The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  There had been a pause. “OK. There’ve been some developments on this end too. I applied a little more pressure. We may be moving ahead faster than anticipated. Maybe even tonight.”

  “Great news. Any specifics I need to know?”

  “Not on a cellular line. What’s your read on the detective?”

  “Not sure. If he stays more than twenty minutes, or any others show up, I’ll call. Otherwise it’s likely nothing.”

  They hung up, and Bennett leaned back on the porch. Something was happening. He could feel it, almost taste it.

  This thing would end tonight.

  JENN WONDERED how much worse it could get. Wasn’t there a limit to how messed up life could become?

  First things first. Get off the floor.

  As she wobbled to her feet, Mitch said, “What do you mean? Johnny is a drug dealer—”

  “Yeah, well, he seems to have moved up in the world.”

  “But—”

  “Would you shut up?” Ian’s voice had none of the comic distance he usually tried for. The tone was iron, and it caught them both. He continued, “I talked to a chemist friend of mine. No way that stuff was drugs. When I described it to him, do you know what he said? He said”—Ian paused, rubbed at his eyes—“he said that it sounded to him like it was . . .”

  “What?”

  “A chemical weapon. Nerve gas.”

  She was suddenly conscious of the little sounds, of the slow, regular draw of her own breath. The continuing pace of the world, the way it just kept going, like it or not.

  Then she started laughing.

  It wasn’t a giggle. It was high and came from somewhere deep and flavored with hysteria. “A what?” She choked the words out.

  “Chemical weapon. Probably sarin gas.”

  “Sarin?” Mitch’s tone was strangely dead. “The stuff from those subway attacks in Tokyo?”

  “Yeah.” Ian raised his hands. “I know.”

  “But. We opened it.”

  “You didn’t touch it, though, right?”

  “No.”

  “That was one of the things that told him what it was. If that had been sarin, you might have died. This is what’s called a precursor. Apparently, if you’re the kind of evil fuck who makes chemical weapons, you make them in two parts. The part you guys found is called the precursor. Based on your description, the headaches, the clenched muscles, the rest of it, my friend said it sounded like something called”—he dug in a pocket, came out with a bar napkin, squinted—“methylphosphonyl difluoride. DF for short. That’s the part that’s hard to make, and that’s worth a lot of money. The other part is just alcohol.”

  Her laughter got harder. Drug dealers and terrorists and chemical weapons, oh my! Her breath came in short gasps between gales that hurt her stomach.

  “I’m serious,” Ian said. “The dangerous half of sarin gas. That was what Johnny was buying. What he planned to sell to Victor. That’s what the money was for.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. How would Johnny—”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the guy you killed put him up to it. Maybe he was just a middleman. It doesn’t matter. The stuff was moving through the black market, and we intercepted it. That’s why Victor is coming after us this hard. Drugs are easy to get. But can you imagine how much something like that would be worth to the wrong people in Iraq or Afghanistan?”

  Jenn’s vision was getting spotty from lack of air. The boys were talking around her, talking sheer madness, and neither of them could see how funny it was.

  “We cannot give this stuff to Victor,” Ian said.

  Mitch stood up, walked over to her. “Jenn?”

  She gasped, fought for breath. “Don’t you see—”

  “Pull it together.”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m a fucking travel agent.” She doubled over again. Mitch caught her shoulders gently.

  “Shhh. Come on.”

  “This is bad. This is so bad.” Ian had his hands to both cheeks like the kid in those movies, and it didn’t make breathing any easier.

  “Jenn. Stop.”

  She closed her eyes, clenched her fingernails into her palm. The sharpness helped. Just as the laughter was dying, another thought occurred to her. “You,” she said, fighting back more, “your timing was lousy, Mitch.”

  “Huh?”

  “You slapped me too early.”

  It was meant as a joke, but no one else laughed. She felt them looking at her and saw herself from their eyes. Slowly, she stopped, the sounds dying like a baby’s cry, strangled and kind of embarrassing. She straightened, wiped tears from her eyes.

  “This is serious.” Ian’s voice was somber.

  “I know,” she said. “I know.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just, you can’t be right.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . just because.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am. And if you two will listen to me for a second, you’ll see.”

  The laughter was gone, but the hysteria was still inside her, twisting and coiling and looking for release. She took a moment to calm herself. “Tell us.”

  Ian started, his words like freezing water. How he had called a friend who had helped him before, and described what it was that they had found. How the man had gone through it logically, the possibilities; the material the bottles were made of, the value, the reaction they had both suffered. The logic cool and hard and diabolical. On some level, she realized, it wasn’t really a surprise. Some part of her had known all along that whatever was in those bottles was more important, and more dangerous, than mere drugs. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

  And still didn’t. “What if he’s wrong?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Mitch said, “What if he’s not?”

  “This stuff, you know how it kills people?” Ian somehow looked even worse than he had that morning. “It causes all of the muscles in your body to contract to their maximum amount. People break their arms, their spines. They eventually die of suffocation because their lungs won’t move. But first they feel their body tearing itself apart. He said that a drop of it was enough. One drop on bare skin.”

  One drop. Jesus. There had been a gallon of the stuff.

  The silence was unlike any she had known. Within it, her thoughts and fears curdled and spun, foul twisting things. She felt a childish panic at the enormity of what they were dealing with. It made her want to crawl under the table. “If we hadn’t robbed Johnny, this would still be out there.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s not our fault. We didn’t make it. We wouldn’t sell it. It’s not our fault.”

  “Not our fault?”

  “Like you said. We just intercepted it. We weren’t even supposed to be there, but we were, and we ended up with it. But that doesn’t make it our fault.”

  “Did you understand what I told you? This stuff, it could kill—”

  “Ian, Victor will kill my parents. And your dad, Mitch’s brother, Alex’s daughter.” She knew what she was saying was selfish, but she wasn’t sure that made it wrong. Who didn’t look after their own first?

  “That doesn’t make it right to ignore—”

  “I didn’t say it does. But that’s the situation. If we don’t give him what he wants, he’ll kill our families. And regardless, it’s not my fault.”

  There was a pause. Then Mitch said, “It’s like one of your games, Ian. An impossible situation, no way to win, just ways to lose less. Is it better to lose a few people you love or a lot of people you’ll never meet?”

  Ian looked from one to the other of them. “Those are just games. This is real.”

  “Yeah. But it’s also true. He’ll kill them.”

  “That nerve gas could kill hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. And maybe it won’t be in Iraq or Afghanistan. Maybe it will be in Chicago or New York. Maybe it will be in a subway station at rush hour.”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” she said.
“I didn’t agree to it.”

  “None of us did.” Mitch stood, walked to the window.

  The whole thing was surreal. It reminded her of the kind of talk they used to have on Thursday nights, back when life made sense and everything was casual. When it could all be viewed with ironic detachment, when their problems were jobs and rent and their love interests. Back when everything had been play.

  Even their lives.

  They had all been treading water. Playing the game of life, but unwilling to actually make a move, put their chips on the table. Staying in dead-end jobs and bullshitting themselves about what mattered. Pretending nothing did.

  “Do you remember,” Mitch said, staring out the darkened window, “how we used to talk about the rich guys, the CEOs and politicians? How we used to hate them for acting in their own interests instead of for the good of everyone else?

  “We went into this thinking we were going to stick it to guys like that. Like Johnny. People who broke the rules for their own good. And now here we are. Thinking the same way.”

  “So what do we do?”

  He took a breath. “All I know is what I won’t do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Settle for the lesser of two evils.” Mitch spoke with a quiet calm. His back was straight and his voice steady.

  “But—”

  “There has to be a third way,” he said. “There has to be something better.”

  Again, the silence fell.

  Then Mitch said, “You know what?” He turned to face them. “There is.”

  “What?”

  “I take the stuff to the police. I turn it over and tell them everything.”

  “But—you—the alley. You . . .” Even now, she found it hard to say the words.

  “I killed someone,” he said. His voice was steady, but she heard the stress beneath it. “I shot someone. And I’ll admit that.”

  “They’ll arrest you,” Ian said.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “But it’s the only way. Take responsibility for what I did.”

  “That’s crazy. They’ll send you to jail.”

  “Maybe that’s where I belong.” His voice cracked a little, but he kept going. “Look, I’ve been hiding from this since it happened. Pretending I can be something else, that I can just go on with life. Maybe there are people who could forget it, but that’s not the way it works for me. I did it to protect you, and I’ll tell them that. Maybe it will help. Maybe not. But I can’t go on pretending, and we cannot let Victor have this.”

  “But it’s not our fault,” she repeated, hating that they were making her play this role. “I know that sounds weak, but if we hadn’t come along, Victor would have bought and sold it, and we wouldn’t have known a thing.”

  “Sure. But if we give this to him, chances are, one morning we’ll turn on the news and see a story about a terrorist attack with sarin gas. Maybe here, maybe somewhere else, and we won’t even know for sure it was the same stuff. But there will be hundreds of people dead. And we’ll have to stand and watch, and wonder if we could have done something. Can you live with that?”

  She looked at him. The streetlight outside cast raindrop shadows across his face. His back was straight, but his hands trembled. She imagined herself making breakfast in her kitchen. The radio on, a bagel in the toaster, hummus on the counter, coffeepot gurgling. Alone in her little world. And on the TV, images of innocent people twisted and broken, their faces locked in eternal screams.

  “No,” she said. “No, I can’t.”

  “Me either,” Ian said. “But there’s a snag in this plan, right? The DF is in a safe-deposit box. How do we—” He stopped, caught the expression on their faces. “What?”

  “It’s not in the bank,” she said. “It’s here.”

  “Here here?”

  “Down the block, in the trunk of the drug dealer’s car.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mitch? You understand—”

  “I understand.” He raised his hands above his head in a stretch, then let them drop. “I’m not happy about it. But that choice between the lives of people we love and the lives of a lot of people we don’t know? I won’t make it.”

  It was a simple enough statement. But she didn’t know if she would have been strong enough to say it.

  “What are you going to tell them?” Ian asked.

  “What happened, more or less. I don’t need to mention you guys.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Ian said. “Johnny saw me, too, remember?”

  “I can just say that I won’t tell them who my partners were.”

  “That will make them go harder on you. As it stands, you’re a civilian without a criminal record. The man we robbed is a former drug dealer, and the one you killed was selling chemical weapons. Weapons you brought to them.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Besides. Screw the Prisoner’s Dilemma.” Ian gave that lopsided grin. “I’m not letting you take this on alone.”

  Mitch smiled. “If you’re looking for me to convince you otherwise . . .”

  “We’re not,” she said. She stood up. “I’m going too.” Some part of her wanted to do this, she realized. Wanted to admit the wrong and take the punishment, to stand with her friends. “Guess the Thursday Night Club isn’t done yet.” She took a deep breath, the air rasping cool into her lungs. “OK. So when do we go?”

  “Now.” Mitch stood. “Right now.”

  The rain had been going steady and soft for the last few hours, and the air had that smell that told her it might go all night. It had put a damper on the usual Saturday revelry, and the sidewalks were nearly clear. They walked in silence, all of them lost in their own thoughts.

  Abruptly, Mitch spoke. “I’m sorry.” He turned to Jenn. “I can’t believe I—that wasn’t me.”

  She turned responses over in her mind, looking for the right one. Finally, she said, “I know.”

  “You too.” Mitch turned to Ian. “If you hadn’t figured out what this stuff was, we would have gone through with it. I was wrong to call you a fuck-up, man.”

  “No, you weren’t. I am a fuck-up. But I’m working on it.”

  “We all are,” she said and meant it. Still, there was a calm replacing the panic of earlier. They had come up against an impossible decision, and they had made the right choice. Whatever sins they’d committed, that had to count for something. And if nothing else, at least this would all be over soon.

  They crossed the intersection, passing two women holding hands. Weird to think that just days ago she and Mitch had run this course in reverse, in pain just from smelling the chemicals. How much worse must the actual thing be?

  She thought about the police, wondered what the three of them would say. The truth, obviously. But what exactly? Maybe it didn’t matter, she thought. Fast or slow, elegant or graceless, the facts spoke for themselves. Maybe it was just a matter of telling them—

  “No.” Mitch stared straight ahead. “No.”

  She followed his gaze. In the dark, the Eldorado had a richer hue, the purple almost looking good. The car radiated a certain cool, that big grill, a hood that could sleep three. The sharp, almost dangerous lines of the body, leading back to where—

  The trunk was open.

  IN THE CITY PROPER, Saturday night made for lousy, slow driving. But at this hour the freeways weren’t too bad, and even with the rain, Alex made good time. The dashboard clock read 11:32 when he pulled up outside his ex-wife’s.

  He sat in the car for a moment. He could hear the ticking of the engine and the soft, steady spatter of the rain. Through the windshield he could see her house: porch lights on, the quiet domestic comfort of aluminum siding, squares of warm yellow hidden behind curtains. It looked comfortable, cozy. Everything he had ever wanted.

  The rain made him want to hurry up the walk, but the thought of what he would say—or rather, the total lack of any idea what to say—made him keep his pace steady. With shaking fingers, he rang the doorbell. Listened to th
e soft tones, wondered what it felt like to hear them from inside.

  Footsteps, and then Scott opened the door. Trish’s new husband looked surprised, but quickly wiped it away. He stood in the doorway, his body blocking the light. “Alex.”

  “Scott. I’m sorry to come out here like this. But I need to talk to Cassie. Just for a few minutes.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I know. And you can see her. But we went through this. It’s almost midnight. You can’t just drop by. We need you to let us know in advance, so that we can—”

  “For God’s sake.”

  Scott pursed his lips. “Why were you at the game today?”

  “I wanted to see her play. Jesus, man. I’m not going to do anything to her.”

  “I know you would never intentionally hurt her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The man shrugged. “Take it how you like.”

  Alex had two inches and twenty pounds on Scott. Shoving him out of the doorway would be the easiest thing in the world. Push past him, head straight for the stairs, find Cassie up in her bedroom. Close the door, sweep her into his arms, hold her close. Whisper in her ear. Tell her . . .

  What?

  That he loved her?

  That everything would be OK?

  That she might never understand what he was doing, what it was likely to cost him, how many people he was betraying, but that he was doing it for her?

  Instead, he said, “Please?”

  Scott wavered. Alex could see him considering it. See that he didn’t want to be the bad guy. That, in fact, he wasn’t. A voice came from down the hall, female, maybe Cassie, maybe Trish, he couldn’t be sure. Whoever it was, it made up Scott’s mind. He straightened. “I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

  “Listen. I know this doesn’t make sense. But I might not have another chance. Please?”

  “You’re right, that doesn’t make sense. We’re not leaving for a couple of weeks. Why don’t you come back tomorrow afternoon?”

  He sighed. “Yeah.” He turned and started back down the walk.

  “Alex.”

  He spun on his heel, stood with the rain running down his shaved head.