In the Dark.

May of 1992

New York City, USA.

It was almost like I was really there.

I was sitting on the curb outside our house, almost directly under the mailbox, waiting impatiently for a letter from my best friend. I was nine, so the fact that it was the middle of the night never occurred to me. I just knew I needed to hear from him.

Mom came out all bundled up in her housecoat, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand, and sat down beside me. She put her arm around me and held me so tight that it almost hurt. It was winter. I knew she hated the cold, but she was here with me anyway.

"Baby, come inside. You have school in the morning."

I huffed, "Mario is gonna miss it."

Her eyes were set on me. It was hard to remember if she was frustrated or just tired – she was a lot of both when I was that age, dealing with Nate and my father. "How many times do we have to have this talk, Michael?" she said, her words harsh, "You're old enough to understand. Mario is never coming back. Him and his mom moved to Orlando to be closer to his dad."

"Why did his dad have to go to jail?"

I could see that she had already planned an answer, but when she looked into my eyes, it changed. She was always so honest with me. "I suppose the same reason anyone does. He was a bad guy. We all knew it. It was only a matter of time."

"Mario liked him."

"Yeah, well, kids never see it. It takes a grownup." She folded her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, staring at the house across the street, where our new neighbors lived. "Mario was the best thing that bastard ever did with his life."

I focused on my crappy sneakers. "When is he coming back? Do you know how long his dad has to stay in jail?"

She pressed a strong, smoke-smelling hand to my cheek, "Hopefully forever. Listen, there are good guys and bad guys in this world. Good guys work hard and take care of their families, like your dad, and bad guys… well, they never do anything for anybody but themselves."

I had already asked my father, but I asked her, too, "What did he do? Why is he bad?"

She sighed, getting to her feet. "If I tell you, will you come back inside?"

I nodded.

"He killed someone, baby. Now come on."

It happened a long time ago, so long ago that the details were a little blurry. Was her robe green or beige? Did she have her long blonde hair down, or in curlers? Did she have bruises on her upper arm, or was that just a shadow? I could not remember Mario, or who he was, or why I cared that he was gone. I don't remember who his father was, or if I ever got that letter I was waiting for.

But what my mom said about good guys and bad guys settled like a weight inside of me. Sometimes the things we hear as children stay with us longer than they should.

I wondered what she would think of me right now. I had killed people. I had maimed people. I had played a role in countless deaths, walking in the shadow of a psychopath. If she were sitting on that curb with Nate, would she tell him why I was never coming home?

"You still brooding up here?"

Larry came up behind me, perching on the low wall that bordered the roof and glancing down at the street below. It had been three weeks since Randolph Meyer had gotten the files he wanted, and two weeks since the SEALs had left on their next assignment. Larry and I had been stuck in this hotel most of the time, monitoring finances and phone taps, waiting for Meyer to make a move.

"I was bored," I said simply.

"Well, do I have good news for you." Larry turned, dangling both feet over the side, and lit a cigar. He spoke through it. "Meyer made a move. We got intel that the tragic accidental death of Maria Clark was not an accident. She was in the process of introducing a bill to the House – a bill that would have taken a significant cut of his import export profits."

I watched him chew on his cigar, processing this information. Maria Clark was a member of the US House of Representatives. Her death had made national news. She was a young firecracker, determined to make positive changes in the world. She was twenty-eight years old.

"Why did we give him those files?" I asked carefully.

Larry might have sensed that I was angry. He shrugged. "Better to know his interest in government secrets were purely greedy than to have an international incident on our hands."

"It wasn't worth her life."

He clearly thought the opposite, but he dodged the discussion instead, "Yeah, well, not our decision. We have something else to accomplish before we leave New York and put this whole mess behind us. Just got the orders in. We can go now, unless you wanted to sit up here and sulk some more. I have to admit, the view is fabulous."

It would probably be easier to stay up there. Maybe less people would die.

But I turned around anyway, hopping to my feet and shaking off the warmth that Sam had left behind. I had to go back to the real world now, where problems found solutions at the tip of a bullet.