Tipping Point.

December of 1992.

British Columbia.

Some people live like gods.

In the streets of this mountain town, the homes were like mansions – extravagantly painted, with big porches and sprawling yards. I wondered if they had warm summers to use them, kids to roll around in the grass, or if they liked to have them as a status symbol. I pictured the places I had been, the places where people lived in ghettos, where the houses were shacks and stacked on top of one another in a seemingly endless cascade of sheet metal, and my disgust with this place grew.

I had met the kind of people who lived in mansions like this. It was no secret to me that some of the missions I had been sent on were to protect their interests, to make sure the money stayed in the wrong hands.

But Sam loved it. He was very different from me.

He commented on the architecture, pretending he knew more than he did, throwing out nonsense words and laughing to himself. He kept elbowing me, talking about a guy walking his prissy dog, a shop that somehow stayed in business selling only kites. He talked about his retirement, how he wanted to settle in a place like this, how his pension would probably get him a shed in the yard.

And he kept checking the time.

I saw his eyes roaming to the dashboard, an almost unnoticeable crease in his forehead. "Got somewhere to be, Sam?" I tried to keep my tone neutral.

He looked nervous, "Uh, just a little pitstop. Won't take a minute."

Something about his behavior made me weary. I had a pretty good gut. I could usually pick out a bad situation. But this had to be something mild, something lukewarm – a yellow flag, not a red one. So, I didn't push him for answers.

He cut our wine tour short at three and we headed to a little café. He smiled reassuringly as we got a table by the window, and he said to the waitress, "We have a third coming. Water, please."

I waited.

Sam smiled sheepishly, "I got a call from Phil first thing this morning. He said he wanted to talk. He sounded a little shaken up."

"Phil…?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. He owns the resort."

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"He just wanted to talk to me, and I owe the guy big time." He was being defensive. "I'm not pausing our vacation. I just can't say no to him. You understand."

Maybe that yellow flag should have been red.

I had to remind myself that this was Sam I was talking to. He was trustworthy. It was hard to move past my instincts. I was trained to run away from situations like this, to reevaluate the unknown variable and come up with a plan.

An unexpected guest was a dangerous thing.

Phil showed up a few minutes later. He was wearing a black suit, hastily thrown on. He was a little short, with thinning, pale brown hair and wide eyes. His skin was sallow and he had deep circles like pits in his cheeks. He had been losing sleep lately.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder, "What the hell happened to you?"

Phil glanced at me, unsure, and then said, "I need your help. I wasn't sure who else to go to."

"Tell me what's going on."

"It's my cousin, Dino. Do you remember him?"

"Vaguely. Is he the one with the toupee?"

"Yes. It's not important. Look, he got in with these guys – this organization – and he borrowed a lot of money. Too much money. He called me last night and said they threatened our family. They're gonna kill his parents if he doesn't pay up."

I was apprehensive. It sounded like Dino was in deep with some shady people. I had encountered a few 'organizations' on my travels, but they were never my mission – I still saw what their businesses did to people. Bookies were like popup banks, offering big, off the books loans at extremely high interest rates to people who would never be able to pay it off. It was a less legal way to ensure a steady source of income, to suck it out of addicts and gamblers like a leech.

"Do you know who he borrowed it from?" Sam asked.

Phil lowered his voice, glancing at me again, "Chimaera." He said it in a whisper, as a secret. "He said he met with them in Vancouver."

Sam touched his shoulder again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His eyes were warm. "Nobody is gonna get hurt. I happen to know a little bit about bookies. I'll see what I can do."

Phil looked between us.

"Oh, right, sorry." Sam gestured back and forth, "Phil, this is Mike, and Mike, this is Phil. And you can trust him. Mike is a-"

I hissed, "Sam. Can I talk to you in private?"

Sam got up, clearly reluctant, "Uh, we'll be right back. Hang tight."

We stepped outside, into a windy, cold day.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"What? I'm not gonna turn the guy down!"

"Tell him to take it to the police!"

"Come on, Mike, you know that never works. If he goes to the police, he'll end up with a dead family, and he'll still be in debt to the bookie. Besides, they might arrest him for his troubles."

"Chimaera? It sounds like these guys are organized. And they should arrest him. He's obviously into something shady if he didn't go to them first."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, he got himself into it and he can get himself out of it."

"Come on, Mike. That's cold. I know you don't think like that. People make mistakes."

I ground my teeth. I was thinking like that.

But the way that he was looking at me reminded me that Sam thought I was better. He thought I was more than a killer, more than just a spy. He held me to a higher standard than Larry did.

It was hard to see it. I looked away.

If he knew half the things I've done… I thought, as I often did.

But there was no way I could turn him down. He was there for me when my Christmas plans fell apart. I hadn't realized how badly I needed a friend.

Sam insisted, in a joking tone, "You were the one who wanted to work instead of go on vacation. Here's your chance."

"You know this isn't what I meant. Freelancing? Do you do this a lot?"

"No. This would be a first. How hard can it be? It's just a mission without the paperwork."

"Did you ever think we could both be fired for it?"

"Nobody but us has to know. Come on. Don't do it for him, do it for me. I need backup. This is absolutely a one-time thing, I swear."

I groaned.

Sam grinned, "Great! Let's go back inside before my toes start turning black."

An hour later we were driving down the mountain, heading to Vancouver. I tried to hold onto my apprehension, but the closer we got, the more it shifted to curiosity. If there was some sort of moral scale weighing all my actions, maybe helping someone would shift it a little. Maybe this could be the tipping point where I was not just a dark shadow moving through the world.

It would certainly feel better than killing Arin or making deals with powerful men in Iran. For once, I would get to save some lives.

Sam noticed the change in my mood. He was even a little giddy as the two-hour drive came to an end. "Phil is gonna owe me big time for this. I'm talking yearly vacations – in the summer!"

I said, "This is a one-time thing. That's it."

"Absolutely."