The safe house is dark, as it always is. I have come to
memorise its every nook and cranny, from the three years I have spent coming
back to it with my comrades as we fought a holy war against organized crime.
It’s somewhere in the middle of nowhere, where people would not think to look for high profile shark baits and highly skilled killing machines this side of the Pacific.
I am one of the killing machines, the most skilled of us
all. I have a dead aim, as the Oracle put it, I can put a bullet where I set my
sight. I’ve been training in hand to hand combat since I was six, not in
anticipation of this unforeseen role but because it was something I needed to
curb my fiery temper.
My bunk in the safe house is the most Spartan. I have
military issue beddings, one pillow and a scratchy wool blanket. My only
concession to my identity outside this hell is a fictional 1989 calendar with a
picture of my childhood sweetheart, Jim, on the cover. It was a gift from my
Dad before I entered compulsory military service. Compulsory for me, anyway.
It is strange, this situation I find myself in. I respect
life, I have never believed in claiming an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth,
as the Good Book put it. When the intelligence service finally discovered the
crime network that runs organized crime in all the inhabited continents in the
world, we thought the humane thing would be to induce death through medical
means; that is, induced cardiac arrest or other organ failure of the crime
lords. But it didn’t work. We only discovered that only bullets issuing from my
gun would put an end to the evil elements in this world by accident.
I never carry firearms. That’s the job of my bodyguards. But
one night while I was coming home from one of the London clubs I frequent, a
posse of gunmen opened fire at me and my bodyguards. They wanted to steal my
Lamborghini Diablo; I would have given it to them if they asked nicely, without
the need for bloodshed.
My bodyguard was down so I took his automatic .45 and
opened fire at the car jackers. I had
five men down with my five bullets. All of them went straight to the head, they
were with their boss, who also died.
I was drafted then, to my consternation. It meant leaving my
quiet life as a trust fund kid. It meant leaving Jim, with whom I wanted to
have a family already. I was ready then to marry him, but matrimony had to
wait. I had serious business to attend to first.
After each operation, I would go to Confession. Before each
operation I would take Communion. I heard Mass everyday over my battery
operated radio. I was seeking answers. Why this cruel celestial joke? Of all
the people in the world, why did this burden fall on my shoulders? I was a God
fearing, upstanding citizen. I paid correct taxes. I am an active
philanthropist. I have never supported the idea that criminals should be
killed. And now this.
I looked at Jim’s picture, as has been my wont. I never
touch it. I was afraid my DNA or fingerprints on his picture would get him
involved in this brouhaha. That they’d trace the connection between us, whoever
they are, and get back at him. I was crying. I cry every night. It’s a miracle
I still have the energy to do so after the exhausting training programs I go
through every day.
I cry for the time I’m losing. I should be married by now,
making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Jim’s lunch at the office. Taking
care of a baby or two. Managing my own household. Doing things married trust
fund kids do.
Instead I’m hiding like a rat, sporting a shaved head that I
abhor, wearing only military issue duds that’s making my skin itch. I wouldn’t
have minded if I knew what I was fighting for, why I was fighting, and most of
all, why it had to be me doing the
fighting.
We still have 14 operations to go. I am meditating, trying
to look into my heart for the answers I seek. I pray my life won’t be claimed
even before I have my chance to live out my romance with Jim. I ask, why the
need for subterfuge and bloodshed? Why didn’t the humane way work out? Why did
we have to do it this way?
We’ve completed 25 operations. I am getting quite tired.
While I have a hundred percent batting average, it’s one of my few achievements
in life I will never be proud of. Then it came to me, the answer I have been
seeking. I neglected to tell you. I’m a trust fund kid, perhaps the wealthiest
trust fund kid in the world. If you haven’t heard of my family on the Forbes
list of the world’s wealthiest, it’s because we choose to keep it that way. We
pay people to keep us under the radar, for various reasons: among them to keep
away gold diggers from our orbit, to protect our cherished anonymity, and to
live lives as normal people.
It felt like God Himself was putting the ideas in my head. I
had to be at the front line of this war so that I’d know what a soldier drafted
for war feels like. With all the resources at my disposal, I should use them to
perpetuate peace and not strife. Serious responsibilities attend my rare
position of power in society. I should be mindful of my duties to the less
fortunate as a steward of Earthly wealth.
I prayed a silent thank you to Jesus then, for the
epiphanies. It was then that I had the courage to touch Jim’s picture. I let a
tear fall on the calendar and kissed his visage goodnight. I slept a little
sounder that night.
I woke up with my commander shaking me hard. “Alex, get up,
Alex. There’s something you need to see,” she said. I was unresponsive, it wasn’t yet light
outside. The operation was not til the next day break.
“Alexandra, dammit! Do I have to pull you out
of there!” she exclaimed. I got up reluctantly.
I was directed to the command centre at the basement. On the
monitors were various intelligence reports from fourteen locations in Asia, the
Middle East and Central Europe. The
fourteen remaining crime lords we had yet to ambush all died simultaneously, of
cardiac arrest, at 3:33 am Greenwich Mean Time + 8.00 hours.
My tears fell, first soundlessly, and then they turned into
sobs. My best friend Paul, one of the shark baits, cried with me. We were free.
The war was over. Someone played U2 music
over the public address system. Then we were informed that the debriefing
schedule will be posted over the next two days and we’ll then be free to go
home.
I ran my fingers over my shaved head, wondering how long it
will take me to grow my copper locks to their former waist length. My pondering
was cut short when someone gave me a paper cup of pink bubbly. I drank a few
sips then put it down on my desk. I had no belongings to pack, but I wanted to
get ready for my discharge. I called to mind everything I’ve been doing these
years I spent away from Jim and thought how best I could sanitize my role in
all this bloodshed. Then I decided that the only way to be fair to Jim is to
tell him everything, the whole truth. If it meant repulsing him, well, that was
a risk I had to take. I had a duty to fulfill and so that’s what I did.
My private plane landed in Manila on a rainy July afternoon.
I was grateful I made it in time for Jim’s birthday, which falls on the 18th
of the month. My present for him was the bunch of letters I wrote but did not
send in the three years we’ve been separated. I wore a scarf on my head to hide
my buzz cut, the red fuzz on my head irritated me, although Paul said I could
set it into the next fashion trend.
I was nervous; I fiddled with my black and white stripe boat
neck blouse and denim mini skirt. I wore white Chuck Taylors on my feet. It was
Jim’s favourite get-up of mine, though I was not certain that it was still
becoming on my fuller 28-year-old female form. If not for the hair, you could
say little has changed about me in the years I was away.
He was there, as beautiful as I remembered him to be. His black
and silver hair reflected the watery sun. He had more meat on his bones. He
made an effort to look good for this meeting, I could tell. Instead of his
office suit, he wore a white V neck shirt and olive drab cargo shorts, and the
orange Gucci loafers I said he should try while we were out window shopping
once.
I was afraid. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came
out. He held out a fist. I smiled and cried at the same time. I told him, if I
came back alive, to give me that sign if he still wanted me. I held out my own
fist and bumped it with his.
“Your Dad told me everything,” was his opening. My Dad was a
colonel in the military and privy to its intelligence operations, especially
since I had to be involved. “I respect you more now for everything you did.
You’ll never know how much. I’m just so happy you got out alive.” He was crying
now. Then he beat me to the draw. He took out a box with a ginormous pink
diamond betrothal ring. “I should have done this before you left, but I hope
I’m not too late. Alexandra Mary Malaya Lancaster, will you do me the honour of
consenting to be my wife?”
I laughed then, the sorrow replaced by an inexplicable joy.
“Only if you’ll do me the honour of being my husband,” I shot back, taking out
the gold bangle for his right wrist that I bought in England before going into
the military.
He put the ring on my left ring finger, and I put the bangle
on his right wrist.
Something inside me lifted then, as if I was being washed
clean. With each kiss from him the remorse and guilt of the past years of
bloodshed melted away.
The hell of war became a forgotten memory, as the prospect
of the heaven of a peaceful future beckoned.
Then, I knew: whatever the future held for Jim and I had
been worth the wait.
