On the Roof.

May of 1992.

New York City, USA.

It was a beautiful night in the city, strangely clear for this time of year, resting on the edge of a comfortable warmth. New York was very different from my hometown, not as humid, much taller, and much brighter. Larry said spies loved big cities – too many faces to recognize you, noise to obscure footfalls or gunshots, and plenty of people with secrets to protect. I had been to a few of them around the world, but I was not fond of them like Larry. With the abundance of faces came a cold separation, devaluing life.

I was not the type to find a high place to sit and brood, but the roof was the only place I felt free to let my guard down – free of Larry, at least. It had only one access point, which sounded like tires screeching when it opened. I could sit on the edge with my shoulders slumped, letting my thoughts wander out into the streets.

I thought about my mom, about the phone call I had only just ended with her. She had a new medical bill she needed to put on my insurance, and she had news about Nate – he had broken his arm again and he refused to tell her who did it, while insisting he just fell off his skateboard. She got upset when I suggested he might be telling the truth. She loved to talk about him, and I let her go on and on, unwilling to admit that I missed the sound of her voice. It could be grating in person, something I needed to escape from – but when I was already so far away, I had this secret longing to be near it again. It must have been because I was still young. I still missed home. Or maybe it was because of how much I hated some of the places I went.

Sam found me there.

He brought two beers, opened them both, and put one into my hand. He got a look at the street below, winced, and sat down beside me, gripping the half-wall tightly with his free hand. "Hey, Mike, heard you were on the roof."

I glanced at him, and then at the beer in my hand. "Is this from the mini bar?"

"Courtesy of the US Government," he said, tapping his to mine and taking a long drink. He looked up at the neighboring building, another hotel, and waved his beer toward it, "Check it out. Did you come here for the view?"

"I guess you met Larry."

He snorted, "You mean the antichrist down there?"

"Have you met before?"

"Heard of him in passing. Thompson was livid. Apparently, he was working a negotiation once in a covert base in Syria when Larry showed up and killed his contact."

"Sounds like him."

"Is he your spymaster?"

I managed a smile, "No, Larry is not my handler."

"I knew it was something like that."

"We worked together on a few missions." It was easy to lie to Sam, because the truth was so hard to voice. Sam already thought Larry was a bad guy – what would he say if he knew that Larry was responsible for most of what I was?

Sam took another long drink, "Why is he here? I know he said something about big fish, but I want to hear it from you."

I looked up, surprised, "Why?"

"Because I trust you."

I gave in and took a sip of beer, finding the taste foamy and sour. "What do you know so far?"

"Only that you went missing from your meeting and ended up here. We got the call to come to this hotel only to find Larry in your room drinking mini-bar whiskey."

"I met with a man named Randolph Meyer."

"Satan said you had a big fish, but Meyer?"

I nodded, forcing another sip, and then a longer gulp. "He let me go and I came here. Larry turned up a few hours later. The government is very interested in what Meyer is up to. I told them that you and I met Meyer together, so you were essential to the case."

"Good call. At least I can be here to watch your back."

We sunk into a thoughtful silence.

And then Sam said, "So, I have to ask, and I know you get all prickly about this sometimes, but is this one of those cases that ends in the dark?"

"What does that mean?"

"I mean, are the guilty parties going to jail, or are they getting vanished?"

It was the same conversation we had before, only it was not an accusation this time. Sam was looking at his beer, frowning. It might have only been curiosity driving him.

"It's not my decision."

Sam nodded somberly. "I just keep thinking about Elena and Luca. We got word she slipped back into critical condition and they had to put her in a medically induced coma. She has a bleed on the brain, and some kidney damage."

I summoned an image of the badly beaten woman to my mind. It was unlucky that she had been hurt when those goons came to snatch Belcher from his room. Or maybe it was another scare tactic meant to make him go through with the deal.

"Did they say anything about her chances?" I wondered.

"It's up in the air right now. I mean, think about it, if she dies Luca will have to live the rest of his life thinking he killed his own mother."

I was silent.

"What are you thinking?"

"He is partially to blame." I glanced over, finding disapproval in his eyes, and went on anyway, "He tried to sell government secrets on the internet. Luca is old enough to know better. It was a mistake, but mistakes have consequences, and no one can protect him from that."

"I'm sensing some skeletons."

I tipped my beer back, shrugging. I hated the taste, and the smell reminded me of my father, but I had a strange need to be closer to Sam.

"Something else on your mind?" Sam asked.

I answered honestly, "I was thinking about home."

Sam took a deep breath, "Yeah, me too. I don't get back to the States often. I used to go see my mom and every time she would make this incredible apple pie – I mean, absolutely divine, Mike – and my sisters would come over with their kids. We would all eat together and play a kickball game or something, and maybe hop in the pool. But she passed about ten years back. Going home is just different now."

Sam was very open, very honest, letting his innermost thoughts surface without caution. I wished I could be more like him. I only said, "I'm sorry, Sam."

He shrugged, "You should get some sleep, Mikey, you look tired."

He moved carefully back over the wall and tapped my shoulder as he left.