Headcount: v5 Read online

  “Yep.”

  “Then how about we find a spot and call all fourteen of them to a meeting at the same time? We can just rig the place and take them out in one shot.”

  Now Mo clapped. “Thank you. Now that’s efficiency. Frank, you are a good consultant after all.”

  I felt pleased but then immediately felt sick.

  “So what’s a good spot?” said Mo.

  “Actually, that warehouse would have been the best spot. Especially since we had to blow the place anyway. And the fourteen probably wouldn’t have gotten suspicious at being asked to meet there. They probably come there to collect their cash payments from Miroslav.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Damn. We should have thought of that before blowing up the place.” I shook my head.

  “Did you see the place blow up?”

  “Well, no. But I saw you plant all that explosive, and . . .” I looked at her. “Wait—”

  Mo nodded. “Yep, the explosives are on a timer.”

  “So now all we need to do is get those people there? How much time do we have?”

  Mo smiled. She started the car. “Don’t worry about it. Today is payday for them. They meet in the main warehouse area just behind the garage door we saw. They drive in through the rear entrance and gather on the warehouse floor and then Miroslav goes there to meet them.” She looked at the clock on the dash again. “And that would have happened, oh, about thirty minutes ago.”

  She laughed when she saw my expression. “Turn on the radio,” she said.

  I did. We listened to the local news for a while, and then we heard it:

  —and breaking news . . . a warehouse that stored chemicals for Walker-Midland has exploded killing several workers. While the bodies have yet to be identified, authorities confirm they have recovered the remains of fourteen individuals. Initial reports are that it was an accident, but an investigation is underway. We will keep you updated as—

  I smiled and shook my head as Mo turned off the radio. “So, what, this was some kind of psychological test for me?”

  Mo nodded blankly. She looked pale. She stopped the car at the side of the road and looked at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “The radio said fourteen.”

  “So?” I shrugged. Then I realized what she was saying. “Shit, with Miroslav, there should have been fifteen.”

  Mo nodded.

  “Now what?” I said.

  She started the car and slowly pulled back onto the road. “I guess your next test is going to come sooner than expected.”

  SEVEN

  “I can’t do it. I won’t do it. You need to let me go. We both know you aren’t going to let me sit on death row for a murder that wasn’t even a murder.” I looked at Mo. I felt closer to her now. Now that we had killed fourteen people together. Close enough that I felt she wasn’t a heartless psychopath. Psychopath, maybe. But not heartless. “And you know I’m not going to say anything about what you did at the warehouse. There. We’re even now. I have something on you, and you have something on me. So just take me back to the hotel, and we’re done. I’ll take a nap, go to the gym. Maybe order some room service. And then I’ll go in to the office in the early afternoon. It’ll be like this shit never happened.”

  Mo didn’t look at me. She just kept driving. She didn’t even blink. She just shook her head.

  “What?” I said. “Say something.”

  Mo didn’t say anything.

  “Look, I know you’re a good person. Whatever it is that’s driving you to do what you do is none of my business. I’m not going to lose any sleep over the people you’re . . . getting rid of.” I gulped. “But this isn’t me. I can’t just hunt down people I don’t know and kill them.”

  Now Mo spoke. “So I’m a good person? And you’re nothing like me? Does that make you a bad person? Or am I not really a good person?”

  I felt confused. It seemed really hot in the car and I was sweating. I put down the window but quickly put it back up when I felt the warm blast of Texas air hit me in the face. I cranked the air conditioner and took several deep breaths. “Mo, I don’t know what to say. I haven’t slept in . . . ”

  “Yes, I know. Thirty hours. You told me.” She looked angry. “You know, there are nineteen-year-old kids carrying sixty pounds of equipment through the goddamn desert after being awake for forty-plus hours. And they get paid about a third of what you make.”

  I was annoyed. “So now we’re soldiers?”

  She snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. You have no idea what that term even means.”

  “And you do?” I laughed.

  The car barely swerved as Mo let go of the wheel. I didn’t see her hand move, but I felt it smash into the left side of my face. The right side of my head slammed into the passenger-side window. I sat there stunned, gasping for breath. I could feel my left cheek throb and expand as the blood rushed into the swelling.

  We drove in silence for several minutes as I slipped in and out of consciousness. I’m not sure if I was passing out or simply falling asleep. It didn’t matter. I was in a stupor. I knew I was drooling but I didn’t care. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I remembered something Mo had said earlier. I turned to her and tried to speak. I couldn’t. I tried again, and the words came out.

  “Your daughter?” I said.

  Mo was quiet. Then she nodded.

  “She’s dead,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “She was a soldier?”

  Mo nodded again.

  I sighed and looked out of the window. Then I turned back to her. “Iraq? Afghanistan?”

  Mo smiled. She shook her head. “Westchester County, New York.”

  I stared at her. “Your daughter was killed when she was on leave? How?”

  Mo took a deep breath. She smiled again. “She shot herself in our garage.”

  “Oh my God. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  Mo shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. As you said, what drives me is none of your business, right?”

  I was quiet. I vaguely understood what she meant about it driving her. I had read the stories about these kids coming back stateside with no idea how to reconcile with what they’d seen and done in those god-forsaken places. And as soldiers they are taught to be strong, to handle things, so they bottle up these unresolved emotions. And sooner or later the bottle breaks.

  Obviously Mo felt responsible. Any parent would. But she’d be angry too, wouldn’t she? So was this her way of seeking revenge? I looked over at Mo. No. She wasn’t on a vengeance binge. She was trying to understand. She wanted to know what it was like for a good person to go out there and attack and maim and kill strangers. In her own way, albeit a radical and violent way, Mo was saying that soldiers shouldn’t be the only ones that have to live with these choices. These are choices we’ve made together, and we should deal with the consequences together.

  I sighed. So it was my business after all. By saying “It’s not me,” I was no different from Miroslav. I was enabling, indeed ordering, others to commit terrible acts of violence on my behalf. But I didn’t want to get my own hands dirty and bloody.

  I sighed again. “So how do we figure out which one of the fourteen is still alive?”

  EIGHT

  “Wait here,” said Mo. We had stopped in the outer regions of the Walker-Midland parking lot. “I don’t think you want to explain that bruise to anyone at the office quite yet.”

  I tried to smile but it hurt too much. I winced and lit a cigarette, but then immediately stubbed it out. Those war movies where the dying soldier asks for a cigarette are bullshit. When you’re in that much pain, gagging on the smoke of a burning cigarette is not so much fun.

  I had fallen asleep by the time Mo got back. She shook me awake. I groaned and looked at her. She smiled at me. “Sorry for hitting you.”

  I sat up and blinked. I felt slightly better.

  Mo started the car. “Some more coffee? Or some break
fast?”

  I shook my head. “Just some water would do it, I think.”

  Mo flipped open the cover of the armrest between the seats. There were several small bottles of water stuffed in there. I grabbed one. It was warm, but it tasted good. I yawned. Then I put down the window and lit a cigarette. I was definitely better, because the smoke tasted good. I was just beginning to relax when Mo handed me a single sheet of paper. It was a printout from Walker-Midland’s human resources database.

  “John Smith? You’re kidding. This is a real name?”

  Mo laughed. “It has to be. No one is dumb enough to make up an alias like that.”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. How do we know he’s the one?”

  “I went to the HR group. I told them it looked like Simone might be out sick, and since I was working with her, it might be a good idea for me to get a head start on a communication for her to send out to the company.”

  “And they just gave you the names of the people killed?”

  “Yes. They had a list based on the ID cards that were swiped, and were busy working with the police to track down the families of the victims. And they’ve seen me with Simone often enough to know that she trusts me. Besides, it’s not private information. It’ll be released on the news anyway.”

  “Okay. So now what? We’re going to this address?” I looked at Smith’s home address on the printout. “Looks like an apartment building. We can’t just walk up there and murder him. People will see us. And there might be a front desk or something. Or cameras. Or both.”

  Mo smiled. “You are so paranoid. I love it.”

  “Should I not be? We’re not protected by the government or anything, right? We’re just a couple of psycho vigilantes out to kill some dude who may not even know what he’s done wrong besides pull a payroll scam.”

  “No, it’s okay to be paranoid. It’ll serve you well. And you’re right. It’s possible that he doesn’t know. Unlikely, since no one gets paid in cash for doing nothing, but possible.” Mo looked at me. “But if that bit worries you, then consider it part of your job to let him know.”

  I was silent. Not because I had any issue with letting him know what he was allowing happen. No, that part was okay. It was the other part of the job that worried me. The killing part. The part where I took a life. The part where I played judge, jury, and executioner. And God.

  I stammered as I spoke. “So we go up to his place. And then I . . . I stab him?” I choked on the last few words as I fought back a sob. “How can I do that? What right do I have?”

  “None. You don’t have the right to take a human life. Neither of us does. Each act of violence turns us into lesser human beings.”

  “Then let’s just stop this insanity. Turn the car around. Let’s go back to the hotel. Or even the office.”

  “That isn’t stopping. We’re still authorizing the elimination of human life. If we go back, then all we’re doing is hiding from the truth by passing the buck to a bunch of kids in uniforms.”

  I suddenly felt she was right. And now I didn’t feel so sick anymore, even though I knew I was going to kill a man. What was happening to me? What had I become?

  “Frank Stein. You know, that’s a cool name. You have a middle initial?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry. You must get that all the time.”

  I nodded. “Anyway. So about this apartment building. How do we go in and out without being seen?”

  “I’m hoping we don’t have to go in and out. I’d like to wait for him in the lot. He’s probably about to make a run for it. He’s got to have figured out that he was supposed to have been killed at the warehouse with the others this morning.”

  “Sure. It’s interesting that he wasn’t at the warehouse. Why is that, you think?”

  Mo shrugged. “Maybe he ran late. Or was sick.”

  “Too sick to collect his cash paycheck? That doesn’t seem right.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Mo slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. She pointed at the flashing lights of an ambulance and two police cars.

  “That’s Smith’s apartment building?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What are the chances some old person just had a heart attack?”

  “They don’t send two police cruisers for a senior incident.”

  “You think it’s Smith.”

  Mo nodded. “I’m going to find out.”

  She got out of the car and walked over to the crowd gathered outside the building. I saw her talk to a man who was standing in his pajamas. Mo nodded and then jogged back to the car. I could tell from her expression that it was Smith.

  I waited until she was back in the car. Then I asked her.

  “Apparent suicide is what they’re saying. A neighbor heard a single gunshot. No one saw anything.”

  I exhaled and stared at the flashing lights as we drove away. I almost smiled as I lit another cigarette and thought about a shower and the fresh cool sheets of my hotel bed. I turned on a music station and leaned back in the seat. “So we’re done. This is the end.”

  Mo laughed. “If by end you mean beginning.”

  I looked at her.

  She stared at me in surprise. “Wait, did you think that it was just this one job?”

  I looked away.

  “Frank, I’m not backing off.” She looked at me with some pity, but not much. “I know I’ve turned your life upside down. I know you still don’t believe what’s happening. But I’ve thought through this many times. I can live with what I’m doing. I’m not proud of it, but I can live with it. For now at least.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she shrugged. “And I’ve been watching you for a few months now. Simone and I both have. You were too good to be true. Too good to pass up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re smart, and you’re in good physical shape. No wife, no kids, no siblings. You love your parents, but aren’t in close contact with them. Your recent consulting gigs have been outside of New York, so you’ve been traveling so much that even your close friends don’t really know what you’re up to. And you’re one of the few senior consultants that has worked across so many different industries that I can move you around to different clients without anyone thinking it odd.”

  I snorted. “You just described at least fifty other guys at C&C.”

  Mo shook her head. “You know that’s not true. But regardless, there are two other factors that make you different. And ideal for what we do.”

  “Oh really? What?”

  “The first is that although you’re a good consultant, the job doesn’t fulfill you. You’re looking for something more. Something meaningful.”

  I laughed out loud. “And I’ll find it in murder? Killing people is going to bring meaning into my life?”

  Mo shook her head. “Sorry for the cliché, but you’re missing the forest for the trees. Yes, the details of your work involve killing people. But you need to find a way to put it into perspective. You need to understand that your decisions as a private citizen of the free and democratic world have already authorized the killing of people who threaten our way of life.”

  “Yes, I realize that. We’ve talked about it. But that killing needs to be done by the men and women who are trained for this shit. People who’ve volunteered to do this. Folks that are getting paid to do it.”

  Mo smiled as she pulled the car back onto the highway. “That’s the easy way out. To sit back and say that these other people are trained to kill. It’s their jobs, so what’s the big deal, right?”

  I nodded and shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “Bullshit. That makes sense on paper. But that’s not how it works. No one should have to kill another human. No job in a truly free and democratic world should require murder. Or whatever it is they call it when a soldier kills someone.”

  “Yeah, but now you’re the one spouting nonsense that only makes sense on paper. You’re basically saying that the world should be
a happy, comfortable place where no one kills anyone else for political or legal reasons. That’s a fairy tale. Speaking of clichés, that’s the biggest one. Like when the genie pops out of the bottle and grants you a wish and you smile and say, ‘World Peace.’ ”

  Mo smiled again. She had a look that stank of victory, and I didn’t like it. “Exactly. It is a cliché. We’re not going to see world peace in our lifetimes. And even if we do, there will be a lot of killing along the way. And that’s my point.”

  I was starting to smell my own defeat, but I ignored it. “I don’t get it.”

  “Yeah, you do. I’m starting to make sense, aren’t I? If we accept the premise that no one should have to kill for a living, that taking a human life cannot be trivialized and reduced to a simple job description, that no human can be adequately prepared to deal with the psychological aftermath of killing another, then we have to face the conclusion. The conclusion that as long as we ask our soldiers and agents to kill, we have to be prepared to do so as well. So all I’m doing is asking you to step up. Not for your country or anything like that. It’s bigger than that. You need to step up in the name of human decency. You need to share some of the pain. You need to understand what it means to be haunted by the faces of the men and women you’ve killed, to wake up at night screaming and sweating and begging for forgiveness. Stop asking other people to go through this on their own. Step up and take on some of that burden yourself.”

  I shook my head. Damn, she was a good salesperson.

  Mo looked at me. She laughed. “How’s that for some meaning?”

  I looked out of the window as the green road signs whipped by. I didn’t speak. I just nodded.

  “Now you know why it’s not going to be just one job? It can’t be. This is your life now.”

  I nodded again. I didn’t really think it would be just one job. I knew I wasn’t getting out of this without actually killing someone. Or getting out of it at all. The mental shift Mo had talked about was already happening. I had already made two separate decisions to kill. I was in it now. Mo was right: the irrational, emotional, intuitive part of me had already chosen a path. I’m not sure when it happened—perhaps at night in the hotel room; perhaps on the treadmill the previous evening; maybe in the men’s room at the office yesterday; or maybe the second Mo had shown me the picture.