listen for. Even if you don't know the language, you can learn to tell a foreigner. Logan whipped that head around and snapped something right back with an accent marginally better than hers. She jutted her chin up as if he'd pissed her off, acid in those flat blue eyes.

"You judge me before you know me," she said stiffly, then stood. "I'll be on the terrace when you...children...are ready to begin working."

The bickering continued even after she left. A sharp word here...a flash of testosterone there... Hot tempers, these few, and ready tongues. Dangerous. Unprofessional to be fighting among ourselves already.

But hell, what did I care? I'd be out of this biz in two days.

The woman -- Kai -- stood with an annoyed glance at the rest. "Settle your issues, boys. I'll come back when the machismo lever's been turned down a bit."

"Sit down, Kai," Logan told her. "We're through."

She looked at Ivan. Looked at John. "No you're not," she told Logan, then walked out on the terrace with Katrina.

She was right. I listened to them for a few more minutes, then picked up the diagram of the route the disk would be taking to the meet. The disk...not the man. As soon as the agreement was made, that man lost any identity, any individuality. He was now nothing but an obstacle in the way of my paycheck.

It turns my stomach, the things we do to our minds so that we can do this work.

Katrina and Kai were out there on the terrace. Taking each other's measure, like as not. Women don't need to shout and strut and hold pissing contests like we men do. They're colder in their dislike. More devious in their betrayals.

God, I hate this life.

A couple of hours passed without much being resolved. Kai came back in briefly. Crouched by Logan and murmured something too quiet for me to hear. Went back outside, and I smelled the tobacco as she lit a cigarette. It called to my own vice, so after Katrina came in, I headed out.

She nodded at me in that cautious way -- the greeting of someone who knows better than to offer friendship. I nodded back in the same way. Coworkers. That's what we were. Nothing more, nothing less...at least 'til the job was done. You can have professional respect in this world. You can have romance, even, to some extent. But friendship is something else entirely...because every friend has to realize that there's something out there more valuable to you than his or her life.

I didn't have to ask. She brought out a pack of cigarettes -- American cigarettes -- and offered me one. I took it. Lit up with the silver lighter she pulled from a pocket. Inhaled deeply, feeling the welcome burn deep inside that heralded another ten minutes stolen from my life.

"Bad habit," she said.

"I'm quitting after this job."

A little smile, wry and knowing. "Yeah. Right. Me too."

I smiled right back. "Good to hear."

She snorted, still smiling as she took another drag from her cigarette. Looked out over the city with a distant expression. "Look like stars, don't they?"

"What?"

"The Paris lights." Her chin jutted towards the pinpricks that marked street lights and pub lights and headlights and--

"I suppose," I told her. "Never really thought about it."

"Why not?"

"Not part of the job."

Her smile had vanished somewhere in there. "Oh."

"You have a better way of looking at things?" I asked her, honestly curious.

She shrugged. "Probably not."

"Why'd you two sign on for this?"

"Same reason everyone else did. Pays well."

"Not well for a good tandem team."

Another snort. "What makes you think we're any good?"

"I've been in this business for a while. I know what to look for." I waited until she looked at me. "I can see the ones who think they're immortal, and who might just have the balls to pull off the bluff. Most of the time."

"And that's what you think I am." she said flatly.

"That's what I think your boyfriend is. Same goes for John. Maybe Katrina, too. Ivan doesn't have enough imagination to convince himself he's a hero, though."

"And me?"

"You're not as arrogant as your man in there."

"Gee. That was a hard call."

"You're not. You've learned some lessons about vulnerability, and they've sunk in."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I recognize that look in your eyes when someone says something stupid about a risk...about how 'it's not a risk if you're prepared.'" I shook my head, smiling as if amused. Yeah. Amused. Sure. "They're so sure they're going to live forever."

"And what makes you think I'm not?" She smiled; a touch more warmly than just manners, I thought. "I've got an ego you wouldn't believe, Paul."

I didn't answer. Just shrugged and looked back over the city. Somehow...I found myself wanting to say it. To tell her. To warn her to get out of this life while she could. To leave before that ego she bragged about sucked her down and she found out what I already knew.

In the end, it doesn't matter why...

But I couldn't tell her. She wouldn't understand, any more than I would've understood if someone had said it to me years ago. It takes experience to teach someone as hardheaded as a merc. Bitter experience and pain.

So I kept my mouth shut and just looked out over those sparkling pinpricks of brightness she seemed so caught up in.

And then looked more closely, hardly aware of what I was doing.

God...they did look like stars. Multi-colored stars that dropped down from the sky to rest on top of the earth. Beautiful.

I'd never noticed beauty before when I was working. It was only a distraction. The woman you might have to kill might be beautiful, but you learned not to see it.

I'd be out of it soon. Then I'd spend a whole night sitting on a cliff over some city -- any city -- and admiring the earthbound stars.

But for now...it was too dangerous. Stay focused on the job. Finish the job.

But god...they were so beautiful...

***

By morning enough of the personal problems were ironed out for us to have a decent plan of action. It was hard to pay attention to what everyone would be doing after I had my own role down. That was unusual. I typically had no problem following the specs as they were laid out.

Katrina and I would be covering from the rooftops. She claimed a good bit of skill in the sniper department. We'd just have to see about that. Ivan was paired up with John, and Logan and Kai were together. No surprise on that last one. Come in as a pair, and it's assumed that's how you work best.

Ivan would stop the cars. Presumably the disk was in the middle one. I asked him how he planned to do that. He just smiled with a look that didn't reach his eyes and told me that it would be handled.

John would cover Ivan. Katrina and I would be sniping as many of the good guards as we could, and John would be taking out whoever else he was able to.

Kai brought up that we could manage this with less chance of loss of bystanders' lives if we'd take them just outside the city proper, rather than inside where we were planning. Ivan pointed out that there wasn't a good locale for an ambush past the city line, and she nodded and fell silent.

Logan and Kai would be on recovery. They'd be the ones at ground zero going after the disk. Ivan told them the guards might well be using Teflon-coated bullets. In other words, the kevlar vests might not do them a whole lot of good. They both said they could handle it.

Idiots.

The contact came by around breakfast time. We gave him the specs and a supply list. He gave us more money. All was good.

Most of the others hit the room we'd set aside for sleeping and bunked down. We'd be setting up in the wee hours of the morning, and there would have to be some reconnaissance runs tonight, so sleep was a valuable commodity. Logan stayed up, scanning over the papers that we'd be burning in a few hours.

I walked out on the terrace and looked over the city in the daylight. What had looked so mysterious and unfathomable by night appeared dingy and filthy by day. I tried to see that beauty I'd glimpsed the night before.

Nothing. No room for flights of fancy. No time for imagination or dreaming. This was cold, stark reality. It was stupid to try to make it something grand.

I knew we'd be killing people the following morning. That's where the things you tell yourself come in. 'I'm doing it for a cause.' 'I'm doing it for my country.' 'I'm doing it for money.' 'I'm doing it because I'm an outlaw and it fits my image.' 'I'm doing it because...'

Because I'm an old fool who made a wrong turn, and once that turn's been made you're racing down a one-way street, speeding faster and faster, tires bald, brakes failing, spinning out of control...

"You oughtta get some sleep."

"So should you, Logan."

He came to stand beside me. I fished out cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and lit up, dark eyes following my gaze.

"You've been at this a while," he commented.

"A good while."

"Think you'll ever quit?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Gettin' a little old for it, aren't ya?"

"And you're not?"

He snorted, evidently not taking offense. Waved his cigarette towards Paris below. "City stinks."

"What?"

"This city stinks." He tapped his nose. "All the luxury. All the opulence. It covers somethin' nasty." A nod towards the room where the others slept, or pretended to. "And people like us come in and feed off that nastiness, don't we?"

I shrugged again. "Doesn't matter where we work. That stink will be anywhere you go."

"Not everywhere." His nose was wrinkled up like he really did smell something bad out there. "Get away from cities...away from people...you can shake it off for a while." I felt his eyes on me. Didn't turn to meet them. "You might think o' headin' out. Gettin' some fresh air."

Now I looked at him. "What're you saying?"

"I'm sayin' you got a good rep, Paul. Type o' guy who doesn't get carried away. Does the job, collects the dough, an' takes off. Old friend o' mine told me about you. Said you might even have a bit of a soul."

"And your point is...?"

His eyes looked flat. Hiding something. Had to be. For just a second I thought I saw a flicker deep beneath the surface of something...different...from the run of the mill mercs I was used to serving beside...

"This one's gonna go ugly," he said levelly in that gruff voice. "You know it. I know it. Somethin's not addin' up with our employers, an' I ain't trustin' the skirt one bit, either. If you don't need this one...ya might wanna just let it go."

I studied his face, trying to read the messages beneath messages beneath messages. "You letting it go?" I asked him, already knowing the answer.

He grinned, and just like that the look in his eyes was gone. Took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled on a gusty sigh. "I need the money. I'm stickin' it through."

"You and your girl?"

"Her, too."

"You two married?" Normally I wouldn't give a shit. Wouldn't even ask. But somehow right now...everything seemed different. Sort of clear and muddy at once, like I was staring through a filthy windshield at a road where the end was finally in sight, and maybe the scenery I'd been ignoring for the last twenty years suddenly seemed...important. Because I'd never see it again when that road ended.

Then end. God...that sounds so damn good.

"Nah," he answered, not elaborating on it. Waved back towards the buildings spread out below. "Tomorrow mornin'. Think you're really up for it?"

Feeling for weaknesses...insecurities. Old trade trick. Pisses me off every time.

"I'm up for it. Worry about yourself."

"What's to worry about?"

Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. 'Cause this is the last one, and as soon as it's over...

As soon as it's over, life can begin.

***

John, Ivan, and Kat stayed behind while Logan, Kai, and myself went out for a look around. We all dressed like tourists, and the girl hung off my arm while we walked idly around what would tomorrow be the scene of a bloodbath. At first I guess I was a little stiff with this woman clinging to me. Been a long while since I've had something like that in my life. Even the fake innocence she was putting off was unsettling.

But after a while, the feelings...changed. Sure, I saw her eyes flitting back and forth, noting everything just as mine were. Sure, I saw her boyfriend slinking along at a distance, setting up little disturbances to watch how the populace reacted and snapping photos like any tourist. But somehow...

"What're you thinking, Paul?" she asked when we stopped in a coffee shop and sat for a bit. I watched Logan pass the window without even glancing at us.

"Streets are narrow and they'll have too much cover," I told her quietly. With the low buzz of conversation in the air it was doubtful anyone would hear me even if I shouted, but caution isn't something you can turn on and off once you learn it. "It's a bad setup."

She smiled. Sipped her coffee. "I meant what are you thinking about now?"

I copied the look she'd given me just last night -- a single raised eyebrow with a half-smile. "The job, of course. What I'm being paid to do."

"Not about quitting?"

I almost spilled my coffee. "What?"

"Quitting. Quitting the business. Starting fresh somewhere." She looked completely calm. I wished I did.

"Why would I think of quitting?" I hedged, working on figuring out what she knew and how.

She shrugged. "Just a rumor I heard."

"You've heard rumors about me?"

"Maybe."

Part of the game? Testing me? "Maybe you've heard rumors, or maybe you're trying to sound me out?"

"Maybe you should think of quitting."

I just stared for a minute. Never in all the years I'd been doing this had someone come out so openly and said that. I'm careful about the enemies I make, and the allies wouldn't alienate me by implying-- "You think I'm too old?"

What did it matter what she thought? What did it matter what anyone thought?

"I think," she said evenly, eyes steady, "that you've lost the taste for it. Started to remember what life is like."

Wait a fucking minute. I'd been thinking of telling her to get out of it. When did this turnaround happen?

"You've been reading too many novels."

"And you're not denying it."

"I'm just here for the job, lady."

"Logan's right. It's gonna go sour. I can feel it. You can, too. So why stick this one through, Paul? You don't need it. You're ready to get out. So just...do it. Forget the 'one last run' crap and quit."

She said it all as if she was commenting on the weather. I couldn't even find words. Didn't she realize that mercenaries don't talk this way? Mercs don't tell each other to get out because the going's getting rough. That's just...not how it works.

A year ago I'd never have gotten caught in this conversation.

A year ago I wasn't planning to leave the biz.

"I signed on," I told her, wishing my voice was as level as hers. How could a girl this young be this self-possessed? She couldn't be much over thirty, if that old. "For the duration. I don't quit in the middle of a job."

"Even if it might mean your life?"

"You threatening me?"

She looked honestly surprised. "Hell no. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, but that sure sounded like a threat."

Her head shook. "I think this job's gonna put everyone's life in danger. Moreso than most jobs do," she added wryly when I started to speak. "I think it's set up to fail, and I'm not sure if that's because our employers are idiots or because whoever's advising them has ulterior motives. Whatever the reason, you and Katrina are gonna be on rooftops with limited exit possibilities, Ivan's gonna be out in the open with a fucking bazooka, John's gonna be drawing initial fire from whatever's left of the dozen guards after Ivan takes out the lead car, and Logan and I are diving in to a feeding frenzy of bullets to go after a case that we're gonna have to chop off a man's hand for. No one's willing to consider staging this somewhere safer. The employer told us when, where, how...everything but how many of us are gonna die because of this. It's ugly, Paul, and it stinks." She paused. Sipped coffee as calmly as if she wasn't saying things that could get her killed. "And it'd be a real shame if you got taken out on your last run."

"Why are you doing this, then? If it's so dangerous, why risk your life?"

She shrugged. "I've got a knack at making it through the ugly ones. And I need the money."

"That's no answer. That's evasion."

A faint smile. "All right. You want a better answer? I worked for the US. Doesn't matter what division. Something went wrong, and I had to leave. I'm in a tight spot right now, and I don't have a lot of time to be picky about the jobs I accept."

Something wasn't ringing right, but I couldn't put my finger on what. "And your man?"

"He came with me. That's all there is to say on that."

"Why're you telling me--"

She cut me off with a wave of the hand, looking out the window across the street. I noticed then that Logan stood over there, blending in somehow despite the tourist's shirt and camera and the big difference between him and the Parisians all around.

"Looks like we're about to get a peek at some of the guards," she commented.

"Here?" I didn't look. You don't give that much away if you can help it. Watched her face and tried to decide what was going on. "Which guards? Where are they?"

"The cheap ones. The ones who're supposed to meet up with the 'businessman' tonight. They're coming up the street right now." A look of amusement. "That's why we stopped in this shop. This is where they come for croissants every afternoon."

"How did you know that?" That wasn't in the profile. That wasn't in the profile. And she hadn't had any time to do recon...

She looked at me. My voice dropped. "How did you know that?"

"I've had some experience with these guys," she told me after a minute. "The company they work for, that is. A perfectly legit protection service."

"Bullshit. You would've said something earlier."

"Not bullshit. You know the drill. Keep things close to the vest."

"What're you playing at, girl?" I asked her, very low, angry. Furious, really. This was my last run, and someone was going to fuck it up by being enigmatic and full of shit, and I was going to get my ass killed so this little tart could play whatever game she was working on, and--

"They're here."

I straightened. Forced myself to sit back and appear calm. Watched out of peripheral vision as the three men walked in. Clean-cut boys, all of them. Young. Not a one as old as this woman sitting across from me. Babies.

These were the men we'd be killing in the morning.

"Think they're armed now?" Kai asked, eyes dancing in a way I didn't like. Still taking pleasure in the hunt. Still thinking that it was all being played out on a big chessboard.

Hell, I call it a game -- what right do I have to nitpick when others treat it as one?

"We're not finding out," I said quietly. "Just drink your damn coffee like nothing's going on."

She winked. "Nothing is going on, Paul. We're just enjoying a calm afternoon in Paris." Very casually, she reached for the croissant that'd been brought with the coffee that I hadn't touched yet. "You're not gonna eat this, are you?"

God...how could she be so calm?

Why wasn't I?

Taking my silence as assent, she bit into the croissant with a satisfied closing of the eyes. "Mmm...good."

I looked away from her. Couldn't stand the sight of her face, suddenly. The future of the business rested in the hands of young people like her -- men and women who could do this; who could sit not ten feet from the enemy and sigh blissfully over coffee and bread. Not old farts like me who got nervous -- nervous! -- before a job. I was washed up. Yesterday's news. The old dog who couldn't learn the new tricks. The--

One of the young men -- a blue-eyed blond -- caught my eye and nodded politely. I sat frozen in my seat, somehow unable to return the gesture. Do you nod at a man you're going to kill? Does a person with a soul do that?

"They look different right now, don't they?" Kai asked quietly, breaking my gaze from the young man who'd already turned away. "Like people instead of targets."

"Why did we come here?" I asked tightly.

She bobbed her chin slightly towards the men, smiling faintly. "Look. The blond just blushed when that pretty girl smiled at him. Did you see?"

What kind of animal was she? Why did she want to be so damn close to them? "I don't want to see."

"And the tall one just talked about picking up a gift for his mother in Vienna."

"You can't hear them."

"A crystal rose. She wants a crystal rose."

"Stop it."

She didn't even look at me. Just kept going like a damn cat taking sick satisfaction in observing the mice before the kill. "She had one. A gift from his father. But she dropped it when she moved -- no. He dropped it when he helped her move, and he thinks he owes it to her to buy her a new one."

I was sweating for some reason...didn't know why. "Stop."

Slowly she turned that mild, unflustered gaze on me. "He's picking it up for her tomorrow afternoon."

I shoved my chair back before I realized what I was doing. Coffee from the mug on the bumped table spilled across my leg, searing. I cursed and stumbled back another step--

Into the blushing blond.

"Excusez-moi," he said, all manners, taking hold of my arm to support me -- like I was some old feeble weak mixed up--

"Je suis desole," I said in apology, pulling away quickly. "Pardon."

"Bien entendu."

That's okay? It's okay that I'm going to blow your head off tomorrow morning?

"Merci," I muttered, turning sharply. The damn girl could just pay for my coffee along with hers. Playing her games...messing with my mind...ruining focus...

"Un moment," he said, putting that hand back on my arm.

I froze. Again. "Quoi?"

His voice was friendly. Kind. "Comment la jambe?"

The leg?

The leg I spilled coffee on. What was the matter with me? Could I really be so old that I couldn't keep up with a simple question?

"Bien," I answered, pulling away again and starting to turn once more.

Starting to. Those damn blue eyes looked into me. Shy eyes, glinting with humor and personality and warmth and--

"Au revoir," I said abruptly, twisting on a heel and heading out.

After a glance at Kai, who watched me with a silent, unreadable expression on her face.

Monster. Sitting there watching the men she'd kill...watching them as calmly as if she wasn't a murderer. Listening to what they said and hearing about their lives and watching the fucking kid blush like a teenager...

Goddamnit, you keep your distance. That's how you do it. It's how you stay sane. You don't sit in a coffee house with them...you don't let yourself see that they're human beings with lives and problems and manners and damn mothers and...

Logan appeared out of nowhere as I pushed through people heading down the street. "You left there in a hurry."

"Leave me alone."

"What's goin' on, Paul?"

I whirled on him, and almost found myself raising a fist. "Leave me alone!"

His hands started to come up -- stopped when mine stayed at my side. He looked at me through narrowed eyes, and I felt him judging me. Too old. Too weak. No stomach for the work. No heart for it anymore.

I wouldn't look at those eyes a moment longer. Turned again and started walking. Fast. Didn't really care if I drew attention, either. Just had to get...get out of there, get...get away from all these distractions...

This time no one followed me.

***

"You ready, gentlemen?"

I looked up as Katrina entered. She'd somehow decided that she was in the nominal position of leader -- as if a group like this had a leader -- and took the role of overseer seriously.

"Da," Ivan said, standing and tucking another gun into his jacket. "I am ready."

She looked at John. A special look at John. "And you?"

He tapped a finger to his brow in something like a salute. "Whenever you are," he told her in a voice loaded with innuendo. Those two'd slept together. It was pretty obvious. Handsome enough young man...attractive young woman...energy to burn while waiting for the chance to shed some blood...

What more do you need for an excuse to screw?

God...I'm going to be sick...

"Paul?"

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask how you were. I asked if you were ready."

"I'm ready." You arrogant little...

"Logan?"

"Worry 'bout yourself, girl. I sure as hell don't remember votin' any sorta leader in, an' unless I did I ain't got a reason to answer t' you."

"I'm just trying to make sure we're all as prepared as we can--"

"He said to worry about yourself, 'Kat.'"

"I think he can speak for himself, Kai."

"He did. Now listen to him and go get your fucking vest on."

"Don't tell me what--"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't tell you, you pushy--"

I tuned them out and focused on closing the lid of the case my rifle was in. Just one thing at a time...focus on the little things... They were bickering just the way they'd been doing since last night. That instant dislike between the two women had sprung into something stronger and uglier. Violent people. Violent tempers. Violent lives.

Violent deaths, if they didn't watch it.

It was three AM. In five hours bullets would fly. With any luck, in six hours we'd be collecting our money, and in six and a half we'd never have to see each other again.

And then the pub in England. All mine. Quiet and peaceful, with no blood on the floor or spooks walking in the door...and a night of sitting on a ridge overlooking some nameless city's lights, watching as manmade stars twinkled across the surface of so many lives I would never hurt, never take aim on, never kill...

"Paul." It was Ivan. He was holding out a hand, offering to take my case...as if I couldn't lift it myself.

"I've got it."

He withdrew his hand with a nod. "You seem distracted, comrade."

"I'm not your comrade. I'm not your friend. I'm not anything but the guy who's going to cover your ass while you cover their asses--" and I waved at Logan and Kai-- "and don't pretend I'm something more to you."

His eyes -- already cold -- went glacial. "Just be sure you are fit to do what has to be done," he said in clipped Russian tones, ignoring me almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

What has to be done. How many times have I heard -- said -- those words? How many times?

Katrina sent a last, lingering look at Kai, then led the way out the door. John followed like a damn puppy, gear in an oversized bag over his shoulder. Then Ivan, then Kai, then--

"Logan," I said softly.

He stopped in the doorway. "What?"

Quieter still-- "What's on that disk?" I'd never asked before. Never wanted to. But he knew. I knew he knew. And it was all part of this puzzle that didn't add up.

For a long minute he stared at me. I wondered if the others thought something was up...that maybe we were doing something shifty, something that might undermine the operation.

Were we?

"How the hell should I know?" he said finally. Then turned without waiting for a response and walked out the door.

He was lying. He let me know he was lying with that long, assessing pause.

Why?

***

"Systems check. This is Red One. Sound off."

"Red Two."

"Check."

"Green One."

"Check."

"Green Two."

"Check."

"Blue One and Two, standing by."

"Check. How does it look from your spot, Red One?"

"Doable."

"Clear here. Greens, you in position?"

"Ready and waiting, luv."

"Blues?"

"You all do your jobs. We'll do ours."

"All right then. Sun'll be up soon. Everyone sit tight and be ready. We've got two hours to kill."

'To kill,' she says. I wonder if Katrina thought of how appropriate her words were.

Two hours. Two hours of sitting on this fucking roof watching the world wake up beneath me. Two hours of waiting for a disk to drive by. Two hours.

God, I was sweating again.

Car lights. Morning drivers. Voices. Pots clanging softly here and there.

Two hours.

A baby shrilled louder than the old alarm clock I used to have to use on the base.

I haven't thought of that clock in years. Part of a different life. A life I gave up.

I hated that fucking clock. BbbbRRRiiiNNGG!! BbbbRRRiiiNNGG!! Every damn morning, jerking me out of the dream about the Playboy centerfold and the giant wedding cake. BbbbRRRiiiNNGG!! Unrelenting. Wouldn't even stop when you hit the kill switch. Thing was as stubborn a clock as I'd been able to find, because I liked sleep way too much. BbbbRRRiiiNNGG!! If it'd been a rooster I'd have shot it a thousand times. BbbbRRRiiiNNGG!!

Two hours.

I double-checked all my equipment. Good. Panned the scope on my rifle. Beautiful scope. Crystal clear image, so defined, every detail. Practically put you right in their faces.

And then you put a bullet in theirs.

I scanned the morning crowd at the outdoor café across the road. Not many people yet. I could smell the coffee from here. The good kind...the kind that drags you out of bed in the morning and actually makes the sunshine seem a bit less cruel. Logan and Kai were sitting in that café right now enjoying a cup. Eating a leisurely breakfast and to all appearances totally unconcerned about what was coming. They wore civvies over their gear. They were probably sweating, too.

Ivan and John were in a car two blocks away. They'd see the caravan before any of us, and they'd cut through an alley to get ahead of them so Ivan could work whatever magic he was going to work to stop the lead car. If there was enough left of the car carrying the disk to make a run for it, John was on demolition duty. He said he had experience with combative driving.

Not at the café across the road, but at a more expensive one two stops down, I let the scope linger on a couple that talked companionably over their meal. She was beautiful. Pale -- practically albino, but with dark hair. Had a lovely face with refined features that fit nicely with the aesthetics of the city. The man she was with was a rugged fellow with silver hair topping a face that looked a bit too young for it. Not quite my age, I didn't think, but no youngling. As I watched, the woman rocked back in her chair, mouth open and chest shaking in what looked like a hearty laugh. I couldn't hear it, of course, but the delighted mirth on her face made hearing superfluous.

If my daughter was alive, she might laugh like that.

I jerked my attention back to the road, eyeing everything and seeing...nothing. Only the past.

But when you leave the past behind, you don't reclaim it. You can't go back again. So long, au revoir, lock the doors and toss the keys in the Pacific. Over and done, and looking back gives you nothing but a reminder that somewhere along the way -- somewhere you can't quite pinpoint anymore -- you fucked it all up.

Two hours.

Katrina was out of my line of sight. Somehow that made me nervous. Didn't trust her. Didn't trust Ivan. Didn't trust any of them. Two voices had told me this was going to go wrong -- three if you include my subconscious mind -- and I was finding it harder and harder to ignore them.

Logan knew what was on that disk. I'd wager Kai did, too. It was something a two-bit terrorist from the Mid East wanted. Something a Frenchman was about to sell to a foreign agency cavorting as a legitimate business. Did Logan and Kai want it, too? Is that why they kept telling me to leave?

Stop thinking about it. Do the job. Finish the job and start living.

Living.

The kid excused himself for *me* bumping into him.

He said it was all right that I -- the man who would likely shoot him dead today -- stumbled into him.

He asked how my leg was. Me. Asked me how my leg was, when I was going to be staring at his face -- the face that'd blushed when a pretty girl looked at him -- staring at his face through the scope of a rifle. Pulling the trigger and seeing those shy blue eyes go dim forever.

Two hours.

Sick bitch taking some twisted pleasure out of her disgusting little game...

How *had* she heard them? Because I was convinced now that she really had...that she hadn't been making it all up. She'd heard them somehow over the low buzz of conversation while they spoke in murmurs, and she'd told me exactly what they were talking about.

Instead of a crystal rose, the tall one's mother would be getting a letter or a phone call telling her that her child was dead.

Two hou--

"They're here."

What?

"We are moving into position. Green One, preparing to halt the subject."

What?

"Watch the ball, Green One."

Where did all the time go? What happened to two hours?

"He's got it, luv. And if he doesn't, I'll cover him."

That couple still relaxed in the café down the road. Cars still moved. Babies still broke the peace with wailing cries.

Where did all the time go?

"Just the lead car," Logan cautioned Ivan. "We can't afford that disk being damaged."

"I know my job."

Be ready. There're the cars. Plenty of ammo. Good to go.

"Halting subject," said the terse Russian voice.

I didn't even see where Ivan fired from. One minute the three cars drove peacefully down the road, drawing appreciative glances for their sleek lines and form, and the next minute the first car lurched upwards in a ball of flame with an echoing explosion marking its abrupt demise. The next car swerved. Started to speed up as the driver realized the danger.

John came from nowhere, front end of the Mercedes he'd stolen slamming with no finesse into the black limousine that housed the disk. Metal shrieked. Tires squealed.

That's when the screams began.

And then the bullets.

I didn't see who fired first. Probably John or Katrina. One minute the guards were shouting as they tried to figure out what was going on, and then the first one out of the disk's car fell in a spray of blood, and the rest figured out pretty quick just what the fuck was happening.

"Red One and Two!" shouted Ivan from his hidden vantage-point. "We need cover fire for the Blues to get the disk!"

Katrina didn't answer. I couldn't say why, but I wasn't surprised. She might have bailed on us...but I didn't think so. No. Kat had a different motive here, and it had something to do with retrieving that disk before any of us got our hands on it. And I figured that even if her cutesy little boyfriend John was the one to get in her way, he'd find just how cold the pits of hell could be.

It was up to me to cover them from on-high. I sighted through the scope and saw a gun aimed at John. Didn't really see the face that went with it. A gun was like a disk -- a living thing in and of itself that became the person who held it. I aimed. Breathed out. Fired.

He fell with a lurch, giving a strained cry of surprise that was cut off before he even hit the ground. I ignored him and panned for another in a position of imminent threat. Where was Kat if she wasn't sniping on the other roof? What was the bitch up to?

"Blue One and Two, hurry up and move in!"

They were in. I could see the quick sprints they made from their calm and peaceful breakfast. The civvies still covered their combat gear, but that didn't seem to make a difference to them. She had a gun. He...didn't? Strange. Insane. These people were insane. No wonder they were so interested in me. I was going nuts, too.

"Red One! Red Two! Cover fire!" Ivan shouted. He couldn't draw a bead on the last car with his bazooka without risking taking out Logan and Kai, so he was down to his semi-auto pistols. John had a full-auto rifle, and I heard its staccato bark over the screams.

"Blue One," Ivan growled into the radio. "Do you have the package?"

A long pause. I could hear an occasional grunt of exertion that didn't go hand and hand with success. I panned over the melee below...took out another faceless gun that was drawing bead on the semi-covered Ivan.

A string of the foulest swearing I'd ever heard came over the radio with Kai's voice attached. In between the gutter language she conveyed the message, "Kat got the disk!"

"She got it?" came John's innocent reply. "Then we're clear! Let's go!"

"No, you little dumbshit! She didn't get the fucking disk for us! She's a plant!"

They'd known that ahead of time. Both had tried to tell me in some way or another. Get out. Don't do this job. It's going to go bad. Logan didn't trust the skirt. Kai instantly hated her. She screwed John to keep his loyalty.

"Cover me, Paul," Logan growled into the radio, giving up on code-names since it looked like the situation was blown already. "I'm goin' after the girl."

"I can't see you," I told him, scanning over and over through the confusion of smoke and gunfire and limbs. "Where are you?"

"Just shoot the bad guys. Don't worry 'bout where I am."

The bad guys.

Who were the bad guys?

More bodies joined the tangle of metal and fire and racket. The attractive couple from the café down the road -- the woman and the man. Why couldn't they have been normal? Why couldn't one aspect of life I observed be normal? Both of them were diving in, heedless of fine clothing or personal safety. I saw a gun that looked too large and heavy for a slim woman like that to carry, then saw that she knew damn well how to use it as she took aim on a gunman and fired. The silver-haired man dove forward and took her down to avoid another volley of rifle fire, and something...not sure what, but a flash of light seemed to...

God, I'm losing it. I'm hallucinating.

I was frozen. Perched there on the roof with targets aplenty down below and all the ammo I might need packed around me, and...I didn't fire. 'Just shoot the bad guys.'

Hell. I'm not suicidal.

There--! Wait...no. The pale woman was running...running for John? John started to turn, to bring his rifle to bear. Fired off a shot -- he was a good shot, but she wasn't...wasn't hit? How could that...?

She took him down -- I almost fired -- a grenade (where the fuck did a grenade come from?) landed just past them and exploded with a dull boom and--

She was covering him?

Covering him...knocking him out as she rolled off...giving him a kick in the side for good measure, but--

But she covered him. Kept him alive. Why...?

Another curse in my ear, this one from Logan. I swiveled again. Caught a brief glimpse of dark hair and a short, muscled body through smoke. A vague guard's form rose up from nowhere, training his gun on the man I was covering. I didn't think. Didn't feel. The guard was a gun, and my job was to control the guns. Aim. Breathe out. Fire.

Mama's not getting that rose.

This is what we do. This is what it takes. I know it better than all the little snots who believe they play the game. None of them have any idea of the big picture, the overview of it all. None of them know...

I caught view of Kai, locked in an embrace with one of the good guards that was so close it was almost pornographic. He was trying to squeeze the life out of her, and she was struggling to free her arms with a grimace of pain and fury on her face. I took aim. Bad guys? Breathed out. Who were the bad guys? Tightened my finger, not sure even then of who I was aiming for.

Another flash of light. I wasn't hallucinating. A flash of light, and the big man who held Kai fell back with a cry as his head was buffeted to the side. She dropped hard, arms clutching her ribs. The silver-haired man was past her in a heartbeat -- raising a fist over the downed man; a glowing fist -- slamming it down with a snarl. Blood splattered his torn clothing and the whole uniform he wore beneath. A uniform. An official. Law enforcement? Were Logan and Kai Feds or Interpol or something?

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Not people fighting for a cause. They never last. Never linger past the first bare achievement of their goal. Not people fighting for a country. Countries are just different places to house humanity. Not people fighting for money; for something as impermanent as paper. Not people fighting for anything.

It was crystal clear as I watched the slaughter. As I saw a mother get caught in the crossfire between Ivan and another of the good guards. As I saw the pale woman rise up out of nothingness behind the Russian, slipping her hands so-gracefully to his chin and hair, twisting with a savage yank that made his neck snap audibly over the radio still affixed firmly to my ear. As I briefly viewed a blur of motion when Logan caught sight of the fleeing Katrina, as he dove for her with a growl that sounded guttural and animalistic in my hearing.

Every one of them down there -- every one thought he or she was fighting for the right reason. Every one thought all actions were justified in pursuit of the goal.

They didn't know. They didn't know about the end.

John moved muzzily, rolled over slowly. I saw his hand reach inside his jacket. A pistol came out -- the 9mm he'd cleaned so lovingly just last night. His baby face was streaked with blood and fury as he fired one shot, two shots, three shots towards the pale woman crouched behind the motionless Ivan. She whirled at the first one. Fell back with a cry at the second, clutching her thigh. A gun was in her hand where moments before it'd been empty. She aimed and fired in one smooth motion. She was a much better shot than John.

They didn't know that in the end it doesn't matter why you're fighting. It doesn't matter if you're saving democracy, paying the light bill, or raging against the world.

What it all comes down to is men and women butchering each other over a bit of plastic and some words.

Anything else is just an illusion.

And I wasn't going to see the illusion any longer. I released pressure on the trigger. Slowly let my hand slide from it, drawing my eyes away from the turmoil down below. There was a pub. A night of city-watching. Peace and quiet and no guns ever again and

He was going to buy her a rose.

My stomach heaved. I sat back, clutching an arm over my gut and swallowing hard. I should've quit. I should've left before this ever started. Shouldn't have ever accepted this job, believed in that crap about 'one last run' to close out the dark and dingy life I'd lived for so long. Illusions. Stupid lies I told myself to keep going. Lies I'd been telling myself for years, and that all these infants down below still believed in. Smoke and mirrors and mist and fog, that's all. Nothing tangible. Nothing solid. Nothing real except for blood and murder and screaming mothers who cried and died when their sons were never coming home again.

"Paul!" Logan's voice, rough and urgent. "You hear me? Paul!"

I wouldn't answer. I wasn't here. I'd left this world. Didn't need the money. Just leave me alone.

"Kat's dead, Paul, but one o' the kids got the disk from her. You gotta stop him, Paul. He can't get away with that info."

I'd thought my daughter might laugh like the pale woman if she was alive. She might also kill like her.

God, I'm going to throw up...

"Paul, goddamnit, answer me!"

I opened my eyes. He'd tried to tell me to get out. Wanted me to leave, and I didn't know why. No stomach for it anymore. He'd known. He'd seen the look in my eyes, and he'd known.

How could he know about this feeling and still go on doing the work?

"What's on the disk, Logan?"

"Just stop him!"

I could see the guard with the briefcase running. He'd be out of range quick. "What's on that disk?"

No answer. I heard his breath huffing over the radio and saw him running after the fleeing man, but he was half-hunched with injury, and the guard appeared unharmed. He'd never reach him before the guard reached a car and got away. No chance.

I lurched forward, stomach roiling, and clamped an eye to the scope. My finger slipped over the trigger, caressing the secret spot of a well-known lover. I focused on the guard just as his head turned to look over his shoulder.

Blond hair. Wide, scared blue eyes. The briefcase clutched tightly against his chest, bloody handcuffs swinging loosely from the handle.

I could make the shot, but not for much longer. He'd be out of range in a matter of seconds.

It wasn't Logan's voice that answered, but Kai's -- breathless and strained from whatever damage that man who'd been squeezing her had done. I could hear the pain in her words, and the core-deep conviction mingled with desperation behind them.

"It's kids, Paul! Mutant kids! Living weapons that everyone wants to get ahold of and use!"

Kids...

"Who needs a fucking car bomb when you've got a child who can wave his hands and collapse a building?!"

Oh god...children...they were selling...were selling a list of mutant children that would be taken and trained and abused and made to do...made to do the kind of things I do...

Soft, shy, friendly blue eyes.

Courtesy to an old fool who slammed into him. Kindness.

As innocent as anyone doing guard duty could be. He wasn't doing anything but his legal, honest job.

One and a half more seconds. I could wait one and a half more seconds, and he'd be far enough that my aim would be faulty, that I'd miss...

My stomach tried to crawl out my throat. I ignored it. If I could just wait...

Kids.

"Je suis desole," I whispered. "I'm sorry."

I pulled the trigger.

***

The cops would be here any minute, but I didn't care. I stopped by the still form and stared at the blood that seeped through his suit. Blond hair matted with crimson fluid obscured his down-turned face.

"Why?" I asked the man who waited in the shadowed alleyway to my right. "Why did you two make me see and then ask me to...do this..."

"If you're gonna kill," he answered, voice low and a bit rough, "you'd damn well better face what you do."

"But the alternative--"

"Woulda been to let this kid make off with the disk, get it to his bosses, and then have them sell it to the highest bidder. The children on it woulda been abducted. Families'd prob'ly be killed. Kids'd become the newest weapon in terrorism."

A cause. I should have known it'd be a fucking cause with those two. "So I had to kill him."

"Bullshit. You had a choice whether or not to pull that trigger. You weighed your options and decided this was the lesser evil. But you had a choice."

I closed my eyes. Nodded. "Katrina?"

"She an' Ivan were workin' for the Russians. If any of us'd gotten that disk an' taken it back to the meet, those two woulda killed the lot of us an' taken it for themselves back to good ol' Mother Russia."

"John?"

"Just a mixed up kid who jumped into the wrong line o' work."

"And the woman and man who joined in?"

"Friends of ours. Backup."

I opened my eyes and looked at him. "And just who the hell are you, Logan?"

"No one special."

"Who're you working for?"

"Myself."

My gut gave another lurch. I held it down hard and looked away from him. "You're not going to let that information be abused?"

"No."

I nodded. Took a step towards the dead kid lying so still on the pavement. "You were right. I should've quit earlier. I don't have the stomach anymore."

"Don't have the time to hang around here, either. C'mon. Let's get outta here."

I nodded again and crouched by the boy. Laid down my case with the rifle, the scope, the ammo. Touched a gloved hand to his cooling body and told him again that I was sorry.

I almost puked right then.

When I stood, I left the case where it was and turned to walk towards Logan without it. He raised an eyebrow in question. I pushed past him without answering, walking fast...then faster...then jogging...then running until I was around a corner where I could collapse to my knees and rid my stomach of everything in it.

A choice. I had a choice. I could've chosen not to pull that trigger. I could've waited one more second, and then the shot would've been tricky enough that I could've let myself miss.

But I chose to pull it. And the thing that made it worse than anything else was that it was the right choice.

I decided then and there that I'd never make that choice again.

***

There's a pub down there called "Paul's." It's a nice little place. Mahogany bar. Clean glasses. Quiet music that soothes the troubled souls who walk in to drown their sorrows in liquor.

There's a woman down there, too. Her name's Jenine. I think she loves me. I think I love her. She lets me forget the past in her arms, and makes me think there might be some sort of future. That's a rare, precious gift for a woman to be able to give a man. I wonder if she knows how amazing she is that she can grant me that. I wonder if I tell her often enough.

It's a little town with no name, and a quiet populace that gets most of their excitement from the television and speculating on which young man and woman will end up marrying first. People laugh over stupid jokes. Bitch about money and snuggle close on cold nights. Babies wake up the whole neighborhood at whatever insane, irregular hours they can manage, and sometimes husbands and wives scream at each other deep into the night.

It's been a year, and I haven't had to make any choices more strenuous than what sort of brew to order and how many kegs I'd need...though a more complicated decision is working its way to the forefront of my mind. Fortunately, that's a decision that it takes two to make. If I ever get up the courage to ask her, it'll be Jenine who chooses whether or not we'll be married.

I've let myself go a bit. Got a bit of a paunch showing up around the girth, and jowls are finally sagging a little. Jenine says I look "comfortably aged, like a fine wine." Whenever she says that, I laugh and hug her and tell her quite simply that I'm old. And damn proud of it, too.

For a year I've managed to put it all behind me. I've hardly thought of the years and years of job upon job upon meaningless job. There's been too much here to look at and experience and enjoy -- the scents and sounds and sights of a life so mundanely normal that the new alarm clock is the biggest annoyance of the day.

But I can't ignore the past forever, for all my words about not looking back. So tonight I'm sitting on a ridge overlooking my new home, and I'm watching stars twinkle over warm, bickering, loving lives that I've finally come to know.

Somewhere along the way...somewhere in this past I wish I could forget...I fucked up. I fucked up, and I landed myself in a life where even the right decision was the wrong one. It took a hell of a big kick to make me really see that -- to make me face the truth behind it all, rather than just turning and running from it.

I'm working on a bottle of whiskey, and it's helping these thoughts come more and more freely. Thoughts and tears, too. I'm not so proud that I'll say I don't cry. But I don't need the edge anymore, and I can let myself drink this once on this night, and hell, I might as well let all the other crap I usually don't allow come out. Whiskey and tears and memories. And even though I quit a year ago, I'm smoking a cigarette, too.

I figured something out tonight. I wonder if I'm just very slow, or if this really was a hard truth to come to. Maybe it's only a hard truth when you've spent your life trying to deny it.

But I've figured something out. Something about the end.

In the end...it does matter why you're fighting. It matters if you're doing it for money or power or greed. It matters if you're doing it for innocents who don't have what it takes to defend themselves. It matters.

But if you think for one second that takes away the responsibility for the lives you take, you're a damn fool with the insight of a puddle of mud.

It matters why you're fighting. It matters why you kill.

And you still have blood on your hands for every kill you make. It's still wrong. It'll always be wrong. But it also matters.

It never makes it right, but it matters.

In the end.