at the Harvard courtyard at ten in the morning, executing my last assignment ever.
Retirement would pave the way for me to go to marital therapy. To be a better husband. To heal our romance. I rolled over toward Maria, hoping she might softly retreat into a spoon. She didn’t. We were both unaware that by the start of the next evening, one of us would be dead.
Chapter 5
“Let’s say it to each other one more time,” I said to Milt.
“Really?” he groaned.
We were walking toward the main courtyard and already noticing cops. And cops were noticing us. Not outright. But we got glanced at. You don’t want eye contact in my line of work.
“We converge from opposite sides,” said Milt, beginning his summary of the pivotal six minutes of our plan. “You’re the primary. I’m the cleanup.” He was speaking in monotone, reciting memorized facts. “We shoot for the heart and keep the exit wound contained in his backpack to minimize the visual blood. If his bodyguards react to us, we shoot to neutralize. We exit opposite corners.”
“No phones,” I added.
“I said that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“We don’t use phones.” He gave me an annoyed look. “If something goes wrong, communication is via email from a random computer at a random Apple Store.”
“We don’t rendezvous until after forty-eight hours.”
“Right.”
It was a traditional setup for us, in many ways. But this was far from a traditional hit. Shooting a kid? Amidst kids? How do you answer for that when you stand before the Almighty?
“Christ,” said Milt. “It’s raining.”
I was praying for any hiccup to derail the day. I was. But things were well on their way to going wrong, and the bad weather was merely an appetizer for the bad news. When we arrived at the courtyard, we saw the essential issue: foot traffic had completely rerouted to the perimeter. Nobody was crisscrossing the middle of the yard. That meant our walking paycheck, Goran Mesic, would be in the mobbed side walkways.
We did check the weather. But there’d been only a forecast of “light wind with possible light drizzle.” Now it looked like some classes were getting out early to handle the surprise downpour, which meant we were already behind schedule.
Our contingency plans could handle that. We were already in position, ready for Goran. What our plans couldn’t handle was the fact that Goran was walking directly between Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Not in front, not to the rear. But between his two bodyguards.
Barely any of our reconnaissance would be of use now. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a moment. I took a breath. I pictured the most chaotic possible outcome of the next hour and let its climactic moment unfold in front of me in slow motion.
People reaching for weapons. Witnesses diving for cover. Slow motion. Like an NFL replay. I tried to see where each step could go wrong, letting the frozen moments inform me how to re-choose the better step. If the guards protectively shove Goran down to the pavement: I shoot all three of them. If Goran runs directly away: I let Milt handle them while I footrace the kid off campus. When you think like a victim, you choose paths based on fear. Fear trumps all. Goran would panic at the threat on campus and think to run from campus. That would mean crossing Quincy Street. I could head him off if I circled around the library and ambushed from solid cover.
What a fun job—shooting kids.
I felt nauseous.
“He’s twenty,” argued Milt. “He ain’t no kid.”
I’d already wanted to leave this career. I’d been searching for a doable exit plan for months. I had a wife who would barely kiss me anymore. A dog who barely nuzzled me. Ulcers. A leaky roof.
My work was the culprit. My wife hated what I did. I’d come to hate it, too.
“Anyone under thirty is a kid,” I said to Milt.
By 10:05 a.m. we were established in our positions at the upper end of the quad. I could see Milt and he could see me. We’d given ourselves strict orders not to use the cell phones. Phone records can be searched. Checked. Studied. Conclusions drawn. You just don’t know what kind of paper trail a text message becomes, should the cops get hold of you. Or worse, should the Croatian Mafia get hold of you.
“Is this chair taken?” I said to the girl next to me.
“Uh…no,” said the girl, puzzled. She was wearing a giant, thick scarf, the kind that would