Confessions.

San Diego, California

From the front steps of her rented bungalow atop the hill, Maria watched the naval warships lumber through the harbor next to dozens of white pleasure craft. She could hear the thunder of F-14 and F-18 fighter jets in the distance as they departed from Miramar to rendezvous with an aircraft carrier far offshore. She sipped a soft drink and played out a scenario in her head in which she’d chosen life in the military over her present career. She realized that most people wouldn’t characterize such a life as "safe" and "predictable," but to her it seemed that way.

She had just celebrated her 33^rd birthday, albeit with no one to wish her a happy birthday. She’d almost forgotten the date herself. When she remembered, she decided to come out of her self-imposed exile and go to a club that night. She bought herself some trendy clothes – What the hell do young people wear now, anyway? I’m getting old – and went to a trendy place in the city’s Gaslamp District. The outing thoroughly depressed her: it was an endless stream of noise, strange gropes in the dark, and lots of bad pick-up artists. She was trying to leave when a particularly intoxicated and aggressive fellow started giving her trouble and blocking her exit. As always, she did what she could to avoid a confrontation. She preferred not to pick fights unless she knew she could end up shooting someone dead at the end. Unfortunately, the man didn’t relent, so she brandished her .22 and threatened the man with a long string of obscenities. After that, she had a clear path to the door.

How much time can I kill just watching these damn ships? She sat up, picked up her keys and backpack, and got in her car. I need milk; I’ll go to the grocery store again. She drove leisurely through the neighborhood, inspecting the homes and gardens along the way. It had been several weeks since the hit on the Serbs in New York, but she couldn’t keep her mind off of it. News magazines and television carried endless stories about the "terrorist plot gone awry," the "accidental self-destruction of a terrorist hideout," and she lapped them up. I never get credit for anything. Somebody should interview me about it.

Mostly, though, she wondered about Patrick. If that bastard is dead, I’m not getting my paycheck. Her feelings softened, though, and she reflected upon his fate. He can’t be dead, can he? He’s been in so many tight spots before, he should know how to get out of them. The man is a survivor. And when she let her mind dwell on it for a long time, she could feel the emotions welling inside and had to turn her attention away. She vowed long ago never to utter words of love around him. To date, she hadn’t broken that vow.

Inevitably, she came around 180 degrees and wondered why he’d left her behind; why he was so well-aware of the actions of her biggest threat, the Serbs; why he killed Gabriel and almost killed her many years ago in Milan. That blue-eyed weasel thinks he can play mystery man forever, but he’s going to have to come clean and tell me the truth. Shaken from her reverie, she focused on her next task, which was contacting William to see if Helen Fong had paid her bills.

As Maria waited at a long traffic light, she glanced to her right and noticed a drab building with stained glass windows on the sides of the doors: a Catholic church. It’s Saturday, isn’t it? Without thinking, she pulled the car into the parking lot behind the building. She didn’t know why she did it, but there she was. She sat in her car a moment, looked at her watch, then got out. As she walked around to the front of the church, she looked down at the t-shirt, shorts, and sandals she was wearing and thought, This is San Diego. And they’re Catholic. No one will give a damn what I’m wearing.

She opened the heavy, wooden door. As she peered inside, she could see a few people praying in the pews. There were others standing to the side, waiting in a line that led up to a sliding wooden door with a small light above it – the confessional. Hail Mary, full of grace . . . this will kill me before a bullet does. She took a deep breath and went over to stand in the short line. The elderly Latina woman in line ahead of her turned and smiled at Maria. Maria returned the favor.

After what seemed like an eternity waiting for the old woman to exit the confessional room – What could that old bag have done that was so wrong? – Maria took another deep breath, wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts, and went inside.

Her first surprise was the lack of a partition – she was standing directly before the priest. Her second surprise was the priest: he was a good-looking man about her age, with sincere, watery green eyes. What a babe! Maria gulped.

The priest grinned and stood to greet her. "Hello! Please have a seat." He looked outside and saw no one else waiting in line, then sat down in his chair. "Your name is . . . ?"

"Maria."

"That’s a great name!" he exclaimed. "Maria, are you new to our parish?"

"Yes."

"I don’t remember seeing you before. I’m Father Ryan." He extended his arm. She shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Father." Then the words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them: "Father, I’m not really a Catholic. Well, I mean, I was baptized as one and I remember going to Mass a lot when I was little, but I haven’t . . ."

He interrupted her. "That’s all right. If you have something you want to talk about, I’m the guy to talk to." He leaned forward and said with a wink, "I won’t ask how long it’s been since you last went to confession."

"That’s good."

He folded his hands in his lap and looked her in the eye. "So, Maria, what is it you want to tell me that brought you in here after all these years?"

"I’ve committed a lot of sins, some worse than others."

"Let’s take the worst ones first, then."

Maria paused, searching for what to say. "I’ve broken one of the ten commandments." This is stupid! What am I doing here?

"Which one?"

Maria looked at him. "Father Ryan, nothing I tell you goes outside these doors, right?"

"It stays between us and God," he answered. "Go on. Which commandment are we dealing with?"

"The one about not killing anybody."

The priest’s eyes widened. He nodded his head gravely, then said softly, "Tell me what happened."

The priest looked her up and down, waiting for her to speak, but she still wasn’t revealing anything. He stared at her intently, hoping that she would say it was all a joke, but she didn’t. Instead, she hung her head and sat quietly. Then she opened her backpack, reached inside, and pulled out her tarnished .38-caliber semiautomatic.

Father Ryan jumped in his chair. "Oh, my!"

Maria placed the gun in the palm of her hand and held it out to him. "Here; take it. Be careful – it’s loaded."

His first reaction was to recoil and withdraw his hands. Then, thinking more rationally, he reached forward and took the gun away, placing it under his chair.

"Go ahead. You can toss that one out." I need to get a new one, anyway. "Do you have trouble believing me?"

"Well, it’s just . . ."

Maria latched her backpack and shrugged her shoulders. "I understand. How could you think I was telling the truth?" She started to stand as if to leave.

The priest held her back. "Wait! Don’t go. Please, stay and tell me what you need to say."

Maria looked back at him and his earnest, searching eyes. "Okay, Father Ryan." She sat back down in her chair.

He thought for a moment, then spoke softly. "Tell me the circumstances. How did this happen, to whom, and why."

This guy is in for even more of a shock. "Well, actually, you might have a hard time buying this . . ."

"No, I don’t think so."

"No, you will. Trust me. Father, it’s not just one person we’re talking about."

"There was more than one victim?"

"Yes. Over the course of many years."

"How many victims are we talking about?"

She started the calculation in her head: Let’s see . . . over ten years, probably ten to fifteen hits a year . . . but the last two years have been a real bitch . . . "About one hundred fifty, give or take a few."

He turned ashen. "Excuse me? Did you say one hundred and fifty people?"

"That’s just my best estimate. I’m not really sure."

There was an awkward pause as the priest puzzled over her words. Maria said to him, "It might help you to know that I’m a killer for hire. I get paid to do it. That’s the story. That’s why it’s one hundred and fifty people we’re talking about."

"You’re an assassin?" He stumbled over his words. "I didn’t know there were . . . I mean, in some political cases . . . you just never expect that . . ."

"Unfortunately, it’s real, Father." I feel like I’m the one counseling him! She didn’t know what else to tell him.

He was in denial. "You’re serious about this, aren’t you?"

She nodded. "In fact, you know that story in the news about the Serb terrorists in New York?"

"Yeah?"

She placed her hand theatrically on her chest. "That was my handiwork."

"But I thought they said the explosion was an accident."

"No, it was an accident that brought me there, but the blowing-up part was all mine."

"There were at least eighteen people killed in that."

"I know. One of them was my partner, I think."

"You killed him, too?"

"Accidentally. He was in the building, too. These things are never clear. I shot and killed some people, then I torched the whole place. He might have gone up with it."

Father Ryan leaned back, then squinted hard at Maria. "I have to admit, I have a hard time believing you, Maria. But I happen to have a parishioner friend who’s in naval intelligence here who told me some things about that incident that he says were never released to the press."

Maria could sense a challenge coming. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"He told me they found a certain vehicle abandoned in Manhattan later that night. They think it was connected to the bombing. Do you know what kind of car it was, and what they found inside it?"

She smiled the smile of the Devil. What will he say when I give him the correct answer? "It was a yellow taxi cab, and it had an AK-47 assault rifle on the passenger seat." She crossed her arms in self-satisfaction. "I’m surprised they didn’t find the blonde wig I tossed out the window on the Van Wyck Expressway."

Father Ryan knelt, made the sign of the cross over himself, then grabbed her hand. Maria did not expect what he said next.

"Maria, God’s forgiveness is infinite. You were created to do good. You’re going to come out of this and find peace. It’s going to be a long journey, but I promise you, if you maintain a dialogue with me and with God, you’ll find a way out of this darkness."

Maria was taken aback. The grip of his hand and the sincerity of his words sent a rush of emotion coursing through her veins. She didn’t know what to say or do. She pulled her hand away, stood up, and ran out the door.

Father Ryan called to her as she hurried away. "Maria, come back and talk to me when you’re ready!"

Father Ryan’s words echoed in Maria’s head for a few days. She hadn’t felt this much inner turmoil before. She wondered if it meant something was changing within her, if she would be able to return to work. Then one day she woke up, ate breakfast, read the newspaper, and told herself, It’s time to get on with your life. You have work to do and matters to take care of.

She made a phone call, then hopped in her car and drove north.

Corona del Mar, California

"Good morning, ma’am," the burly sentry greeted Maria as she passed through the gate to Teresa Wu’s house.

"Good morning, Steven," she said, then did a double-take. "You’re not Steven!"

"Steven’s dead, ma’am," he explained in hushed tones. "Someone shot him outside a club in Hollywood last week."

"Who did it? I’ll blow their fucking heads off."

"Nobody knows who did it. Some people think he just picked a fight with the wrong person. Some people think another organization was behind it."

"What do you think, . . . ?" Her voice trailed off as she waited to hear his name.

"Brian, ma’am. I think there’s a lot of shit going down these days, but I have no idea."

"Let me work on it." She pointed inside. "Is the Wu-ster home yet?"

"No, she went out shopping. But William’s here."

Brian led her inside the opulent house to the office where William was busy working at his computer.

"Teresa has really done a lot to this place," Maria remarked.

William looked up and smiled. "Come in, come in! Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

"If it’s on Ms. Moneybags, I’ll take whatever she’s got." William asked his bodyguard to retrieve lunch from the kitchen. Maria sat down in an expansive, leather chair across the desk from William. "So Brian tells me that Steven got killed last week."

"Yeah, it’s sad, isn’t it? It’s hard to find good soldiers these days," William clucked. "But that just means we need to rely on your services more than ever."

Maria put her feet up on William’s desk. "It was a long drive to get here, so I hope you have good news for me."

William smiled at her, lifted an envelope off the desk, and held it in front of her. "Helen Fong has paid in full. Here’s the balance of your fee."

She took the envelope in her hands and looked inside. "Well, I’ll be. That’s a shitload of money for someone like me, William. You realize that, don’t you?"

"Yeah! It’s a lot of money to me, too."

"Get the fuck outta here! You’re a gangster, William. You eat that much money for breakfast."

"Ha! I wish. So what are you going to do with all that money?" William asked. "Are you going to celebrate?"

She frowned. "Celebrate with who?"

William shrugged. "I don’t know . . . Why don’t you celebrate with me?" He beamed.

She snorted. "And how do you want to celebrate?"

"You could buy me dinner, for one." William pointed to the paltry plates of dim sum that the bodyguard brought back.

Maria looked at the limp food and said, "Normally I’d ask you what happened to your hospitality, but in this case I think you’re right. Let’s get something to eat, my friend."

They hopped into William’s BMW and peeled out of the driveway, off to hunt for a restaurant . . .

When they returned to Teresa’s house after dinner, they headed straight for her liquor cabinet. The wine they had with dinner made them both giddy, and they wanted to enhance the effect with more drinks.

"The Wu-ster has Jos– Cuervo! Let’s do tequila shots, William!" she cried like a college student.

"Tequila? Muy bien, chica," William said as he took off his jacket.

"When does Teresa get back, anyway? I thought she just went shopping."

"Yeah, in New York! She’s not back until tomorrow afternoon."

"Then let the fiesta begin!" Maria took a shot glass, filled it with tequila, then tossed it back. "Oh, that burns! Tastes like gasoline."

"Here, let me try," William took the glass from her and poured his own. He slurped it down eagerly. "Yeah, that stuff is nasty." Then he poured another one and sucked it down.

"William! What are you doing?" Maria laughed at him.

"Trying to get piss-drunk. What does it look like?"

"Didn’t you say you had work to do?"

"Screw the work! Here; get drunk with me." He held out the shot glass for her and poured the alcohol once more. Half of it spilled onto the new carpet. "Shit! She’s going to kick my ass for that."

Maria took the glass and said, "Bottoms up!" then swallowed the liquid all at once.

They continued to drink, with William challenging Maria to various drinking contests, all of which she won. Frustrated by her victories, he blared the stereo and sprawled out on the sofa.

"I’m calling it quits. I’m fucking shit-faced. Damn you, woman! It’s all your fault."

Her speech was just as slurred as his. "It was your idea, you loser!" She sat next to him on the couch. "Now what do we do for fun?"

"Let’s play truth or dare." He looked at her as straight-faced as he could, but broke into uncontrollable laughter. She did, too, and leaned into his heaving body.

I must be really wasted, but William’s an attractive guy. She felt him catch his breath as the laughter died.

"No, seriously: I pick truth. Ask me something." He put his arm ever-so-subtly around her shoulder.

"Okay." She was game for this. "Are you gay?"

He bristled. "Stupid question! Of course not. Ask me something else."

"Nothing wrong with being gay, Willie. You know, when I first met you, I thought you were."

"Why did you think that?" he asked, indignant.

"You work out and you dress well."

"Bite me! Ask me another question."

"All right, you stud! Tell me how you came to a life of crime. And booze." They giggled.

"Me? Well, my parents tried to instill good Confucian values in me, but they were never around, and I didn’t listen to them, anyway. In their absence I began to hang around with some nefarious fellows. This was in Taipei and Hong Kong. Some of them were minor dai lo in crime families. The rest is history. The more interesting story, however, is yours, Maria."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me the truth about your turn to ‘the dark side,’ as it were. I know you were a CIA agent before . . ."

"Can’t I take the dare instead?"

"No, I know you’ll do the dare. You have to tell me the truth. How does one go from being a happy Girl Scout for Uncle Sam to being a contract killer for people like Teresa?"

She shifted so that her head was in his lap now. He began to stroke the long strands of her shimmering, dark hair. Oh, this feels good! "Do you really want to talk about this?" she whined.

"Yes, yes!"

"Will, I’ve never talked about this with anyone, so the fact that I’m telling you now shows that I hold you in the highest esteem . . . either that, or I’m blitzed off my ass!"

They broke into laughter once again. Maria then continued to tell her story.

"I guess it was a gradual process, really. Partly it was a result of a major fuck-up I had in Italy. My partner and the guy I was guarding got killed."

"Really? I bet Washington was upset with that."

"To say the least. But they kept me on for a few more contracts. Then there was this one job I had for the Agency when I was about 26 or 27. It was an assignment that was rather routine. At least, it was presented to me that way. I decided to spice it up and make it more interesting. Instead of doing just what they told me – which was to rig some sort of bomb and detonate it from a distance – I decided to seduce this guy, get him all horny and drunk . . ."

"Like me?" William laughed.

"Yeah, just like you!" She pretended to choke William. "As I was saying, I took him to a room somewhere, got him all worked up, then pumped him full of lead. When I got back to the U.S., excrement was hitting many fans and flying at me from all directions. They wanted to know how I could take such a risk getting so close to the target, what did I think I was doing, blah, blah, blah. I realized then that it had gotten routine for me, and that I didn’t care anymore about whose ideology or whose political goals were at stake. All that mattered is that I went to work, I got paid well, and I was good at doing it."

"You’re damn good at it," William echoed.

"Thank you, Will. I think so, too. Like I’ve said before, the power trip was incredible. Like you wouldn’t believe. Here I was, a 26-year-old girl just a few years out of college, and I was flying around the world and kicking ass everywhere I went. I mean, there was no man that could stop me. I wasn’t afraid of anyone. I had all the skills, the tools, the toys, everything. I was on top of the world, and it felt good. It felt like a fucking 24-hour orgasm, I tell you!"

William snickered at the idea.

"No, really! I’ve told you before what it’s like to hold that gun in your hands and watch these men beg and plead for mercy. I know it sounds psychotic, Will, but girlfriend digs a little violence. I need my thrills. So why bother with all the bureaucracy of the government? I didn’t need them telling me what to do and what not to do, when to take a leak and when not to take a leak. It got to be a huge pain in the ass, so I said ‘fuck it’ and branched out on my own."

William continued to stroke her hair. "You never feel bad about it?"

"Aw, shit, William! Why did you have to ask me that? I was just getting over a major case of the post-hit blues. Do you feel bad about your crimes?"

"Sometimes, but the affect on my victims is more indirect. You see immediate results."

"I’ve been doing this too long to feel bad. I’m too fucked up now to let it get to me. When I stop and think about it, yes, I hate myself for it. I really, really hate myself. I know I’m one messed-up bitch. I used to rationalize it as a soldier’s duty, serving my country, God bless America and all that crap. I don’t need to rationalize it anymore. It’s the only career I’ve ever had. It’s what I do. It’s not like I can apply for a job at General Electric now."

Maria and William lay there on the sofa in silence awhile. She looked up at him and said, "I’m sorry for being such a downer, but you asked me about it, and I’ve got too much tequila sloshing around in my blood to shut up." She rubbed his chest with her hand. "Okay, Will. My turn. I want to dare you."

"Oh, no. What is it?"

She sat up and whispered in his ear. "I dare you to get laid before the sun comes up."

He threw his head back and smiled. "Maria, you’re the only female around. Who do you expect me to do it with?"

She started to wrest his shirt off. "You can start by ripping my clothes off, too."

William started to remove Maria’s tailored suit, then pulled back and smiled at her.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing. It’s just that, since we’re spilling the truth beans tonight . . ."

"Yeah?"

"You should know that Teresa and I have been sleeping together for a few months now."

Maria was astonished. She hit him in the chest. "Get out! You’re sleeping with the boss?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Does that make you want to stop?"

"No, it makes me want to jump you even more!" She looked around the room. "Oh, the Ice Queen is going to be pissed! We raided her liquor cabinet, spilled tequila on her new carpet . . ."

"And now we’re going to screw on her new sofa. What a day! I have a lot of cleaning to do tomorrow before her plane lands."

The pair sank into each other’s embrace and finished throwing off their clothing. At the guard post in front, Brian and the other guards watched them on the closed circuit television and placed bets on how long it would last.

On Interstate 5 to San Diego

Maria rolled down the windows of her car and let the ocean air flow through the passenger compartment. She had a throbbing, swirling hangover, but it felt right. She felt relaxed for the first time in ages. As she watched the chaparral-covered hills of the Camp Pendleton Marine Corps base pass on her left, the azure Pacific on her right, she even considered calling up some old friends she hadn’t seen in years. I can’t just sit around, alone every day, all day again. I’ve got to reestablish ties, maybe make new friends.

As she drove south, she decided to check her cell phone voice mail one more time. There better not be any work messages on here. Who am I kidding? They’re always work messages. You have no friends, stupid. The system’s programmed voice chirped: "You have one new message, received yesterday at 8:40 P.M." Shit. What now? She listened; there was a static-filled pause. Then it came through loud and clear: the electronic, musical tones of someone punching the buttons on the other end. She recognized the code immediately – 5, 5, 5, 5, 9, 9, 5. The message ended.

So he’s alive. Patrick Sullivan, you motherfucker . . .