Warner pulls some car keys out of his pocket. He hands the keys to me. I keep my eyes averted as I take them.
There are a few cars parked down here, but I know the one I’ll be taking from the size and shape of the keys. I will be driving out of here in the old blue Jeep parked in the far-left corner of the garage.
I wait for any further orders. They come only seconds later.
“We expect you to return within three days,” Warner says. His voice is gruff, probably from lack of use. It reminds me of shoes on rough carpet or sandpaper scraping against wood.
It’s a caution. If I don’t return within that time frame, there will be consequences. They’ll probably assume I’ve tried to do a runner again.
“If you don’t come back”—and yeah, here it is—“we will come for you, Agent Jack.”
I give a single nod in acknowledgement.
Warner doesn’t push any harder than that.
I think we’re done with this but apparently not.
“Your brother was a real prick,” Warner says suddenly as if the words were waiting inside a wind-up jack-in-the-box.
“He’s dead,” I say, which is redundant and useless.
“I know.” Warner is being droll now. “That’s why I saidwas.” It’s off-putting.
“I killed him,” I say and I have no clue why.
“Yeah. Well.” Warner releases a short sigh. “We all do shit.”
We all do shit. Wow. Okay.
“He wanted to fight you,” I tell Warner, like we’re sharing stories at a fucking wake. “He thought it might help loosen you up a little.”
I’m not sure what I mean by that. It’s not a threat. I would never threaten Warner like that. With words. Verbal threats are warnings, and warnings are fair, and I was not trained to be fair. If I wanted to hurt Warner, to kill him, I would just do it. I would strike hard and fast, and then it would be done.
If I were capable of mercy, I still don’t think I’d use it on the likes of Warner. Seems like a good way to end up dead, bullet in the head, snapped neck, strangled, knife to the heart.
Warner lets out another sigh. His expression is surprisingly tolerant. I don’t know if this is what sympathy is like. My brother is dead, and Warner is being. Something. Kind? I don’t know where he learned how to do that. Maybe his mother taught it to him once. Maybe it’s like riding a bike: you learn how, and then the ability just stays with you forever, no matter what is done to you afterwards.
“I know.” Warner snorts. “He told me. Offered to fight the angst out of me, and if I asked nicely, he’d yank the stick out of my arse too.”
That definitely sounds like Dan.
Warner takes a step back from me then, making it clear whatever that short breach in protocol was, it’s been contained now. He doesn’t need verbal acknowledgement of compliance. Compliance is inevitable, always.
I wonder why they don’t use the blue drug this time. Then I stop wondering about it because that’s all you can do with terrible things sometimes. You just stop thinking about them. Denial is unhealthy for real people. For me, denial is a basic survival technique.
Without any more encouragement from Warner, I slink away from him and head for my allocated vehicle.
Anything else I need, including weaponry, will be in the Jeep. All necessary information for my mission will be in the black packet I’m holding.
I climb into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. The inside of it is worn and clean. It smells like pine and stale cigarette smoke. I don’t like it. If Dan were here, I’d say so. If Dan were here, he would call me a prissy bitch and laugh. Not that manic laugh he gives—gave—to OI guards and our handlers. The other laugh he does.Did. The low throaty one. More of a chuckle than a laugh, really. It suits him, that laugh.Suited. Makes him look alive and here and real.Madehim look.
Without prompting, I start up the Jeep and drive past Warner towards the exit of the garage.
For a moment, I play out a scenario where I turn this Jeep around and run Warner over with it.
I think about the sound Warner’s body would make on impact. Bones crunching. The thump of metal hitting a mass of solid flesh.
I think about Warner’s body lying dead or dying on the concrete floor of the garage. Arms bent at odd angles. Ribs shattered. Skull smashed in.
