18. Eleanor
18
Eleanor
No one is wholly good or bad.
By the time it’s dark, I’ve transformed half of the groceries and some pantry items into a few sets of three square meals a day for two people. I had to start from scratch for things like the mayonnaise for chicken salad and an olive oil pastry crust for the quiche, so it took longer than it would have with those shortcuts. I’ve just gotten dinner started when I’m interrupted.
“What is that? It smells amazing,” a posh British voice says. I throw Wesley a glance over my shoulder, smile at the look of pure astonishment on his face, and return my attention to the pan.
“It’s literally just onions and garlic,” I laugh. It’s the perfume of line cooks; everyone’s favorite.
“I could smell it all the way from my office. What are you making?”
“Pan seared chicken breast smothered in caramelized onions, baked potatoes and a salad. It’s for dinner for, well… the three of us, I guess. I didn’t really get the point across earlier with Dimitri, but I kind of meant for this to be my contribution and, like, a thanks for letting me stay and keeping me safe.”
He smiles and sets his laptop on the kitchen table. “Well, I think I’ll work in here if you don’t mind. My office is starting to smell like bollocks.”
I laugh. “It’s your house, but please, be my guest.”
He settles into a chair behind the screen and I continue sautéing. The silence is comfortable, but I’ve got too many questions to really let it simmer. And unlike Dimitri’s prickliness and Mac’s… distractingness… Wesley seems calm and friendly. “You’re the one who sent an email for me to my family, right?”
“Last night,” he nods.
“Are they in danger because of all this? ”
He glances up from his screen briefly. “I doubt it. Your parents are well out of reach in Florida and your sister who lives outside Pittsburgh is far enough.”
I wince, but I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised he knows where they all live. Anyone who can use my email without needing my password from me probably has skills I can’t comprehend. “What does that mean, far enough? Like, they won’t bother with her?” Maybe I really should go stay with her for a while after all this.
He clears his throat and sits back in his chair. From that position, I can see more of his throat and chest through the opening of his button-down, and the beginning of the colorful designs etched into his skin.
He taps his finger on the glass thoughtfully a few times. “Let’s just say that in the time it would take Rossi to track her down and send someone out there, he’ll already be neutralized.”
“Neutralized,” I repeat on a scoff. “What a synonym. They should hire you to do PR.”
He grins, totally unfazed.
“What do you do? Who do you guys actually work for, anyway? Is this a self-employment thing, or…”
“I think I want to hear your theories.”
I give the pan a thorough turnover first, then give it my back so I can face him. I want to see his expressions. “Well, I thought, at first, maybe some sort of military operation. It just doesn’t explain the charade.”
“The charade?”
“The story with the building fumigation, the costumes, the van—”
“I’ll have you know it’s called a cover, not a charade. And it’s a disguise, not a costume.”
I chuckle. “Right, well… it seems to me that the military doesn’t need a cover. And if they want someone dead, they can arrest them or send in SWAT, or drop a bomb and pretend it was, what do they call it? A training accident?”
His lips stretch into a smile. “Does Mac know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re a conspiracy theorist? ”
I feel my cheeks heat. “I mean, I don’t just, like, believe everything I’m told, if that’s what you’re saying…”
“No, don’t be embarrassed—this is going to be so much easier if you are. Because you’re right, the corruption is part of the problem—part of the reason we do what we do. Bureaucracy works too slowly and money walks. The bad guys get away. Sometimes they’re even in bed together.”
“So, enter the three Musketeers?”
He tilts his head back and laughs with his whole body. “Oh, I like that. New group chat name.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and bends his head over it. “Though, unlike the Musketeers, we do have an employer—someone we answer to. A handler, they call it.”
“You’re assassins.” That feels weird to say out loud.
“Hitmen. Yes. Paid killers. Though, personally, I like to think of myself as more of a Batman figure—the genius, rich, dashing, heroic type with a preference for vigilante justice.”
I turn back around to ponder that under the guise of stirring the onions.
As tempting as it is to embrace the comic book mindset—if for no other reason than it’s so much easier—I know real people are more complex than that. No one is wholly good or bad. And while I understand Wesley’s point about the injustices and imperfections in our systems, vigilante justice has never quite sat right with me, not when normal people so often become collateral damage.
But at least they’re doing something about the corruption and injustices. Something most normal people would never be able to do. Am I just judging from the safety of the sidelines? The high and mighty convictions of someone who’ll never have to live with the guilt and psychological damage of taking another life?
Seems to me people don’t just do this kind of thing for no reason. Maybe I haven’t given Mac enough of a chance to explain himself. If the why is important, too, maybe I should ask for his.
“So, if you’re Batman, that makes Mac… like, Hawkeye, I guess?”
Wes tilts his head, thinking. “A dead shot from afar. Yes, I see where you’re going with that.”
“And Dimitri is… the Hulk? But, like, only the green version. ”
Wes starts laughing again. “I’ll be quite generous and say part team leader, part green Hulk. He is organized and an ace in a jam.”
“So, like, Captain Hulk.”
“I like it.”
“Well, it does help to think of it that way, I guess. I just hope that doesn’t make me civilian casualty #4,” I mutter.
“I wouldn’t be too worried about that. That’s the thing about Mac—he’s always watching, always protecting. Once you’re in his inner circle, he’ll do everything he can to keep you safe. And from what I’ve seen, you, my dear, are the inner circle.”
I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I get the gist.
I think I’m starting to understand their dynamic, so the superhero metaphor is good for one thing, at least. Dimitri is kind of like the leader, even with his anger problems, and would be fighting in the thick of it. Wes takes care of the complexities of the technological side of things, and likely packs his own punch if he needs to. Mac watches over them, covers their asses—he’s the backup plan, and the element of surprise.
No wonder he was so upset when I interrupted that night. Dimitri was probably the one who got shot.
When dinner is finished, Wes grabs a plate and squirrels it away to his office. I graze on it, kind of wanting to wait for Mac, but not knowing when he’ll be back. Dimitri comes into the kitchen, sniffs the air, glowers at the chicken in the pan and starts removing raw ingredients from the fridge. I take that as my cue to leave.