Parking in one of the empty spots in front of the condo, my father shuts off the car and then just sits there.
I sit there, too.
The engine ticks.
Finally my father says, “So. We’re not going to tell your mother about what happened, are we?”
I take it as a question, but maybe it’s not. Maybe my father is telling me that we’re not going to tell my mother about what happened. Which, frankly, is fine with me. The less I have to relive the past twelve hours, the better.
When I don’t answer, my father says, “Holly?”
I blink. Look at him. He’s my father but somehow he’s not. He’s like a familiar stranger whose name I remember but that’s it.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you. I”—he pauses, takes a breath—“I never wanted you or your sister to ever become collateral damage in my work.”
“Your work,” I murmur. Then, louder: “Your work. Just what the hell do you do?”
My father doesn’t answer.
“Is it true what Veronika said about you?”
“What did she say?”
“That you’re a killer.”
Again my father doesn’t answer. His eyes shift away from mine.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Holy motherfucking shit.”
“Watch your mouth.” His tone is stern, but then he sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you much, you realize. In fact, you already know more than you should.”
“How many people have you killed?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. I can tell that he doesn’t want to answer it, but then he sighs again.
“I’ve lost count.”
This silences me for a long moment. I whisper again, “Holy shit.”
“I never planned for this line of work, Holly. I want you to understand that. If I had … well, it doesn’t matter. It started after you and your sister were born. By that point there was no going back.”
“Does mom know?”
“Of course not. She thinks the same thing you and your sister do. The same thing that our friends do. That I’m just a staff sergeant doing diplomatic security. That I work long hours. That I travel a lot. Not that I’m an assassin.”
Assassin. The mere sound of the word coming from his lips gives me a shock.
My father says, “Two weeks ago my team and I stole something from a very important politician in Russia. Apparently that certain politician thought he could get that something back.”
“Veronika said that one of your people got shot and left behind.”
My father closes his eyes, looking pained. “Yes. He was a good soldier. We tried to get him back, but—”
He shakes his head, goes quiet.
“Veronika said that they tortured him. That he told them your real name.”
My father nods. “He was a strong man, but everybody has his breaking point.”
“Why did you bring us here?”
“I didn’t want to bring you here. I don’t mean it to sound harsh, but the last thing I wanted was to bring my family along on a job. Especially here to Oahu.”
“Why Oahu?”
My father just watches me until, after a few seconds, something clicks in my head.
“Pearl Harbor,” I whisper.
My father nods.
“Mom doesn’t talk much about the concentration camps.”
“Nor should she. She was just a baby at the time.”
“Are things okay between you and Mom?”
Again, I can tell my father doesn’t want to answer the question, but he does.
“Things are tense. When she learned I would be stationed out here for a few months, she suggested that she and you and your sister come out and stay with me. Like I said, I didn’t want to bring any of you here, but I didn’t want to argue with your mother either. There isn’t much I can do anymore that makes her happy.”
“She must be going crazy wondering what happened to me.”
My father nods. “I called her a couple hours ago. I told her you had been in a minor accident and were taken to the hospital. Told her you had called me on my cell and that I was going to bring you home.”
“What about Chazz?”
“My people checked that secluded spot you told us about. The convertible was still there, the boy behind the wheel. The Russians set it up to look like he overdosed on heroin.”
I think about the couple minutes of silence outside the panel van before the driver and passenger got in and drove us away.
My father says, “How do you feel?”
I force a smile. “I feel dandy.”
“Holly.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m totally freaked out? That I nearly died? That I nearly—”
But I don’t finish the sentence.
My father says, “That you nearly what?”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head.
“Holly,” my father prompts.
I speak in an almost whisper. “That I nearly killed somebody.”
“You mean Veronika.”
I nod.
“I have to admit,” my father says, “I wasn’t expecting to see you holding a gun when I came through that door. It made me—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head.
“It made you what?”
He watches me for a long moment, studying my face. “It made me proud to be your father.”
This stuns me silent. I don’t think my father has ever told me he was proud of me before.
“Now having said that, you should have done what they told you to do.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“It was just a phone call, Holly.”
“I know. But still.”
“Still what?”
“Still”—I shake my head, trying to find the words—“I didn’t want them to win.”
“They could have tortured you. Killed you.”
“I know. What do you want me to say? It was stupid. But I just … it was my instinct to say no.”
My father doesn’t say anything at first, just smiles at me.
I look at him. “What?”
“Between you and your sister, you’ve always been the feisty one. You don’t easily back down. Which, now that we’re talking about it, is not always a good thing.”
“I almost killed her.”
“But you didn’t.”
“If I had killed her, she wouldn’t have blown up the ship.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“But part of me didn’t want to kill her.”
“That’s good. There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to kill somebody.”
“But she was going to kill me.”
“Probably. You defended yourself nicely against a trained killer. You shot her in the foot.”
“I was aiming for her knee.”
My father laughs, which is something I rarely hear him do. He’s always so quiet, so serious.
I ask, “What is it like?”
“What is what like?”
“Killing.”
My father seems to consider the question, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. If you’re lucky, you’ll never need to experience it.”
This doesn’t entirely fill me with reassurance. I say, “Do you remember your first?”
“My first what?”
“Your first kill.”
My father sighs again. “Holly—”
“Please.”
“I don’t remember, no. It was in Vietnam. I killed a lot of people in that war.”
“I thought you said you were an assassin.”
“I did.”
“So what about the first person you killed … you know, as an assassin?”
My father doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer at all. Then he takes a breath, directs his gaze out the windshield.
“Your first kill is like your first kiss. You wonder when it will happen.
Who it will be with. You’re nervous about it. There’s a sort of dread that you’ll do it wrong. But then … you just do it and get it over with. After that, it gets easier.”
Again my father stuns me silent. But it’s not really his fault—I was the dope who asked.
My father says, “We should head in. Your mother’s no doubt been up all night.”
“How did you get to me so fast to begin with?”
“When that first call came in, I was already on the base with my team. We had the helicopters in the air a minute later.”
“Now what’s going to happen?”
“I’m going to tell your mother that my orders have changed and I’m no longer needed on the island. We’ll head back to Washington in the next day or two.”
“Are you even in the Army?”
My father shrugs. “It’s complicated. Now, are you ready?”
We get out of the car. We head toward the condo entrance. I’m already dreading the fuss my mother will make over me. Inspecting all my bumps and bruises. Telling me I need to be more careful. It helps take my mind off what my father just told me. About what a first kill feels like. For an instant, I had wondered if I’ll ever experience something like it, but I know better.
That’s my father’s life. Not mine.
So in that moment the reality of my first kill is entirely nonexistent. The dry Iraqi desert. The stuffiness of a porta potty. A soldier standing just outside, waiting to do me harm.
Two years, seven months, three weeks to go.
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NO SHELTER
BULLET RAIN
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
HOLLOW POINT
About the Author
Robert Swartwood is the USA Today bestselling author of The Serial Killer’s Wife, No Shelter, Man of Wax, and several other novels. He created the term “hint fiction” and is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. He lives with his wife in Pennsylvania. Visit him online at www.robertswartwood.com.
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Publisher’s Note
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Also by Robert Swartwood
NOVELS
Holly Lin Series
No Shelter
Bullet Rain
First Kill
The Devil You Know
Hollow Point
Man of Wax Series
Legion
Man of Wax
The Inner Circle
Stand-alones
The Calling
Land of the Dead
The Serial Killer’s Wife
New Avalon
Abducted
Temple
Walk the Sky (with David B. Silva)
COLLECTIONS
Real Illusions: Stories
Phantom Energy: [Very Short] Stories
NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES
Muse
Giotto’s Circle
The Man on the Bench
Spooky Nook
In Solemn Shades of Endless Night
In the Land of the Blind: A Zombie Story
Wayward Pines: Nomad
At the Meade Bed & Breakfast (with David B. Silva)
AS EDITOR
Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer
Copyright © 2016 Robert Swartwood
Cover design copyright © 2016 Damonza
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robert Swartwood.
www.robertswartwood.com
Holly Lin | Novella | First Kill Page 7
