Redemption

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.

The drill is simple: we lure greedy crime lords with tales of spoils beyond their wildest imaginings to this Third World Country with the shark baits. Opium plantations, identity theft, electronic theft, name it, we have mastered the art of lying about them. Then, bam, the ambush.

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 18^th 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.