Kill Ari Part II
You lean back into the leather of the seat, ignoring the slight tossing of the plane as it hits some turbulence, musing sadly about what all has transpired in the past twelve hours. . . .
You knew as you drove away from the Navy Yard that Special Agent DiNozzo had been assigned to shadow you, which you really don't care since you know how to do what you have to do without anyone –even highly trained American agents- ever catching on. So you decide to have some fun because you need a break and toying with the man two car lengths behind you has opportunely presented itself. You do your best to lose him amongst the heavy traffic clogging the busy street, eliciting a barrage of honking as you swerve into another lane, forgetting to flick your blinker. After a series of sharp turns onto various dim streets, he impressively remains on your trail, laying behind a white station wagon and telephone van. And you entertain the thought they maybe you didn't give him enough credit. . . .
Three hours later you take pity on him and call his bluff, stepping out under the hotel awning. He's leaning against a concrete pillar, holding a box of pizza, staring out onto the wet street, his thoughts miles away. You bring him a peace offering in the form of an espresso, because after all, you are not immune to his pain and its cold outside. He returns the gesture by rescuing the last slice of pizza and bestowing it to you, in which you respond, "Toda," and he replies, "Prego" and it was, oddly, nice. And you find yourself watching his face as he stares ahead and you chew your bite of pizza.
"I lost my little sister, Tali, in a Hamas suicide bombing. She was sixteen and the best of us. Tali had compassion. . . .After her death, I was like Gibbs, all I wanted was revenge," and you don't know why you are telling this strange American man this story that is so personal, so close to your heart, begging him to understand what you'll never say. He apologizes for your loss, and you know it is only a reflex –you too are sorry, but for total, different, parallel reasons. And then you depart with a "Lailah Tov."
Later you find yourself standing at the top of a staircase in an alien house, the walls still reverberating with the crack of a gun shot. Gibbs climbs the stairs, from the bowels of the basement, taking the hot firearm from your shaking hands. You blink back tears and the moment is surreal and you cannot believe what you just did.
You float down the stairs, an out of body experience, and you see him lying on the floor, unmoving, and you are met with the thought that he was there on second and gone the next. . . . So you sing the ancient prayer that should not be that familiar on your lips, standing over the warm body of your father's son, his blood pooling on the concrete, staining it and him and you crimson. You are vaguely aware that Gibbs has departed, giving you a courteous distance to pay your last respects. The weight of the Berretta is still a phantom in your hand and the echoes of a sick truth spoken by a dying man are nestled in your head. That your father is a monster, that what you are fighting for has become a hazy fog of half-truths and blatant lies, that you are dispensable, a tool, a puppet. And it is this thought that sickens you almost as much as the fact that the bloody hole in your brother's forehead was the result of your bullet, your gun, your finger that pulled the trigger. . . .
The plan rocks again, disrupting your raging thoughts, tossing you gently. And your heart cold, your gun is cold, and the body of your brother, laying in the cargo hold bellow, is cold too. And that is the horrible reality of life.