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He says: “It’s me.”
/Marco/
[audio transcript]
They approached me while I was still in the army, mom. Who is ‘they’? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The highest in the land. Politicians in the highest offices. They wanted a killer, someone to do their dirty work for them. I refused immediately, of course. I wasn’t going to be a paid assassin, not for anyone. Especially not the assassin of an innocent girl. There was no way I was doing this. None.
And then, they brought up Hector.
But in the end, I didn’t do it for him. Maybe I should be ashamed to admit that, and I am a little. I know Hector would have died unless I did as they asked, but in the end, even that wasn’t enough of a reason to agree to kill her.
I did it for her.
I didn’t know her back then, if I had it would have been a no-brainer. But all I knew was that she looked dead gorgeous in her photos. She looked like a spoiled royal brat—if you believed the tabloids, she was one. But she still did not deserve to die just because they wanted to have their war.
So I did it for her.
I did it so that I would be the one to take the job.
I did it so that they wouldn’t give it to somebody else.
I took the job fully intending to fail. Fully intending to die.
I knew what was about to happen the day I left you to catch a plane to Vermont.
You were so happy, mom, when I was released from the army service early and with honors, and I couldn’t tell you the truth: That they had done this on purpose, so that they would give me this job. The job of an assassin. I cried every night, and I plastered a smile on my face every morning.
Then I went away to Burlington and you were so proud and happy. And all the time, I was walking straight to my death, and I couldn’t tell you anything—I couldn’t even tell you goodbye. And for that, mom, I’m sorry.
But I don’t regret it. I’m sorry, mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m crying, I’m sorry I’m making you sad.
But I don’t regret a single thing.
six
Marco secures the doors for the hundredth time, then grabs a suitcase from a corner and takes out a couple of bulletproof vests.
He puts one around me, straps me in it a bit too tightly.
“Was all this prepared?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, grunting as he picks up two black bags, full of… Oh, he opens them. It’s guns. The bags are full of guns—these are different ones. And they are enough to equip an army.
“What’s it prepared for?”
“Me”, he replies quietly. Grunts again.
Then he turns around to look at me, and something I see in his face slices my heart in two. This look of intense torture and anguish causes a sharp pain in the middle of my chest, and the pain grows so much and so abruptly that it stops my breath. Suddenly, his face gets twisted in panic, and he’s running towards me, the bags dropping with a loud clank on the floor.
Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back on the floor, my legs bent, and he is leaning over me, his lips white.
“What?” I ask, sitting up, but I immediately want to throw up, so I lay back down. “What are you doing?”
“You fainted,” he says. “Well, almost. Your pulse is super low. Don’t get up, ok?”
My wrist is clasped lightly between his fingers, and he’s counting my breaths.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hating my voice, my weak body, and this whole entire situation.
