Back in the ruins of the bunker, Ted and Ken stood among the corpses, trying not to talk about the acts they’d just committed. The impersonal violence of a gun was preferred, killing with your hands was more real. Ken wasn’t a violent man traditionally, he pulled the trigger on other crimes.

The death toll was probably there, you can’t wipe your hands of the problems that drug running in Latin America did to the local economy and the families of the workers in the area. Another thing he tried not to think about, except when chuckling at white hippies and health conscious eco-warriors who would praise themselves for veganism and oat milk, all the while snorting plant based drugs that had killed the Congo.

One day, they’d make fair trade, OSHA approved cocaine, if such a thing existed. But in the meantime they’d have to gather up the corpses and deep clean the bunker of its blood soaked state. It would take a considerable bit of sawing, and the sacrifice of a lot of flammable vodka, but bit by bit they’d manage it.

Limb by limb they’d end up smuggling out the bodies in duffle bags and suitcases. Poking the flames with the sworded documents they’d found in the bunker that shouldn’t have seen the light of day anyway.

They say by the roaring funeral fire, trying their hardest not to smell the smoke. Sizzling bacon. It was just sizzling bacon. Ken told himself, watching a chapter of their lives go up in flame. Unless you were a big deal in the organized crime world, people didn’t send assassins after you twice. Ken knew his wife would see the bellowing smoke, but he sent her a photo of it just in case, a confirmation of his survival.

The smoke got in his eyes a tad, and the strong chemical cleaning products required to deep clean the bunker. Thankfully, aside from a few soft furnishings and a sofa, most of the surfaces were wipe clean metal. There was a slight cast-iron effect on the floor, absorbing the colours that bled into it, but that wouldn’t be his issue in a few hours.

Ted said a few words of respect, unsure if it was a religious ritual, or just a way of paying respect to the men that had just died at his hands. He lit a candle and mumbled to himself in Korean, ending it with a few words in English.

“May your soul find the freedom in death that it couldn’t in life” he told the bloodied floor, scrubber in hand and rubber gloves on. Ken watched in amazement as the gore of the situation didn’t phase his young understudy. There was nothing but medical grade respect and a drive to do a good job removing the evidence.

At the end of the blaze, when the bullet holes were covered and the blood was removed onto bloodstained rags, Ken and Ted were left to stare at the fire and do nothing but process the carnage.

“Why were those men after you?” Ken asked.

“That’s a difficult question, with a difficult answer” Ted replied, his eyes flickering in the embers.

“Is Irene alright?” Ted added, unsure if he was close enough to ask such personal questions.

“She’s survived, or at least enough to fudge the trackers” Ken told the blaze, candidly.

He didn’t dare glance at his companion. He just stared out at the fire.

* * *

Over the years of living with a British woman, one particular tradition stayed with Ken. He brewed a pot of tea, and closed his eyes, counting his breaths as the kettle boiled. She always knew what to say, where was she when he needed her?

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He sat there, trying to think of the advice and the calming words she’d said over the years, she was his compass with these things. Ted was too pushy, he would rush through the process when trying to comfort someone, a cyclone of a man. Ken supposed once you cause enough bloodshed the instincts withdraw, it becomes a little way that terrible violence becomes normal.

Irene may not have been his most … vivacious paramour … when it came to intimacy, but in the day to day she was reliable, and kind. She took care of him and she made sure he didn’t make the wrong choices.

He made a mental note to tell her next time he saw her. If he saw her again. He wouldn’t be surprised if she left him at this rate. He often wondered if the only reason she stayed was because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. Maybe now a hit squad was killed, she’d feel she had insurance, the kind of insurance that allowed her to leave him.

He shook out the thought, remembering the clip of her with the riding crop. The fearless woman she’d been over the last four decades. She’d serve him divorce papers and laugh while she did so, if she ever felt compelled.

In the meantime, he’d have to find a way back to civilization, the desert was not known for its traffic and they’d already been compromised.

He took one step at a time, through the cold desert night. The vehicles that weren’t stolen had all had their tires punctured or been cannibalized for the fire anyway, so walking would have to do. He didn’t even tell Ted where he was going.

***

Irene booked a motel bed in a tacky cowboy themed hotel with a card that bordered on disposable, trying to ignore the ridiculous cowboy-clad man at the door. She was tired, she was fed up, and most of all she was concerned for the others. She paid her bill and didn’t look him in the eyes, trying to savor that for the first time in a while she was finally on her own.

Privacy was long overdue. That cramped tin can they’d been staying in left her with no room to breathe, no room to consider her options. She stared up at the ceiling and let her mind wander. What now? What if the boys don’t come back? Her phone had been off for hours now and they had no way of finding her at the hotel. What would my life look like if I had to start again?

She considered that question for a while. Would she pursue a mundane job? Or try and take over the empire they’d built together as a one woman enterprise? She knew she’d be fine at the end, but these were the realities she’d have to consider. She could always pull a few strings, get a room in a casino hotel for a season, or a residency for some bullshit art piece under Lily’s name. Go into writing tours and holding Q and As.

She laughed to herself, Lily would have scoffed at that. The audacity of it. She’d almost admire the bravery of someone using her legacy to make a quick buck after the fire of ‘88. Irene was always a woman who rewarded audacity when it happened. She’d give opportunities to starving artists and interns with the cheek to break into her penthouse, at one point she even encouraged people to squat in her summer houses when she wasn’t in town.

Irene missed her. They didn’t know each other well at the time, but they should have been given the opportunity. Usually she’d try to shake the thought away, do something else, watch something loud and distracting. Tonight she didn’t have the energy for all that, she was just left to simmer in her thoughts from 40 years ago.

It effected her marriage for a few years, her husband started working late and busying himself, traveling abroad and finding excuse after excuse to get away from her. Sometimes she wondered if he’d forgiven her, they barely knew each other. The double standard astounded her, he killed dozens of people, she’d only knowingly killed one. In person.

She fell into a dreamless sleep, wondering if she was going to be murdered before she woke up. They weren’t after her she reminded herself. She couldn’t hold herself up, she just fell asleep. She knew she shouldn’t, she felt it was greedy, her friends were still out there. She was too tired for consistency.

***

Ken arrived at the 24 hour diner, he was alone, he was tired, his eyes were bloodshot. He ordered a milkshake and a chicken burger, tucking in with gusto. There was sand under his fingertips and in the cracks in his hand.

He didn’t talk to the fry cook, just stewed in his own sweat and adrenaline, not wanting disturbance. The sickly feeling in his stomach never left, even after all these years that groggy feeling clung to his stomach and his neck. His eyes burned even with the sugar and the butter and the meat in his digestive system. The acidic ketchup stung his lips but he was grateful to have some food that wasn’t from a packet. Warm food.

He didn’t know what else to do, he had the smell of smoking henchman in his hair and strange military clothing from a group that didn’t exist. His wife was missing, but she wasn’t dead. If he could find her, if he could just get back to her after all these years he could work out a plan. She was always smarter than him, on the day they met she was a far better liar that he was, even if he totally knew what games she was playing.

He needed to rest, he could get home to the penthouse they’d been living in from there. Shower and send out a message. Not a bounty, that would be cruel, but an invitation. If you can see this, please come home. He’d considered. She’d know who it was for.

Did she even want to come back? She gave you one job, you couldn’t even do that!

He shook off the self talk. It was late. Never trust your opinion after 9pm, especially don’t trust your opinion after being shot at.