head of the NSA.
I smirk. It’s not really funny, but damn it’s been a long day, and I think I’m starting to get a little loopy. “It’s called SASS. The Superhero Assassin Support Society. Almost every S.A. out there working gets together to bitch and moan about how hard this life is.”
“No kidding? Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, what if Billie Bombshell showed up? We’d have to recruit and train an entirely new set of you people.”
“Glad to hear your current assets are valuable, but yeah, I’ve said the exact same thing. Look, I could go on and on, but it’s all unnecessary detail. DPS mess number one is this supposed plot against Palmer’s life, and they think it’s someone in SASS.”
“Do you?”
I lean back and cross my arms. Shaking my head and shrugging at the same time, I answer, “I’m no closer to figuring anything out than I was a month ago. That first week, I thought it’d be a cakewalk. To be an elite bunch of assassins, they’re all—every single one of them—they’re all as transparent as plastic wrap, but I’ve got nothing.”
“Interesting.”
“How so?”
“If somebody tells you there’s an idiot in the room and you can’t find him…”
I offer a lifeless chuckle. “Then I’m the idiot. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”
“You think George Silver is setting you up? You really believe he’d dare to get his hands dirty like that?”
I lift a shoulder, let it fall. “I don’t know what I believe any more. And that’s why I’m here. Answers.”
“What’s mess number two?” He drains the last of his soda and tosses it into the trashcan, but not before eyeing the scotch bottle. For a second there, I think he was seriously considering it.
I rub my hands together and push myself up from the couch. I hate admitting what I’m about to say, because from the first moment I was recruited to do this, my last mark had been strictly off-limits. He was too good, too pure. Plus, he’d retired and was no longer considered a relevant entity by anyone in the upper echelons of governmental control...at least not until George Silver lied to me about Patriotman’s intentions.
I ask, “You’ve seen the news lately, haven’t you?”
Eric leans back with his arms out wide with that look of a disappointed parent, as if I’d gotten busted on a Wal-Mart parking lot for underage drinking. “No, you didn’t?”
“I did. I had to.”
“Why?”
I lie and tell him, “You know why, Eric. I say no, and the requests stop coming. It’s always about the money, and, besides, he’d been out of the game for years. Hadn’t done any meaningful work in—God, I couldn’t even tell you how long.”
Three years, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that I’ve been keeping up with Patriotman. Goddamn, it was like murdering an old friend.
“He was off limits, Leo. You know that.”
“Not according to George Silver.” I explained George Silver’s story to Landers, the one about how Patriotman had intended to side with the North Koreans and had a little bit of a Stockholm Syndrome effect on his would-be assassin—the original one—and now said assassin was doing Patriotman’s dirty work for him, or would be, if and when he decided to eliminate President Palmer.
Landers stands there dumbfounded, mouth hanging wide open, unable to process what I’m saying, and I assume it’s due to the fact that Patriotman was the very symbol of nationalistic pride. “How could he do such a thing? I don’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t either, but Silver swore it was true.”
“Now I’m glad you got rid of the son of a bitch.” He puts a hand on his forehead. “All those years, and for what? He turns his back on us the moment we get some nincompoop in office that doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground? Jesus Christ Almighty.”
I push myself up from the chair. It’s clear that Eric Landers knows nothing. I’m getting zilch accomplished here and I woke
I smirk. It’s not really funny, but damn it’s been a long day, and I think I’m starting to get a little loopy. “It’s called SASS. The Superhero Assassin Support Society. Almost every S.A. out there working gets together to bitch and moan about how hard this life is.”
“No kidding? Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, what if Billie Bombshell showed up? We’d have to recruit and train an entirely new set of you people.”
“Glad to hear your current assets are valuable, but yeah, I’ve said the exact same thing. Look, I could go on and on, but it’s all unnecessary detail. DPS mess number one is this supposed plot against Palmer’s life, and they think it’s someone in SASS.”
“Do you?”
I lean back and cross my arms. Shaking my head and shrugging at the same time, I answer, “I’m no closer to figuring anything out than I was a month ago. That first week, I thought it’d be a cakewalk. To be an elite bunch of assassins, they’re all—every single one of them—they’re all as transparent as plastic wrap, but I’ve got nothing.”
“Interesting.”
“How so?”
“If somebody tells you there’s an idiot in the room and you can’t find him…”
I offer a lifeless chuckle. “Then I’m the idiot. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”
“You think George Silver is setting you up? You really believe he’d dare to get his hands dirty like that?”
I lift a shoulder, let it fall. “I don’t know what I believe any more. And that’s why I’m here. Answers.”
“What’s mess number two?” He drains the last of his soda and tosses it into the trashcan, but not before eyeing the scotch bottle. For a second there, I think he was seriously considering it.
I rub my hands together and push myself up from the couch. I hate admitting what I’m about to say, because from the first moment I was recruited to do this, my last mark had been strictly off-limits. He was too good, too pure. Plus, he’d retired and was no longer considered a relevant entity by anyone in the upper echelons of governmental control...at least not until George Silver lied to me about Patriotman’s intentions.
I ask, “You’ve seen the news lately, haven’t you?”
Eric leans back with his arms out wide with that look of a disappointed parent, as if I’d gotten busted on a Wal-Mart parking lot for underage drinking. “No, you didn’t?”
“I did. I had to.”
“Why?”
I lie and tell him, “You know why, Eric. I say no, and the requests stop coming. It’s always about the money, and, besides, he’d been out of the game for years. Hadn’t done any meaningful work in—God, I couldn’t even tell you how long.”
Three years, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that I’ve been keeping up with Patriotman. Goddamn, it was like murdering an old friend.
“He was off limits, Leo. You know that.”
“Not according to George Silver.” I explained George Silver’s story to Landers, the one about how Patriotman had intended to side with the North Koreans and had a little bit of a Stockholm Syndrome effect on his would-be assassin—the original one—and now said assassin was doing Patriotman’s dirty work for him, or would be, if and when he decided to eliminate President Palmer.
Landers stands there dumbfounded, mouth hanging wide open, unable to process what I’m saying, and I assume it’s due to the fact that Patriotman was the very symbol of nationalistic pride. “How could he do such a thing? I don’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t either, but Silver swore it was true.”
“Now I’m glad you got rid of the son of a bitch.” He puts a hand on his forehead. “All those years, and for what? He turns his back on us the moment we get some nincompoop in office that doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground? Jesus Christ Almighty.”
I push myself up from the chair. It’s clear that Eric Landers knows nothing. I’m getting zilch accomplished here and I woke
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