Chapter Fourteen Jonah
"This is a terrible idea," Jagger says.
"That's what makes it fun," Jinx replies, pulling another bottle from the cabinet. "When's the last time you did something just because it was fun?"
Jagger opens his mouth, glances at me, and closes it again.
"Gross," Jinx says. "Not that kind of fun. I mean actual fun. Drinking. Laughing. Being a person instead of a murder robot."
"I'm not a murder robot."
"You're a little bit a murder robot." Jinx sets three bottles on the counter: whiskey, vodka, and something green that I'm immediately suspicious of. "Tonight, we fix that."
It's been two days since Jinx arrived. Two days of planning, strategizing, mapping out the Geneva facility in excruciating detail. We've identified entry points, exit routes, guard rotations, and about a hundred different ways the whole thing could go catastrophically wrong.
We need a break. Even I can see that, and I'm not trained to read tactical exhaustion the way the Harrison brothers are.
"I'm in," I say.
Jagger sighs. "Of course you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you never met a bad decision you didn't immediately embrace."
"That's how I ended up with you, so clearly my methods work."
Jinx cackles. "He's got you there, brother."
Jace appears in the kitchen doorway, Elliot trailing behind him. They've been doing something domestic in their room for the past hour, but they’re both trying to hide the fact that their breathing is just barely under control.
"Are we drinking?" Jace asks.
"We're drinking," Jinx confirms. "All of us. No exceptions. No excuses. Consider it team building."
"Team building," Elliot repeats skeptically. "With vodka."
"The best kind of team building." Jinx starts pouring shots with the enthusiasm of someone who's been waiting for this moment all day. "Come on. We might all be dead next week. Let's have one night where we pretend to be normal."
That's a hard argument to counter. We gather around the living room, the fire crackling, snow falling softly outside the windows. Jinx distributes shots with the precision of someone who's done this many times before.
"To terrible ideas," he announces, raising his glass.
"To terrible ideas," we echo.
The whiskey burns going down. Good burn. The kind that settles warm in your stomach and makes the world's edges go soft.
"Another," Jinx says, already pouring.
Three rounds in, Elliot is telling stories about Jace that I'm pretty sure weren't meant to be shared.
"And then he just stood there," Elliot says, gesturing wildly with his glass. "In the middle of the kitchen. Covered in flour. Looking at me like I'd asked him to solve quantum physics."
"I'd never made bread before," Jace says stiffly.
"You'd killed two-hundred-seventeen people but you couldn't figure out yeast."
"Two-hundred-eighteen. And yeast is complicated."
"Yeast is literally alive. You just have to keep it that way. You kept killing it."
"It was resisting my methods." Jace sighs dramatically.
Jinx is doubled over laughing. Even Jagger's mouth is twitching in a way that suggests he's fighting a losing battle against amusement.
"In his defense," I offer, "I can't make bread either."
"Thank you," Jace says.
"But I also haven't killed two-hundred-seventeen people, so my skill set is less ironic."
"Eighteen. Do you guys not listen? EIGHTEEN. And I take back my thanks."
More drinks. The green stuff turns out to be absinthe, which Jinx insists is "traditional" and the rest of us insist is "trying to poison us." We drink it anyway.
"Okay," Jinx says, settling back into the couch cushions. "Game time."
"What kind of game?" Elliot asks warily.
"The kind where we learn embarrassing things about each other. It's called 'Never Have I Ever' and I'm sure you've heard of it."
"We're not teenagers," Jagger says.
"No, we're trained killers with emotional damage. Which makes the game more interesting." Jinx holds up his glass. "I'll start. Never have I ever... kissed someone to avoid detection."
He drinks. Jace drinks. To my surprise, Elliot drinks.
"What?" Elliot says at our stares. "It was before Jace. And it worked."
"I need details," Jinx demands.
"You're not getting them."
"My turn," I say, because this is actually starting to be fun. "Never have I ever... killed someone with a kitchen utensil."
Jinx drinks. Jace drinks. They look at each other.
"Fork," Jinx says.
"Corkscrew," Jace replies.
"Respect."
Jagger rolls his eyes, but I catch him hiding a smile behind his glass.
"Never have I ever," Jace says slowly, "fallen in love with someone I was supposed to kill."
He drinks. He looks at Elliot while he does it, and the look that passes between them makes my chest tight.
After a moment, Jagger drinks too.
"When were you supposed to kill me?" I ask him.
"Multiple times. It was strongly recommended in your file."
"And you didn't."
"Obviously not. You're still here."
"That's almost romantic."
"I'm a romantic person."
Jinx makes a gagging sound. "This is disgusting. I need more alcohol to cope with how disgusting this is."
We keep playing. I learn that Jinx once seduced a mark's wife, husband, and personal assistant in the same weekend.
That Jace doesn't know how to swim. That Elliot can pick any lock made before 1990 and is a whiz with computers.
That Jagger has read every book in his apartment at least three times, including the boring ones.
"What qualifies as boring?" I ask.
"Economic theory. Political philosophy. The entire collected works of Freud."
"You read Freud three times?"
"It was a phase."
"That's not a phase. That's a cry for help."
Jinx snorts. "He also alphabetizes his spices. In Latin."
"That's not true," Jagger says.
"It's absolutely true. I've seen it." Jinx pokes.
"It's organized. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
I make a mental note to check the spice cabinet when we get back. If we get back. The thought sobers me for a moment, but Jinx is already pouring another round.
"Never have I ever," Elliot says, his words starting to slur at the edges, "worn something ridiculous for a mission."
Everyone drinks except me.
"Details," I demand. "All of you. Now."
Jinx goes first. "Clown costume. Full makeup, red nose, big shoes. I had to infiltrate a children's birthday party. The mark was the entertainment."
"That's horrifying."
"The children loved me. I made balloon animals while his body was still warm in the next room."
"That's MORE horrifying."
Jace's contribution is surprisingly mundane. "Wedding dress. I was posing as a bride to get into a ceremony. The mark was the father of the groom."
"You wore a wedding dress," Elliot repeats, delighted. "Please tell me there are pictures."
"There are not pictures. There will never be pictures."
"I'm going to find pictures."
"You won't."
"I have very specific skills."
Jagger, when pressed, admits to a three-piece suit made entirely of denim. "It was the 90s. A Texas oil baron needed to be erased for stepping outside the bounds of the Silent. It seemed appropriate at the time."
"A denim suit," I say. "A three-piece denim suit."
"I'm not proud of it."
"You should never be proud of it. That's a crime against fashion."
"The mission was successful."
"That doesn't make the denim okay."
By the fifth round, I'm drunk. Properly drunk, the kind where the room tilts when I move too fast and everything seems funnier than it should be.
Jinx has moved from the couch to the floor, sprawled on the rug like a very chaotic starfish.
Jace and Elliot are curled together in the armchair, Elliot practically in his lap, their fingers interlaced.
And Jagger is looking at me with soft gray eyes that make my heart do stupid things.
"Tell me something no one else knows," Jinx demands suddenly. "Something secret. Something embarrassing. We're bonding. This is how bonding works."
"That's not how bonding works," Jace says.
"It is now. I'm going first." Jinx sits up, swaying slightly. "I'm afraid of birds. All birds. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones. They have dead eyes and they're everywhere and I don't trust them."
"That's... surprisingly specific," Elliot says.
"A pigeon attacked me when I was nine. The Foundry tried to condition it out of me. It didn't work." He shudders dramatically. "Horrible creatures. Flying rats with better PR."
"Okay," Jace says slowly. "I'll go. I can't whistle. Never could. Jagger eventually gave up trying to teach me."
"Everyone can whistle," I say.
"I can't." He demonstrates, producing a pathetic wheezing sound. "See?"
"That's tragic. That's genuinely tragic."
Elliot kisses his cheek. "I think it's cute."
"It's humiliating."
"Same thing."
My turn. I think about it, digging through the fragments of memory that have been slowly returning. "I used to sing in the shower. Not just casually. Full performances. Broadway numbers. My neighbors complained."
"You can sing?" Jagger asks.
"I could sing. I don't know if I still can. I haven't tried since..." I trail off. Since they erased me. Since they took everything, including the parts of me that used to make joyful noise in the shower like a normal person.
"Sing something now," Jinx suggests.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. We're drunk. We won't judge."
"You'll absolutely judge."
"Only a little."
I shake my head, but something in me wants to try. Wants to know if that piece of me survived.
I open my mouth. What comes out is rough, unpracticed, but recognizable. A few bars of something I half-remember, something my mother might have sung once.
When I stop, the room is quiet.
"You can still sing," Jagger says softly.
"I can sort of sing."
"It was beautiful."
"It was mediocre at best." But the way he says beautiful melts my heart and almost turns me into a damn puddle.
"It was you. That makes it beautiful."
Jinx makes his gagging sound again, but there's something softer in his expression. Something that looks almost like approval.