The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller (25 page)

“Why did you let them in?” I ask.

My voice is thin and childlike.

“I thought it was you,” I answer for her in a condemned whisper.

“I was going to ask you to go away with me,” I say.

The words drip down into the carpet and soak into the blood. I stand there for a long time, staring at the ring on her finger, thinking that Alice was the closest I ever came to being real. The pain of seeing her like this has nowhere to go. It is so foreign to me that it feels like a ghost passing through my heart, stopping it momentarily. I react violently at first, a wave of blinding rage surging into my hands and face. I feel the edge of madness, a black hole pulling me into its center with a force of emotional gravity that I know will crush me. Then, like a safety switch, the numbness sets in and I am immersed in its dark water. I pull the engagement ring from her stiff, swollen finger. My body goes cold and I allow my feelings for Alice to bleed out onto the floor. Our emptiness is now the only thing we share.

I leave her room, my reptilian gaze zeroing in on getting what I came for and erasing all evidence of my presence.

United States Department of Justice

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Washington, D.C. 20535

Location: Wireless phone call intercept—IMSI catcher/Roving bug

Subjects: John Lago and Marcus (censored).

R
emember when I was telling you about Intermittent Explosive Disorder—the blinding, uncontrollable rage that turns you into a violent, sometimes homicidal, maniac? It’s important to mention, because if you don’t learn to control it, you will find that it’s quite capable of controlling you. Right now, it’s controlling me. I may sound lucid but I can assure you I’m not. It’s 5:00
A.M.
and I’m walking down the street barefoot. I have blood and broken glass in my hair. The throbbing in my skull is the result of either my raging hangover or head trauma from whatever train wreck I just crawled out of. I am downtown and heading somewhere with a purpose. As I round the corner and see the familiar buildings, I know exactly where I am: two blocks from HR, Inc. I have my Glock 18 in one jacket pocket and a fistful of mags in the other.

I try to think why I’m going to the office, especially in this state. Then I remember. Silly me, I’m going to kill Bob.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

That’s the question you’re asking me right now. The answer is yes. I am out of my fucking mind. And yes, it’s because of Alice. I’ve seen some extremely fucked-up shit in my time, but none of it holds a candle to what happened to her. I’m sure that Bob was well aware of my feelings for her, the very same feelings that are now compelling me to kill him. Since he was aware of how I felt about her, he wasted
no time wasting her as soon as she stopped being of use to us. And now I’m pretty goddamned sure he knows she was FBI. Of course, in typical Bob fashion, he attempted to create an execution scenario for Alice that could be assigned to the mob and their love of baseball bats (only equaled by their hatred of the feds). This smacks of his method, and now I’m going to show him my method.

“Put the gun down.” He attempts to emotionally disarm me with a tone that’s supposed to force me to see the futility of my actions.

“Fuck you.”

We’re standing in his office. It’s too early for any of you to be there. Too bad, because you’re going to miss a good show. I point the gun at his face. This makes him very angry.

“Why?”

“Why what, John?” His teeth are set with fury.

“You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t. Put down the gun.”

“Or what?”

I smile at him.

“Or I won’t ask again.”

“You won’t have to.”

“You’re smarter than this, John.”

“Am I?”

“Look at yourself.”

“Unfortunately, I
am
looking at myself, Bob. I’m a forty-something psychopath who thinks he has the right to delete anyone he sees fit. I’m a master manipulator with a rabid jackal for a soul. I’m you if I don’t delete
you
right now.”

“Are you finished?”

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

I am too bleary eyed and emotional (a kiss of death on both cheeks) to see the flash grenade he has placed on top of his files like
a paperweight. He artfully hits the floor as it detonates. The concussion blows me off my feet and into the back wall. The flash knocks me out long enough for two of Bob’s goons to scoop me up and drag me out of his office. When I come to, I’m in the HR medical unit. Goons are holding me down while Dr. Hatchet and his merry band of ex-stripper nurses prepare needles.