11

SOUTHEAST D.C.

Marcus watched the two teenagers enter the store dressed in hoodies and wearing sunglasses.

He couldn’t see their faces, but he immediately knew something was wrong. In an instant, the two drew handguns and demanded the man behind the counter open the register.

Marcus saw fear grip the handful of customers standing in line. He watched Elena slowly take Lars’s hand and pull him behind her. He saw the clerk’s trembling hands fumbling to open the register but taking too long.

He tried to run but couldn’t move, tried to shout but couldn’t scream. He reached for his sidearm, but it wasn’t there.

Marcus saw Elena glance at the door, just a couple of yards away from where she and Lars were standing. He saw the look in her eyes, saw the calculations. He knew what she was thinking. He knew they would never make it.

Suddenly the silence was broken. Marcus heard the gunshots. Three of them in rapid succession. Marcus couldn’t see the shooter. But he saw the results. One round blew out the glass of the door. The next struck one of the hoodlums in the chest. The third hit him in the throat. The kid flew backward through the shattered glass and landed on the pavement with a thud.

Unable to move, Marcus watched helplessly as the other gunman wheeled around and returned fire. People dropped to the ground, Lars and Elena among them. Marcus screamed but no one could hear his cry.

Suddenly it was nighttime.

And now Marcus was able to move. He crossed the street. He heard the crunch of shattered glass beneath his shoes. He saw the flashing red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances all around him. He could see a woman’s hand, cold and stiff, poking out from beneath a blood-soaked sheet. He knew that diamond ring and that gold band. He forced himself to kneel beside the body. His hands shaking, he slowly pulled back the sheet. It was Elena. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she was sleeping, so peaceful, so beautiful. Then he pulled the sheet back farther and saw the damage. She’d been hit once in the chest and again in the stomach. Blood was everywhere. His bottom lip quivered. He wanted to look away, but he could not.

Marcus leaned down and kissed his wife on her forehead, then pulled the sheet up over her face and turned to the body next to her. Again, he slowly pulled back the sheet. His son was lying facedown. But Marcus could see the bullet holes in his back, his clothing soaked in crimson. Slowly, carefully, he turned the boy over. Lars’s eyes were still open. They looked so scared—haunted and alone. Marcus gently shut Lars’s eyes, cradled him in his arms, and wept.

✭

Marcus sat bolt upright.

Alone in his bed.

Drenched in sweat.

In the darkness and stillness of his apartment.

At 4:52 in the morning.

He forced himself out of bed and went into the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of black Jockey shorts. Switching on the light, he winced as his eyes adjusted. He splashed water on his face and neck and stared at himself in the mirror. The bruises. Scars. Contusions. Burn marks. He was a mess. And racked with nightmares for the eleventh night in a row.

Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, Marcus went to the living room of his modest apartment. He flipped on the television, careful to keep the volume low, and slumped down on the couch, trying to think of something, anything, besides the memories of Lars’s and Elena’s murders. The top story on cable news, of course, was the signing of the Israeli-Saudi peace accord on the South Lawn of the White House. The Vatican was announcing that the pope was coming to the U.S. for a four-city “peace tour,” followed by a visit to Jerusalem and the first papal visit to Riyadh. When the story shifted to some boy band Marcus had never heard of breaking up, he hit Mute and padded to the kitchen.

He stuck a pod of some Brazilian blend in his Keurig machine and waited for the coffee to brew. Staring back at him from a frame on the kitchen counter were Elena, little Lars, and himself. The photo had been taken on their only trip to the Magic Kingdom. They were standing in front of Cinderella’s castle. Lars, only four or five years old, sat on his father’s shoulders, eating cotton candy, grinning from ear to ear, his chocolate-brown eyes wide and filled with wonder. Elena was nestled close to him, her arm around his waist, her beautiful black hair pulled back in a ponytail, her mocha-brown eyes shimmering and bright. Their happiest day at the happiest place on Earth.

Marcus bolted out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom. He fished out some clean socks from the top drawer of his dresser and threw on a pair of old running shoes. Taking his Sig Sauer and extra clips from the top drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, he chambered a round and put everything in a fanny pack he kept in the closet. Then he grabbed his iPhone, put in his earbuds, cranked up some Jackson Browne, and headed outside. Coffee wasn’t what he needed just now. It was time to start running again. Given all that he had been through, he had little confidence he could make it five miles. The soles of his feet burned. So did every joint and muscle in his legs and chest. But he had to try. He couldn’t go back to sleep. There was nothing to do in his apartment. It wouldn’t be fair to call Pete, much less Annie. So running on empty it was.

The streets of southeast D.C. were quiet at this hour. A few cabs. A Washington Post truck dropping off the morning edition. A Metro Police car keeping watch near Lincoln Park Baptist Church. Marcus ran past the Supreme Court and the Capitol, then down Pennsylvania Avenue. The pain was immense, but he refused to stop. When he rounded the White House, he nodded to the uniformed Secret Service agents he passed and headed back toward the Capitol. A car horn was sounding. He could hear a siren in the distance. American, Israeli, and Saudi flags still adorning the lampposts flapped in the light spring breeze coming off the Potomac. A few minutes later, a Marine helicopter roared overhead.

Back home, he dead bolted the door, tossed his keys on the counter, and took a long, hot shower. As he brushed his teeth and trimmed his beard and mustache, he could swear he was smelling bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Brushing it off as wishful thinking, he dressed in a suit and tie. He put on his shoulder holster, transferred his Sig Sauer into it, clipped his spare magazines to his belt, fished his DSS badge and CIA credentials out of his wall safe, and headed back to the kitchen.

Only to find his mother waiting for him.