The Hardest Thing

the one who was sweating.

    Shit. Memories. I waved my hand around my eyes, as if I was brushing away flies. Damn it, I don’t need this now. Memories of Will.
    I have a job to do, I have ten grand in my hands; I have a gun and an itinerary. I don’t need principles. I tried principles. I tried letting my guard down, and look where it got me. Will, and all that followed.
    I’m not going down that road.
    I stood up, and felt the weight of the Glock in my hand. Good and heavy. Well balanced. Cool and precise. Engineered.
    I looked at my watch: nearly 1900hrs. Time to eat, pack a bag and get some sleep. A new operation begins in the morning. A step into the unknown, at Penn Station. Goodbye, 109th Street, hello New Hampshire, the open road, cheap motels, fresh air and mountains and the Subject.
    Stirling McMahon, a snot-nosed brat that I’m being paid thirty thousand to babysit.
    I put the gun under the mattress and stripped off for the shower. My cock was hard from thoughts of Will Laurence—but that was over. Over, forgotten, dead.
    Time to start thinking about the future. And, for the first time in over a year, I began to feel as if I might actually have one.

The Road 3
    Ferrari was easy to spot, even in a busy place like Penn Station. Immaculately dressed despite the heat, hair combed into that precise side parting, he looked as fresh and fragrant as an aftershave ad. I was wearing an old green T-shirt and a pair of chinos, sweating like a pig after riding the subway downtown.
    “Good morning, Major Stagg.” He checked his watch, an elegant gold bracelet against tanned wrists. “You’re very punctual.”
    I shrugged. Of course I’m fucking punctual. “Where’s the passenger?”
    “In the bathroom.” There was an edge of irritation in Ferrari’s voice. “For the fifteenth time since we got here.”
    “What’s he doing?”
    “He’s nervous.”
    Yeah, right. That’s why people hang out in railway station toilets. “If he has diarrhea, he’s going to have to stick a cork in it. I’m not stopping at every restroom between here and New Hampshire.”

    “Relax, Stagg. He won’t give you any trouble.” Ferrari scanned the crowd, thinning now that the morning rush was over. “Here he comes.” I followed his gaze, half expecting to see a fat geek with glasses and an Eminem T-shirt.
    Wrong.
    He was six feet tall, with blond hair that just happened to catch a stray ray of sunlight. It flopped down over his forehead so precisely that he looked as if he’d come straight from the hairdresser’s. Maybe that’s what he was doing in the john—fixing his hair. Half his face was concealed by oversize aviator shades, the lenses fading down from dark brown to pale orange, the frames gold. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that stopped just below his belly button, and denim cut-offs riding low on his hips, with several inches of brown stomach and white underpants between the two. The look was completed by a pair of expensive-looking sandals.
    He stopped, rested his weight on one foot and put his shades on top of his head, holding the hair out of his eyes.
    “Oh,” he said. It was the sort of “oh” you might use if you’d stepped in dog shit.
    “Dan Stagg,” said Ferrari. “Stirling McMahon.”
    I extended my hand; he didn’t take it, but slurped instead on some fancy coffee concoction in a plastic beaker with a straw.
    “Shake the man’s hand, Stirling.”
    He rolled his eyes like a kid who’s been ordered to tidy his room, and extended one soft, smooth paw in my direction. I took it and squeezed, tempted to break a
couple of little bones just to show who’s boss. I began to realize why this job came with such a high price tag. He stared into space and sucked on his drink.
    “Okay, Stagg,” said Ferrari. “You’ve got everything you need, right?”
    “Sure.”
    “And remember—absolute secrecy and security.”
    “Got it.”
    “You report your whereabouts at least once a day.”
    “I understand, Ferrari. I can read. Now I have a question for you.”
    “My client does not…”
    “Why New Hampshire? Why’s he safer up there than anywhere else?”
    “If you can’t handle the job, Stagg…”
    “I’m not saying that. But if you want me to do it properly, I need to be in the picture. What’s so special about the White Mountains?”
    “I hate the mountains,” Stirling said in a flat voice, a simple statement of fact. Ferrari and I ignored him.
    “The destination is