

Department of Student Loans, Kidnap & Ransom

By Christian Hale

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Christian Hale

Chapter One

There was a time and place when one could reasonable expect not to be executed on video for skipping out on their student loan debt. That time had passed. It had passed at least a decade ago. Jeremy, taped securely to a chair, knew it. He also knew that he would soon be dead.

"You know, Jeremy, they call us _cockroaches_. Somehow, everywhere on this planet, everybody now uses the same slur for Americans: _cockroaches_."

The Executioner's comment distracted Jeremy from the focus he was attempting to maintain on his breathing. He tried to concentrate on not panicking. Long deep breath in, long breath out....and repeat.

"But, I can't say I consider it an insult. I mean...I think it's an accurate description. And I'll tell you why," said The Executioner. "A long time ago in Indonesia I saw a fight start when a drunk Australian called a drunk American guy a cockroach. Nothing remarkable about a drunk Australian. Nothing remarkable about a drunk Australian winning a fight against another drunk idiot tourist in Indonesia, but I had never seen that reaction to being called a cockroach. So I decided then and there to put my academic skills to use and do a little investigating. By the way, I also have a master's degree in Terrorism and Homeland Security Studies – just like you. Did you know that?"

Jeremy did not respond.

"So, anyways," continued The Executioner, "I went online and started to search for the origin of cockroach as an anti-American insult. I went to Wikipedia because I copy and pasted a lot from there when I was an undergraduate....and also when I was a grad student. Of course, there was an article on the subject. Do you know what the origin was?"

Jeremy didn't reply to his executioner. He wasn't listening. He was thinking about how online trolls would send the video of his execution to his parents. There were a hundred ways to get someone to accidentally view an unwanted video on their screen. The American ban on anti-advertising software and plug-ins had greatly increased the number of people being subjected to random pop-up images and videos of increasing depravity. Most people had become desensitized to the daily dose of porn and gore, but it was obviously a different matter when a family member showed up in a video. The favorite form of online harassment by far was still, of course, 'Your mom did porn.' Facial recognition software that could search numerous porn video archives going back to the 1990s in under a minute had brought new life to the earlier trend of finding familiar faces in still images.

Jeremy pushed these thoughts aside. He then started to move away from a creeping sense of panic and towards a numb feeling of acceptance. He was going to die, his family would watch. Eventually they would watch whether they wanted to or not. There was nothing he could do.

Jeremy's situation was hopeless. His total student loan debt had grown with interest and fines to over $400,000. Of course, the lender was willing to settle for less than that, but not from Jeremy directly. The Executioner's employer, a small specialist overseas debt collection agency, had, when capture was imminent, secretly purchased Jeremy's debt from the original lender for a small percentage of the total amount due. And the overseas debt collection specialists all charged an extra $200,000 as a collection fee.

So now it was a simple matter: if Jeremy's family wanted to ever see him alive again, they would need to come up with about $600,000. Of course, the practice of kidnapping and demanding ransom payments was still illegal in the United States. Nevertheless, if a debt collector could avoid being caught by a foreign government, then they were free to continue with their business. The US government could barely control things that happen at home, let alone overseas. As a result, no debt collector had ever been charged or punished in America. Plus, nobody knew who they were, exactly.

As for Jeremy, right before he fled across the Quebec border and onward to Asia, he had convinced his parents to insert a legal clause that blocked any borrowing against their house under duress. This was probably not necessary. Any bank or lender that was stupid enough to lend money to a family under ransom and execution threat would soon be subjected to not just a coordinated customer boycott, but also a firebombing by anarchists. The arson attack would take place during working hours and the employees would be considered fair game. The modern anarchist put great emphasis on not negotiating with hostage takers. Paying out the ransom only encouraged the debt collectors. 'No negotiating with terrorists' was now an anarchist slogan.

As for borrowing money from kin, nobody in Jeremy's extended network of family or friends had that sort of money to lend – and none of them owned houses anymore. They, like most of the American working class, had all become renters mired in personal debt. But his parents would still blame themselves. Jeremy was certain of this.

"Seriously, Jeremy, pay attention. This cockroach stuff is important," said The Executioner as he tried to keep his prisoner focused. "So anyways, the Wikipedia article on cockroaches was really interesting. It says that the slur arose independently in several locations in different languages. How cool is that? Forums and comment threads in places like Brazil, China, Europe and Australia all show that the use of 'cockroaches' for Americans was...like, organic and unconnected. Scholars who research internet culture and trends say it's a very unique phenomenon."

Jeremy didn't acknowledge The Executioner.

"Hey Jeremy, maybe you should have majored in internet studies? You would already know this, and you could still be working on your PhD right now."

The Executioner was quite pleased with his monologue. He had never talked this much before, as one experience at an early point in his career had turned him off engaging in discussion with what those in the business referred to as 'runners.' The Executioner made the mistake of having a talk with a rather quick-witted, but unemployed, PhD who had spent too much time debating during his fourteen years of grad school. The talkative Doctor of Philosophy may not have been able to find any gainful employment, but he was good at arguing. His line of attack – and his slew of quick facts, sound logic and well-timed delivery – was an attempt to brutalize The Executioner's sense of honor, decency and humanity. The PhD's attack did bother him a little. But more importantly, The Executioner didn't like to feel that he had lost an argument.

Of course, in the end, the doctor had his skull crushed like every other one of the runners who couldn't quickly come up with the money. It made for one of the more popular videos, with over 70 million views on one of the more popular apps the last time The Executioner had bothered to check. The high view count was mostly due to the fact that he, in his anger and frustration at losing an argument, neglected to place the bag over the doctor's head before swinging down with a rusted iron bar. The popularity of the video helped somewhat to soothe what he felt was a defeat of sorts. Regardless, The Executioner soon regained his sense of decency and returned immediately to the use of a bag over the heads of the runners when killing them.

"So....yeah, cockroaches..." said The Executioner. "It had an interesting history. The term had earlier been used by one side in the Rwandan genocide and in Iran against some minority group or whatever. But these never got beyond their local uses. The first usage to describe Americans just pops up in the comment threads under articles, videos and on forums. It was, like, 'Yankee' went out with the Second World War and was never considered an insult in the first place. But there was this empty place that needed to be filled. Like when the first English dude called a French guy a frog. People everywhere, in the 16th century or whatever, dropped their wheelbarrows full of cow manure and thought 'Damn. They are frogs. They always were. We just didn't think to call them that.' And when _cockroaches_ came along, it just suited us Americans so well. It fit like a glove."

The Executioner, now doubly pleased with his cleverness and his timing, pulled a pair of gloves out of his back pocket and slipped them on. They were, along with the iron bar, his trademark: black, ultra-thin, fire-retardant auto mechanic gloves. They were the one constant in all his videos. His clothing changed, but never his gloves. He had hoped this would result in some cool nickname like 'The Mechanic.' Instead, he was stuck with 'The Executioner' as he was the first to upload the videos of the runners he executed. He was also the first to come up with the idea of spreading fear. Fear of him in particular. And for the fear to be explicitly about The Executioner, he needed a brand. After his first few videos he realized that he had used the same gloves in each video, more so to hide the scars on the knuckle of his right hand than to come up with a distinct identity. The gloves became his uniform; they became part of his brand. They instilled fear and dread. And they were very, very comfortable.

" _Cockroaches_. That label describes the current crop of Americans so well," said The Executioner. "It's perfect. Having totally destroyed our economy, society and government, we scurry – like cockroaches – away from a dead carcass with no remaining nutrients to devour. We run away to other countries that have more reasonable people and more responsible governments. We sneak in under cover of darkness on the cheapest 3am budget flight with some BS tourist visa and set up shop in the filthiest spot we can find and begin our new lives as permanent expat cockroaches. And some of these cockroaches, like you, took an extra large chunk of flesh off of what was left of American prosperity...."

Jeremy finally cut in, replying "Yes. I'm a cockroach who ran up a huge student loan debt and then ran off, laughing the whole way with my pockets stuffed full of taxpayer money. It was my plan all along. I've heard this speech before at least a hundred times."

"Well, you're in luck. This will be the last time you ever have to hear that speech. I'll make it short and skip straight to the end."

Jeremy didn't respond, but he knew what was coming.

"Do you know why I like this insult so much?" asked The Executioner, still not done with his mini-tirade. "I like it because after decades of foreigners saying 'Oh, I don't hate Americans. I hate their government,' we finally have an honest slur that says 'I don't have an opinion on your government or your country as a whole, aside from maybe pity. I hate you personally. I hate the American people. You're a disease. You cockroaches need to turn around and take your infested horde back to America.' And that makes everybody more honest. For me, it's a reminder that we were once strong. We were once respected, if not liked. And now look at us. Look specifically at people like you. Cockroaches like you are a daily reminder to me of how far we have fallen."

Jeremy felt a sense of resignation to his fate. But despite his silence, his brain was still expending a great deal of energy thinking of a dozen things at once. Then, in a fraction of a second, everything changed. His mind became clear and a sense of relief came over him. He was done. He had nothing left to say. He had nothing left to think. He stared straight ahead and focused on a small chip in the concrete wall. Looking through the wall, the chip became a blur.

"Hey, Jeremy! Hey! Heads up. Pay attention," said The Executioner as he propped his phone up on a chair and started the recording. "Look into the camera so we can get this video done and over with. I'm tired, Burma is a really hard place to operate in, and I've had an upset stomach since the first day I arrived. I don't want to be here any more than you do."

The Executioner paused. A thought came to him.

"Jeremy, is this ironic? I mean, is this execution, of you in particular, ironic? It's just that you have a Master of Arts in Terrorism and Homeland Security Studies. That's two years of coursework plus a thesis of, what, 80 pages? And somewhere in there I know you must have paid some attention to, maybe even studied, those angry Muslim dudes who were always decapitating or sawing off people's heads. You must have analyzed it, and now you are going to get pretty much the same thing. Is that ironic, or is it merely unfortunate? You know, that PhD guy I executed, he had a doctorate in English Literature. If he was here, he could tell us."

The Executioner did not also have a master's degree in Terrorism and Homeland Security Studies. That was a lie that was supposed to lead to a joke, but he had forgotten the punchline. He thought about this as he went through his checklist: Hood pulled up? Check. Baseball cap? Check. Motocross goggles? Check. Bandana covering lower face bandit-style? Check.

Off to the side The Executioner stood, as he always did, gently swinging his iron bar and giving a sufficient amount of time to add descriptive subtitles to the video before he stepped in. He couldn't help but to be honest and yelled "You know, I'll have to kill the audio for this short section when I upload the video, but I need to tell you something. I was joking about the master's degree. I don't have a master's degree in Terrorism and Homeland Security Studies. That's just stupid. I don't have a graduate degree at all. I researched the benefits and drawbacks of a master's while I was an undergrad. That was a while ago. And it seemed, economically, like a terrible idea, at least according to every single study I found on the internet. So, yeah..."

That was a lie also. The Executioner didn't have an undergraduate degree. He had never attended university.

The Executioner walked over slowly and stood behind Jeremy. There was no hesitation. He jerked the iron bar back and, putting his entire body into the swing, thrust the bar down.

Zero dollars. That was the first thing that came into his mind as Jeremy slumped over onto the floor. That was the figure in his head. He was getting zero dollars for this. And his expenses were obviously not going to be recovered. But as everyone knew, it was about setting an example for those who thought that they could negotiate for time or for a smaller figure, and for those who thought that contacting law enforcement was a good idea. And for those who couldn't get the money to pay off the debt and the extra fine? Well, this was for them also. This was for them specifically.

Then suddenly it hit him. He forgot the bag. He thought about how he could have possibly forgotten to place the bag over Jeremy's head. He wondered if he was starting the early stages of senile dementia as a thirty-something year old. Cursing, he tossed the iron bar to the side and paused, letting out a slow, deep breath. He started to think. The Executioner was worried about the comments he would read later that day on the internet. Online criticism wounded him deeply.

The Executioner grabbed his phone off the chair and, sidestepping the large pool of blood, spoke to the lifeless Jeremy.

"Alright. Sorry about the speech. That was very cartoon villain of me. Anyways, we're done here. I've got a flight to catch. See you later."

The Executioner took off his shirt and walked over to his bag. He pulled out a strip of quick-release Propranolol Hydrochloride patches and stuck them on his side. The second part of the drug combo would be needed quicker. He jabbed a needle full of quick-dissolving Cortisol micro-beads into his arm and slowly injected. He would be forming no traumatic memories this week. Preventing PTSD was important for overseas debt collection specialists. And The Executioner was a cautious guy.

Chapter Two

Mick Larson was heavily in debt. And his loans went into default long ago. The credit card debt, a mere $28,000, was not the problem. The problem was the undergraduate degree from an out-of-state university, the Master's of Applied Linguistics from yet another out-of-state university, and – if paying higher fees as an out-of-state student wasn't bad enough – a Master of Arts in Middle Eastern Studies from a Scottish university-turned-diploma mill with a penchant for squeezing every last Dollar, Yuan and Euro out of foreign students. Mick hadn't made a new tally in years, but, as far as he could recall, his total owing had grown to $460,000 with interest and fines. This put him comfortably in range as a potential target for debt collectors.

Mick's plan to serve a ten-year stint in the US Army while remaining childless and without a parasitic military spouse seemed like a fool-proof plan to pay off his debt. Unfortunately, his security clearance was revoked after smoking marijuana, for the third time in as many months, outside of the officially designated CACSIA (Command Approved Cannabis Smoking and Ingestion Area). Being removed from his intelligence brigade and restricted from transferring to any other top secret Military Occupation Specialty for the remaining eight years on his contract gave Mick some pause as to his life's general direction. It all seemed so boring. There were barely any other gays outside of intel – except for in infantry, which was not a realistic pursuit given Mick's inability to finish a 5-mile run in under two hours.

Aside from the social life, the nature of the work was also important to Mick. Spending his working days in pro-jihadi virtual reality training decks and propaganda forums while convincing wealthy Arabs to send money to accounts that were secretly controlled by the US Army had been fun work. But his new job as an archivist undigitizing old unclassified PDFs from the pre-2024 era while sitting in the backwoods military ghetto known as Fort Polk was far less rewarding. So, after only two years of service to what remained of his country, Mick took a bus across the Texas border into what could loosely be referred to as 'Mexico.' There he smoked a lot of marijuana and thought about his next course of action.

After six years of the beach life at Cozumel, Mick decided on that course of action. He had grown tired of working one month out of every year convincing fat Saudis and even fatter Qataris to secretly fund his non-operational and completely fictional terrorist faction. About as dumb as the would-be jihadi funders were the seven and possibly eight American intelligence gathering agencies, departments, units and 'actionable groups' that were convinced there was an increasing rich terrorist cell on Mexico's Yucatán Peninsula, just waiting to strike.

Mick, still occasionally busy conning jihadi financiers while using the online persona of 'Abu Usman al-Amriki,' knew that it was only a matter of time before a bunch of hairy American operators placed a black bag over his head and took him outside of town to interrogate and then set him on fire – as was customary. The 'burninator' tactic was shown to be a completely ineffective deterrent based on several think tank and academic studies. But those working in the field decided that a bunch of soft, pudgy neckbeards with their data and their analysis had no right to determine the best course of action as they themselves had never personally set anyone on fire in the field. So Mick decided that he was going to start traveling while spending his money as a slow build-up towards finding a new overseas home. Eventually.

Then, one day, the process was sped up for him.

Early one morning a message arrived in an envelope slipped under his door. Mick found the envelope much later when he woke up at 2pm. It was a paper envelope. With paper inside. This was odd. So Mick took his time to get dressed up in several layers of clothing and plastic garbage bags before opening with scissors what he sure was an envelope full of cesium-137 or polonium-210. The marijuana-induced paranoia was off target, and there was merely a letter inside. But the paranoia was about to get worse. The letter addressed him by his real name, asked him how his alter ego Abu Usman al-Amriki was doing in terms of financial health, and told him to cut his intake of weed.

The reason for getting off the weed was that he would need a clear mind in order to make a clean getaway in time. The letter stated that an overseas debt recovery specialist was somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, probably now closer to Los Angeles than to Guangzhou. The debt collector was none other than The Executioner, and he had a ticket to Cozumel; at least the anonymous writer said he did. The letter finished with detailed instructions to come down to the beach for a chat later that afternoon, but also to pack a bag and plan to never return. Mick thought about it for a minute and figured he would already be dead or wearing a black hood if the letter sender was malicious.

Mick used the extra time afforded by his already packed emergency get-away bag to find a suitably matronly – but not too elderly – woman to inherit his most valued possession. And so it was that he handed over his cat and $10,000 in cat-support money to a friendly and somewhat lonely lady named Ximena, in exchange for her swearing to the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus that she would treat the cat like her own child. Ximena added that she appreciated the money and that she hoped the cat wouldn't abandon her, move to North Dakota for work, and never contact her again like her son did. Mick thought it better to not state the obvious: that her son was likely shot dead at the border by a 'Canadrone' UAV while trying to sneak into Canada to find work, as there was none to be had in North Dakota at the moment. She could probably find the drone video on DroneSnuffVids.ca if she really wanted.

Mick decided he couldn't do the beach meeting without lighting up first, so he smoked a bowl of marijuana before handing over his stash to a homeless guy. This left him in a more relaxed mood as he waited on the beach. As long as he didn't lapse into a paranoid high, he would be fine. He scanned the beach-goers trying to guess who he would be meeting. Mick still possessed small parts of the traditional gender-role mindset he grew up with in his rural hometown, so he was surprised when two girls approached him. They looked like they lost the rest of their sorority sisters in the surf.

"Hi. I'm Alison and this is Liz," said the tougher-looking of the two. "And we're here to help you."

"Shit. Thanks?" Mick laughed, just a little – not in too obvious of a condescending way, but it wasn't a good start.

"Mick, are you high?" asked Alison.

"Yup. But I function quite well like this. It's my default operating mode."

"Right, Mick. OK. Straight to the point. You're going to die. Someone in the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes tipped off The Executioner in exchange for a 10% cut. Legally, The Executioner gets all your assets as compensation if he catches you. They told The Executioner that you had accumulated a large amount of cash and that you are sitting around smoking dope in Cozumel."

"Ok, the second part is accurate. But as for the first part, the cash is actually in a bank account or some sort of weird financial thing that pays out a monthly stipend to me. I can't liquidate it. There are numerous protections against that."

Mick then realized that the weed was taking its effect on his wits. He wondered if he had just given any sort of useful info to an overseas debt collector.

"Wait....Alison, are you a debt collector, and am I your client?"

Alison laughed and looked over at Liz who seemed unimpressed with their newly acquired and clearly stoned friend.

"Listen, Mick, we can help you, no problem. But we also really want to get this guy."

"And why is that?"

"Well, we're Insurrectionary Anarchists and we want to bury The Executioner alive," said Alison as bluntly as possible.

"Don't you guys just kill other anarchists?"

"Yes. Yes I did. But that was quite a while ago," answered Alison.

"And Liz, does she slay other anarchists as well, or just class enemies?"

"Are you like this all the time?" asked Liz, clear displeased with her new acquaintance.

"Liz, your friend seems like she's in charge. Are you her unpaid intern? Because, you know, that sort of thing went out with the 2020s. It's all about indentured servitude contracts these days...or whatever they're calling them."

"You won't succeed in stoking internecine strife, if that's what you're going for," said Liz. "Quit being a smart-ass and listen to our offer."

Mick thought briefly about how he should probably mock Liz for having just said the phrase 'stoking internecine strife,' but he figured there were more important matters.

"Sure, but one question: How do you know how I am? And how did you find me?"

"We have people who infiltrated the Department of the Treasury – specifically, the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes. One of our _compañeras_ in the Treasury Department goes by the online _nom de guerre_ Hamad al-Ansari."

Mick laughed in a belittling manner at Liz.

"What's so funny, aside from your marijuana clown act?" asked Liz.

_"Compañeras_?" replied Mick. "Seriously? Who says that? Did you serve in the Spanish Civil War back in the 1930s? And did you get a _nom de guerre_ while you were there?"

Ally cut in and said "Mick! Listen to us for a second. Hamad al-Ansari – I believe that someone by that name is your latest benefactor? He doesn't exist. He's actually our source in the Treasury Department."

"Yeah, that guy seemed suspicious – aside, of course, from the usual level of suspicion that one would assign to a funder of terrorism. I guess I sort of knew something like this was bound to happen. Sort of like how underage anarchists are inclined towards the pretentious use of foreign words."

"Cute. That comparison made no sense at all," said Liz. "But you see what underage anarchists have accomplished? You see now? We tracked you by staining the payment and then we sold your info to The Executioner."

"Wow.... Thanks?"

Mick paused while putting his hand up to stop Liz from talking – a move which she dismissed as a quaint mannerism of a fading patriarchal culture.

"What the hell is staining?" asked Mick.

"Staining is a new technique Treasury is using to track money transfers. It's been explained to me, but I can't understand it," said Alison.

"Great. Well, this is really helpful. There is a new tool to stop people like me from moving money around and you can't explain to me how it works. Plus, The Executioner is on his way to find me, and you two apparently want to use me as bait?"

"Basically, yes," replied Alison.

"And are you two going to continue dressing like this? I'm getting traumatic flashbacks from being rejected by sorority girls in college."

"Mick, you don't like girls," said Alison.

"I did in college."

"No, you didn't."

"OK, fine," said Mick. "But you two are still embarrassing me with your outfits. I have a reputation around here to protect."

"No, you don't," retorted Alison.

*****

Mick was sitting shotgun in the car as he and his two new friends drove up the coast to Cancún. He decided it was time for asking some important questions.

"Liz, when you are not in disguise as a real girl, do you have glow-in-the-dark blue hair and multiple piercings?"

"No. That sort of thing has fallen into disfavor."

"Why?"

"It made us look like foolish and it made us easy to identify and target; we need to win people over to our side, we need to infiltrate. We can't do that if we dress like old-school anarchist punks."

"If the revolution is successful, will you go back to the weirdo street performer costumes?" asked Mick.

"No. We'll put them in museums so the people remember the movement's dark days," replied Liz.

"Really? The American Museum of Insurrectionary Anarchism? There's no more room on the National Mall. Unless, of course, you throw out the planes and drones and move it all into the Air and Space Museum. Will you really build a new museum?"

"No, not really. All museums by their nature are fascist."

"Even museums full of communist knick-knacks?" asked Mick. "I visited one in Russia that had been open since the 1950s. Was it a fascist-communist museum?"

Alison decided to jump in to save the younger anarchist.

"Museums are about glorifying the past," said Alison. "We would rather glorify a better future while pointing out that the present sucks."

Mick couldn't resist. He asked, in a deadpan voice, "But don't you want to knock down Lincoln from his seat in the memorial and put your glorious leader in his place?"

"He was not a leader. He was a federated individual," said Liz, clearly exasperated.

"Federated individual? Is that like a hive mind sort of thing? Have anarchists become worker ants?"

The women ignored him.

Mick decided he was bored with trying to bait the anarchists, but he was curious how angry they would get if he started to make fun of their movement's martyr. That particular man, Robin Lapour, was a person that Mick knew about quite well for two reasons – despite totally ignoring American news for the last decade. One reason was the really lame pun nickname given to him by the media and by some in the public (Robin La Rich), a reflection of his upper-middle class upbringing or, possibly, a description of the fundraising activities he engaged in. The other reason was the horrific suffering he endured leading up to his death. Lapour had been charged with kidnapping after a failed attempt to trade the CEO of a large supermarket chain for the release of, and dropping of charges against, all the striking supermarket workers who had been charged and jailed under newly passed financial crimes legislation.

Within two weeks of his arrest, Lapour was tried and sentenced to life in prison – but not federal prison, despite transporting the drugged CEO across two state lines. Instead, the supermarket chain used their rights under the Victims' Rights Act of 2027 to select Lapour's prison. They chose an ultra-max state correctional facility in rural southern Illinois, not far from where Mick grew up. It was here where the 5 foot 4 inch, 120lbs Lapour was given the sort of treatment usually only doled out by Balkan militias in the villages of their enemies. It was all broadcast on the darknet for a subscription fee of $100 per month, with the correctional facility managers likely getting a 25% cut from the prison gang. Prison videos were nothing special, but Lapour was the only celebrity being tortured for profit. All other well-known convicts were housed in federal ultra-max prisons, and the government did a good job of stopping the flow of information from these institutions for reasons of national security. But regular criminals in state prison were of no concern.

After Lapour was subjected to three years of torture, a new state governor decided that the criticism from Europeans was getting really annoying, as was their tourist boycott of Chicago. This was a problem for Illinois, especially once Brazilians, Chinese, Canadians and others joined in avoiding Chicago after unidentified individuals killed a few tourists as a warning to obey the boycott. So, for a final one-time pay-per-view fee of $499, over 160,000 people paid to see Lapour drawn and quartered in a prison basement. The prison gang at first had a problem with the marketing, having to explain what the arcane execution was going to entail: they would use winches to pull Lapour apart into four pieces while he was still alive.

Americans had long ago accepted the brutality of their prison system. The levels of depravity and cruelty had increased gradually, soon catching up with the Guatemalan and Brazilian competition. But where the American prisons really excelled was in enterprise and marketing. It was nearly impossible to stop inmates from making and uploading videos once the hardware involved became small enough. There was brief outrage at the popularity of WorldStarPrisons.com, but the outrage only lasted for a week or so. Americans adjusted, just like they always had. The world had become a strange place, and America was far from the strangest thing in it.

But something about Lapour's death made people angry – and not just the anarchists and the usual social justice crowd. Perhaps it was the fact that he looked like a fifteen year old boy. Maybe it was because of the genuine warmth he exuded in his pre-prison virtual reality deck appearances. He even made videos for the older generation and for those who despised virtual reality with near-religious fervor. Or maybe Lapour had accidentally stumbled into the place of the one person who would – by chance – come to represent all the victims of the increasingly terrible things that had been happening to Americans over the previous decades.

The result was not only demonstrations in the street. The result was also a wave of retaliatory killings. The main targets were prison shareholders and executives. Within three months, dozens of them had been killed, with most of them having been set on fire. The prison gang leaders fared even worse: their families and houses were found to be not very well protected. The killers showed not just their willingness to target family members, but their sheer enthusiasm in doing so. And the assassins were surprisingly good at not making mistakes. They were rarely tracked down, and when they were they had a very strong tendency to not be taken alive. Those who were taken alive seemed to only ever know two other people involved in the campaign against the jailers and the prison gangs. And they never knew the real name or current location of those two people. What was clear was that the killers were anarchists – people long considered a joke, fit only for throwing feces-covered fruit at riot police.

The resulting media hysteria became the greatest recruiting tool in the history of anarchism. The anarchists of course killed a few despicable people, among many others. But one half of the media made them sound like the embodiment of evil while the other half made them sound like Robin Hoods. And both sides of the debate made it sound like an incredible adventure.

One particularly well organized insurrectionary anarchist group prevailed over all others. Its structure was the same as some of the older 20th and 21st century insurgent groups that operated without a prominent leader. The organization decentralized its command while rewarding results and initiative in a pure meritocracy that up until this point in America was only found in professional sports and pornography. You could join as a nobody with no connections, no experience and no reputation, and two years later be designing a fully-funded and fully-insane plan of mayhem and destruction that you yourself would lead after hand picking whoever you wanted for your team.

Of course, the group that was going by the descriptive name 'Insurrectionary Anarchists' started to grow increasingly extreme and found that some of its successes were alienating people. In response, plans were now vetted by a committee of more experienced operatives in order to avoid such excesses as the infamous kidnapping of a kindergarten class full of billionaires' children. Apparently the relentless sobbing of billionaire Manhattan five year olds sounded just like the sobbing of regular children. The image of wailing children surrounded by old-fashioned coloring books trying to "wake up!" two very dead and very bloody bodyguards had, unfortunately for the anarchists, been seared into the minds of viewers on every type of media device. This and other public relations disasters were seldom repeated. The Insurrectionary Anarchists had grown increasing respectable. It had now become a viable career option – though the career may be short-lived along with the recruit's lifespan.

Mick decided to break the silence with a facetious question.

"Hey girls, want to go and kidnap and ransom some kindergarteners? I hear that in Cancún there are a couple of schools where the drug cartel guys send their kids."

Neither of the girls even acknowledged the question.

"Seriously, _compañeras_ , what would Robin Lapour do? I mean, if he was alive and still had his arms and legs?"

Neither Alison nor Liz responded. Not verbally, anyways. In his blurred side view Mick thought he saw a slap headed his way. It wasn't. It was a pistol whipping. At least this is how Mick remembered it, even if it was more specifically a revolver rather than a pistol. Whatever the case, the gun was old and heavy. Liz's back-handed delivery was surprisingly strong, coming down exactly on Mick's nose. The pain and shock to the brain was instant. Mick leaned forward covering his face as tears streamed out his eyes.

Liz switched the car to manual and took control of the steering wheel while stepping hard on the brakes. Coming to a stop on the side of the road, she seamlessly unbuckled her seat belt and lunged at Mick, grabbing his hair and banging his head repeatedly into the window before delivering the first of many knees to his ribs. Deciding she needed more room for the beating, Liz opened the door and climbed over Mick, still gripping his hair. She pulled him out and continued with the knee strikes, this time to his stomach and chest. This was the most exercise Mick had had since he left the military. He was gasping for air while wheezing and coughing, choking on his tears and on the increasing amount of blood that was going down his throat and into his windpipe.

This was, without a doubt, the worst beating that Mick had sustained since a TSA pat-down gone bad at Chicago-Midway Airport while on leave from the army to attend his fictitious brother's funeral. Unfortunately for Mick, Liz was still not done. She threw Mick onto his back and mounted him – well-positioned to punch him in the face at her leisure. However, Mick was able to protect his face with his arms, giving her no choice but to start striking him in the throat.

Mick decided that he had had enough. He grabbed a handful of the dry road-side dust and smothered it into Liz's face. The cheap-shot work and she stumbled to the side, completely blinded and choking on the dust. Mick was barely able to regain his footing. Finally standing on two feet, he moved towards Liz with the intention of punching her in the jaw. This is when Alison determined the tag-team switch was warranted. She stepped up and delivered one very swift kick directly into Mick's solar plexus, collapsing him like he was shot. Mick didn't get up from his fetal position. He couldn't. Alison was clearly not new to the art of kicking people into submission.

Alison took her time pouring a bottle of water over Liz's eyes while Mick moaned softly in the dirt. Mick did not like his new friends, not one bit. But he took solace in knowing that they were nowhere near any CCTV cameras or surveillance drones. A video of a beating like this – at the hands of two 130lbs girls – would get, at a bare minimum, 50 million views.

Breathing heavily, Mick asked "Can you just hand me over to The Executioner now?"

Still working on cleaning out the dust from Liz's eyes, Alison replied "There were two plans: A, we win you over and you willingly help us; or B, we take you kicking and screaming. At the moment you're somewhere in between. Either way, you're bait. But the only other option is death, there's no doubt about it. You don't know how to run; but we know absolutely everything about running from debt collectors, contractors and law enforcement."

"You're like, what, 23 years old? Maybe you went on exchange to Italy during college? What do you know about running?" Mick retorted.

"I'm in my thirties. And I'm the lead trainer and supervisor for an overseas program that focuses on running and evasion. I've been doing it for a decade."

"So you're some girlie version of Blue Team?"

"No. I am Blue Team," said Alison.

"Bullshit."

Mick was somewhat taken aback. He believed Alison, because she seemed crazy enough. His comment was more one of surprise than of disbelief. Blue Team was famous, and it was especially beloved amongst those who were in debt and on the run. Their website, apps and system modifications provided a wealth of resources for the modern-day runner. Their team members – number unknown – also provided direct support, from regularly supplying forged identity bio-data for runners to one-time operations such as, for example, forcing a border systems tech at gunpoint to remove the profiles of the hundred or so debt runners that were going to cross all within the next hour.

Blue Team marketed themselves as an Underground Railroad for oppressed Americans attempting to make the journey to a non-extradition country. But the government and a good portion of the media made it clear that they considered them to be terrorists and facilitators of those who were financially destroying America. $7 trillion in student loan debt was a lot of money, and the government and lenders wanted it back, even if they had only actually lent out $3 trillion.

"You don't believe me, do you Mick?"

"No, I do. I just... OK, are you saying that Blue Team is an anarchist project?"

"No, it's not. But there was an Insurrectionary Anarchist amongst the group that created it. The others were from some random organizations. Some are unaffiliated. Some merely provided money. Don't ask who, because I won't say. As for ideology, we leave it at the door. The only requirement to join is a desire and ability to help in destroying the debt collection system. Once they lose control over debtors, they will give up and the system will collapse."

"So do you all get together and watch Fight Club on a regular basis?"

"What's that?"

"It's an old movie. The plot towards the end of the movie, or the goal of one of the main characters, who is actually the same character as the other, was the destruction of everybody's credit card debt. It was sort of a terrorist thing with buildings being blown up – but in a good way. You've seriously never seen it?"

"No, I haven't," said a once again exasperated Alison.

"You should see it. I saw it a long time ago, and then I watched a bunch of other movies by the same director. They're great, especially the one about Facebook."

"I don't know what that even means. I don't care," said Alison. "Mick, listen to me. We need to go. We have a flight to catch. Your bio-data profile red flag will be removed from the airport system for about three hours maximum. It's a surprisingly expensive thing to do in Mexico. We can't miss this flight."

"A flight to a destination I'm still not being informed of. Thanks. And I don't know why you don't just plan to get The Executioner here. I know the area. I know the people. I speak the language. We'll see him coming..."

"It's not about getting just him," Alison interrupted. "We also want to see how his network and support systems functions. He can be replaced. We want to follow an entire network and see how high it goes."

Mick went back to the car and slumped down in the front seat, utterly exhausted and still in pain.

"Girls, let's go. I'm ready to fly to whatever mystery location it is you have in mind."

Chapter Three

Alison looked over with mild disgust at Mick, who was now working on his second sweet potato, mango and bacon burrito.

"Mick, will you be having a third one?"

"Maybe. Do they have create-your-own burrito stands where we're going?"

"Nope."

"That's unfortunate. I guess I'll eventually accept my fate."

"So you are somewhat more enthusiastic about this now?"

"Yeah, I think I'm coming down with Stockholm Syndrome," said Mick. "Or maybe it's Helsinki Syndrome, you never know."

"Cute."

Mick's reference to Helsinki Syndrome was a joking death threat, not to be confused with Stockholm Syndrome, where hostages bond with their captors. Helsinki Syndrome was coined long after its Swedish counterpart, but also for a bank robbery. However, in the Finnish version the bank employees and customers feigned Stockholm Syndrome with the Estonian and Russian bank robbers who held them hostage, and then, when their captors dropped their guard, beat them to death with pieces of abstract corporate artwork that were placed in the bank lobby to create an air of cosmopolitan sophistication – a poor choice for impressing Finland's bank customers, but a great choice for makeshift weaponry.

Liz walked up to the table and sat down. Looking at Mick with much more than a mild degree of disgust, she inquired "How many is that now?"

"Three."

Liz looked over at Alison who shook her head in the negative.

"OK, good for you Mick. Ally, I released the car back to the rental place. I'll find us a gypsy cab to get us to the airport. Give me about five minutes or so..."

As Liz walked off, Mick put down his burrito and stated the obvious.

"You know, Ally, if I can call you Ally, you're going to have to let me know where we'll be going at the airport. That's unless, of course, you've arranged for one of those rendition jets that don't have a check-in desk, gate number or employees announcing the destination. So why don't you just tell me one hour earlier?"

"You can call me Alison."

Alison, or Ally as she was known to her friends, tapped out a word on her phone and turned it to Mick, revealing the destination: Indonesia. Mick didn't have an opinion one way or another. And he figured that Ally clearly had a reason for the country that she selected.

He looked up and said "OK, let's go to Indonesia."

"Mick, you think that maybe I wrote out the name of the country on my phone instead of saying it out loud for a reason?"

"Yeah, well maybe the walls have ears. But maybe they would know that I would never be that stupid, and that I said the wrong country name out loud to mislead them?"

Ally didn't respond. She thought quietly about how difficult Mick would continue to be. If he could take a severe beating and then come back just as annoying and cocky a few hours later, then there probably wasn't much else that could be done aside from tying him up and taping his mouth shut before transporting him, an option that Ally thought would be a great choice if she actually had the resources to do so. Ally's thoughts moved to more pressing issues, and she began to think through the logistics for Indonesia over and over again.

The logic behind the choice of Indonesia was that The Executioner would very likely consider that location to be a fertile hunting ground. From what Blue Team knew about him, which was actually very little, Indonesia was where he based himself when he was not elsewhere in Asia grabbing a runner. So he would have the advantage in that he knew the country well, but that was the point: Blue Team would dangle easy bait in a country where The Executioner was comfortable operating. If they made it too hard, then their target may give up.

The various scenarios played out in Ally's head as she walked down the street. Mick, not helping any, was now eating a bag of fried jalapeno pork rinds and drinking a large bottle of extra sugar-added rice _horchata_ while making up a completely false history for the neighborhood they were walking through. Ally did her best to tune out Mick as he pointed at an apartment block that was clearly no more than twenty years old and proceeded to describe it as "one of the less popular but more diseased brothels during the 1970s."

Neither Ally nor the chattering Mick took much notice of the three local men walking up behind them, nor did they take note of the windowless panel van parked farther down the street. It was impossible to treat every single person on the street as a potential threat. These men, however, were definitely a threat.

Both Ally and Mick were hit at the same time. Two of the men reached out and pressed their fake phones into Ally and Mick's necks and unleashed 50,000 volts in one short burst. Neither Ally nor Mick had been electrocuted before, but they reacted like everyone else who had. They collapsed in pain on the sidewalk, unable to move.

Electrocutions were the domain of the state in every country, and all forms of compact electrocution devices were illegal and classified as 'self-offense weapons.' But in those countries where the laws were applied unevenly, both police and criminals had easy access to them. The subtleties of electricity-based weapons and their regulation in different jurisdictions were, however, not on Mick and Ally's mind at that exact moment. They both thought the same thing as their brains rushed through a hundred scattered thoughts: 'I am going to die.'

The van began to move up the street as the men assessed the situation. After some murmured Spanish slang that Mick had problems understanding, one of the men spoke clearly and gave a command, "Shoot the girl and leave her. Take the guy only!"

Not expecting to have had to use his gun, the would-be executioner reached into the side of his jacket, fumbling for his gun. The delay cost him everything. He didn't see Liz sprinting across the street behind him.

As Liz ran by the unfortunate man she fired one shot into the side of his head and immediately swung her weapon forward and put two shots in the back of the second man. The third man put his hands in front of his face and froze just long enough for Liz to easily fire two 9mm rounds into his chest. His hands dropped. Liz raised the barrel a little and shot him in the face. Liz then casually walked over to the man with two bullet wounds in his back and fired one last shot into his head.

Mick was already on his feet as the effect of the voltage had quickly faded. He looked around for a direction to run, having no idea what way to head. Ally was slower to gain her footing and clumsily stood up. She looked over at Liz who was scanning the area as quickly as she could. It wasn't fast enough.

The unmistakable hammering sound of a Kalashnikov rang out and Liz stumbled back a few steps before falling on her side. The 7.62×39mm rounds had gone right through her chest and stomach. Another round had pierced her upper arm, but she still tried to clutch at her gun. The man who had been sitting in the van fired another burst at Liz, hitting her in the chest.

Ally, now on her knees, looked over at Liz. Ally started to crawl towards Liz, who was gasping for breath with eyes wide open. Liz seemed like she was trying to say something. But she couldn't get the words out. She had a look on her face not of panic, but of fear. Ally was the one panicking. Not breaking eye contact with Liz, she started to cry out "No, no, no!" repeatedly.

Mick grabbed Ally, who was slowly lapsing into shock. Pulling her behind a car he shouted "She's gone. We have to go. Now!"

Mick looked down the street and saw the gunman running towards his van. He looked around and didn't see anyone else, except for a few people who had now decided that the break in gunfire was a good time to run away. The feeling of fear, panic and paranoia was overwhelming. Mick had only one instinct left: flee.

*****

The Executioner watched the body cam footage from the grab team as it happened, and that was enough. Only one camera had captured Liz as she cut down The Executioner's team. He had to acknowledge that Liz was impressive...for a woman at least. But, he rationalized, the three dead men had been basically unarmed, or at least slow to draw their weapons. Nobody was expecting anybody but Mick, so the element of surprise went both ways.

The Executioner thought about what had happened a little more, deciding that it wasn't really that impressive once you removed gender from the assessment. He had talked himself out of being impressed.

The other two cameras offered good looks at Mick, which wasn't really necessary, and Ally, which was. The Executioner now had two main worries floating around his head. The first was that his reputation would take a hit. If this incident eventually got, it would be hard to argue that he had prepared the team adequately, even if the three dead men were unknown to him – having been hired by his Latin America contact. That man had escaped with the empty van and would soon be calling.

The other main worry was the identity of the two women. Were they with Blue Team? The sense that Blue Team may be on to him was deeply unsettling. Were they out to get him, or were they merely trying to help Mick escape? A few debt collectors had been killed in the last year, and The Executioner had no idea who was behind the killings. Furthermore, the thought of being shot by a woman was worrying. What would people say about him? Shot dead by some angry chick? Blue Team was known to use women for operations, and The Executioner thought about how he would navigate daily life worrying about every woman who walked by, in addition to the men he was already suspicious of. But mostly he worried about what people would think of a man shot dead by a woman.

Finally, the last of the body camera videos feeds arrived. It gave a clear view of only one thing: Liz getting shot and then struggling to breathe while she lay on the sidewalk. The Executioner was bothered by this. He couldn't put it in words, but something about the scene troubled him. He thought about it.

Then it came to him: he had never seen a woman die before.

*****

Mick sat down on the bed in the by-the-hour rental hotel room. The room was so small and the wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom was so cheaply built that he could hear Ally sobbing, even with the water running in the shower. The pity that Mick felt for Ally was causing him some confusion. He was feeling, at the same time, both anger at being used as some pawn in a very dangerous operation, and sympathy for Ally, with a touch of regret and shock at the death of Liz, who had definitely saved his life.

Mick slowly crept towards the realization that he knew what he wanted to do. He would stick with Ally and he would genuinely try to help her. He wanted the situation to be resolved permanently. He knew he couldn't live every day fearing a kidnap.

But first, he needed to get high. And the crying was really starting to bother Mick. He had to get some fresh air, which he would find on his way to purchase some marijuana from the closest bodega or drug kiosk. Mick sketched 'be back in 30 minutes' on the door screen pad and quietly headed out.

One hour and thirty minutes later Mick returned with his weed, two bags full of groceries and a gallon of sugar cane juice. He looked at the back of the door and saw that his message was replaced by a note from Ally that read 'Back in 4 to 6 hours. If I don't return by 6am then consider me dead.'

Usually Mick would consider this type of message somewhat overly dramatic, but under the circumstances it now seemed quite normal. So he settled in to his food and streamed a documentary on his phone about debt runners who live in Jakarta. It seemed quite nice, especially once it became clear that most Indonesians under the age of forty spoke English and weren't racist, at least not towards white people. Mick had no intentions of talking to old people or visiting the hell-hole tourist trap that was Bali, so he was set. Indonesia appeared to be a place where he could make a life for himself.

*****

Mick woke up when Ally walked through the door at around 3am.

Ally looked over at Mick and asked "You still here?"

"Uh huh. I have the strangest feeling that sticking with you might be the best choice. That's how bad my options are."

Ally didn't acknowledge Mick's answer. She sat down on her bed and looked at the weed on the nightstand.

"Anything added to that that I should know about?"

"Nope. Straight organic cannabis. Nothing synthetic or habit inducing."

Mick handed an aluminum can and his lighter to Ally.

"This is a classy pipe, Mick."

Ally was quiet while she smoked. She said nothing. She focused on the thrift store painting of an old Spanish Mission on the wall above the television, which was showing helmet cam combat footage from one of the many small war zones around the world.

Mick had the sense not to say anything annoying. But after about ten minutes he asked "Were you off making new arrangements or plans?"

She paused before answering "No. There were already several back-up plans. It's already arranged."

"So where were you?" Mick asked, in the most non-confrontational tone possible.

Ally didn't answer. She took another pause – much longer this time, and then she slowly and quietly said "She wasn't an intern. She wasn't an apprentice or on some indentured contract. I wasn't her boss. We were partners. We worked together for six years. I loved her like a..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

Ally put her gun on the nightstand and slipped under the blanket fully clothed and with her shoes on. She leaned over and turned off the light.

*****

Mick walked out of the bathroom after showering and found Ally wide awake. She was sitting up in the bed, staring at the painting again. She took one long breath and then exhaled slowly. Only glancing briefly at Mick she asked "Can you be ready to go in ten minutes?"

It wasn't a question or a request. So Mick answered in the affirmative.

Ally grabbed the paper notepad on the table and wrote 'You can keep this' in Spanish. She placed it next to her gun and her phone.

"Mick, scrub your phone and leave it here."

Mick went into his phone settings and, after confirming several voice recognition passphrases, deleted all his data. Slightly bemused, he asked "You think the cleaning lady will appreciate the gun?"

"Probably. I paid $1200 for it."

Ally then wrote a second note and placed it under her gun. It read 'I paid $1200 for this. You can get at least $600 for it.'

"So you are now some sort of weaponized humanitarian hand-out organization for oppressed Central American cleaning ladies?" Mick asked with a smile and a joking tone.

Ally smiled back, but only a little. She found Mick somewhat less annoying. But Mick had another, more serious, question.

"Your gun is empty. What happened to all the bullets?"

"I put them all in the guy that shot Liz."

Ally didn't add any details, leaving Mick to wonder how she tracked him down in only a few hours. He also thought about how that scenario would have played out: Ally going straight to a guy who, when last seen, was carrying a Kalashnikov, and then killing him. The guy was, as far as Mick could figure, some sort of kidnap or hit team specialist. And Ally's first thought was to immediately chase the guy down in an unfamiliar town. She was continually rising in his estimation. He was now confident that she knew what she was doing and that she was his best chance for survival.

*****

Mick was in a good mood, especially after Ally told him that Plan B would be to take a sailboat to Cuba. He had been there once before and it was good fun. It was also a safe place for a debt runner trying to hide their face: people with tech enhancements, including audio or visual surveillance implants, were turned away at the airport if they were dumb enough to come to Cuba with any sort of enhancements. Those with implants were actually welcome to enter Cuba, but they and their baggage had to first go through a zapping booth – basically a box that runs an unpleasant electric current through your body, destroying your implants. If you had an implant that was vital to your life support, then Cuba wasn't for you. It was a nice relaxing Luddite anti-tech holiday spot, aside from a few minor issues.

As well as its attitude towards audio and video recording devices embedded onto people, Cuba was also known for casinos, brothels and Haitian-Dominican hemorrhagic fever (also known as 'Cubola'). Evangelical leaders throughout Cuba enthusiastically spread rumors that Cubola was sexually transmitted, and that you could get it even if you used a condom. The truth, according to the The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Spokane, Washington, was that you could catch Cubola from toilet seats, door knobs and handshakes. Furthermore, the natural reservoir for Cubola was not prostitutes, as claimed by Church leaders, but rather pigeons.

And despite the name, you would be perfectly safe in Haiti or the Dominican Republic. The disease was endemic only to Cuba. The casinos in Cuba had bribed the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to name it after their Caribbean neighbors in order to not scare away gamblers. Unfortunately for the casinos, a virtual reality immersion sharing forum that specialized in East Asian comic porn (and radical pro-cyborg tech implant libertarianism) started a campaign to informally rename the virus 'Cubola.' The campaign against the anti-tech Cubans was successful. As for the virus, there hadn't been a serious outbreak in three years, which was reassuring. However, the fatality rate was 73%, which was somewhat less reassuring.

Chapter Four

The Executioner, like all normal people, hated Los Angeles. But, technically, his rental car was driving him to somewhere in Orange County, not that anyone bothered to make the distinction anymore – it was now all one big wretched Third World mega-city. Its dysfunction was, however, the main attraction for the man in charge of the debt collector network that The Executioner worked for.

While the debt collectors in The Executioner's network were, on paper, independent contractors that got paid per successful client, the man at the top was still indispensable to them. His contacts inside the American government and various overseas police forces kept the supply of clients flowing. However, this man, known only as Marv, was wary of the protection he enjoyed from certain individuals within the government. He knew that if he lost this protection and wasn't able to purchase a new high level friend, he may find himself in prison for 20 years.

And this was where Los Angeles came into the picture. This city was beyond the reach of American federal law enforcement, and the California state government had not been a relevant force in Los Angeles for quite some time. As for the city government, it was too busy with managing an increasingly difficult city to assist federal or state authorities. So Marv was quite happy to make his home here.

Unfortunately for the debt collectors, Marv was very old-fashioned and he liked meeting face-to-face with them. This meant they had to regularly visit Los Angeles and choke on its pollution while wading through what felt like, at times, a war zone.

The Executioner looked out the car window and wondered what would kill him first: the traffic, the extreme pollution, or a stray bullet. More likely it would be some infectious disease, as relatively few people in Los Angeles had been vaccinated for anything in a quite a few years. The combination of impoverished and uneducated Latin American migrants with no access to health care and the over-educated white pseudo-intellectual underclass who believed that vaccines were a corporate plot resulted in Los Angeles being the worst city outside of Africa for outbreaks of a variety of diseases, plagues and viruses.

But The Executioner didn't know anything about that. He never bothered to research his trips to Los Angeles. He only made short trips from the airport to wherever Marv was living at the time, and then back to the airport for a quick escape from the city.

At Marv's ugly and oversized house, the door was answered by yet another strange and beautiful woman of indeterminable ethnicity who spoke English haltingly. She seemed nice. Smiling, the lady of unknown origin introduced herself.

"I Marv's girlfriend, Rebecca. Marv in office. You want beer?"

"I'll trade you a few pronouns and an indefinite article for that beer, thanks," joked The Executioner, taking advantage of the knowledge he had gleaned from the very helpful remedial English app 'An Introduction to English Grammar for Learners of Bahasa Indonesian Grammar, 7th edition.'

Not getting the joke, but laughing politely at what she hoped was something light-hearted, she ran off to fetch The Executioner's beer.

The Executioner walked into Marv's office and greeted him warmly.

"Hey Marv."

"Hey man, welcome back to the Land of the Free."

On the desk was an old plaque. The Executioner read it out loud.

"Department of Student Loans, Kidnap & Ransom. 2022 MVP. Marv the Impaler."

"Yeah, one of the guys I worked for ages ago had it made for me as a joke. It was an employee of the year sort of thing," said Marv. "Don't worry, I didn't actually impale anybody. It was just a nickname. We were civilized back then...all we did was harass student loan defaulters and their families over the phone and online. But you like it? Jealous?"

"Yeah, but I want mine with an Oxford Comma."

"Don't start with your fancy words," laughed Marv. "You're from an even smaller town than me."

"Right. I'll stick to grunts and barks. But that plaque, it doesn't need the date on it. That joke is old."

"Yeah, I know. Nobody at the time thought we would actually literally kidnap and ransom people. The guy who made it was sort of, like, able to see stuff in the future that didn't happen yet. There's probably a big fancy word for that sort of thing. Anyways, head out onto the veranda. Everyone else is already here. Grab a beer from the fridge and join the guys outside."

"Your girlfriend or new wife or whatever is getting one for me," said The Executioner.

"Oh yeah, helpful isn't she?"

"Yeah. Where's she from?"

"She's, uh, from Indonesia. You should surprise her and speak Indonesian with her!"

"I'm pretty sure she's not Indonesian. Like 100%," said the now bemused Executioner.

"Yeah, she moved there from Vietnam for some dumb reason."

The Executioner walked into the kitchen to investigate the status of his beer and found Rebecca rifling through various drawers. On the counter were several different brands of beer lined up and unopened. Smiling widely and apologizing she said "Sorry. Maybe Marv's friends take bottle opener."

"That's OK. I'll take the Mexican bottle. It's a twist off cap."

"I'm so sorry," she said, again apologizing.

The Executioner opened his beer and asked "So, Rebecca, where are you from?"

"Vietnam. But I lived in Indonesia for four years. Then my husband there divorce me. I run away with my daughters. Now I married... Now I am married to Marv. But Marv does not want my children. They live in Vietnam with grandma. I send them money."

It was the type of explanation that The Executioner had become used to while traveling through various parts of Asia: complete, blunt, honest, and often quite sad. Rebecca – certainly not her real name – was a cliché. She was too young and too pretty for the now wrinkling and increasingly haggard Marv. But it was a relationship of convenience that probably worked out well enough for everybody involved. Divorced women did not fare well in Asia.

The Executioner, taking leave of Rebecca, walked out onto the deck and saw only one familiar face – one that he didn't particularly like. The man he recognized, known merely as Tim, was wearing a thick beard and a shaved head – as if he was coordinating his looks with his old friends who were still working as mercenaries. He was the regional coordinator for Europe and he was terrible at finding people. Tim relied heavily on corrupt police and local private investigators to do his work for him. The Executioner was far better at mixing with expat communities and slowly figuring out who the runners were.

Tim was just as ugly on the inside as on the outside. He had a reputation for being pointlessly cruel to runners. This had the result of debtors now avoiding the parts of Europe where Tim had good local investigators. The Executioner considered him unprofessional and totally lacking in creativity.

A second man whom he had never seen before was busily talking to Marv. The new guy had the look of an unsuccessful real estate agent or a successful lawyer. The Executioner avoided eye contact with him.

Marv looked up and didn't waste any time.

"So, tell us about Burma."

The group looked at him like it was an interrogation. The Executioner was worried that they may know about the failed side operation in the Yucatán.

"Two successful; one wasn't," said The Executioner. "You got the money for the first two and I'm sure you saw the video for the third."

"I saw two videos," said Tim, vaguely.

"OK. You saw the video where I didn't use a bag. What's the other video you saw?"

Tim put his phone on the table and stretched out the screen. A video started to play. A runner was kneeling on a concrete floor with a bag over his head. And then what looked like The Executioner walked on screen from the side and swung a steel bar into the runner's head. The video ended.

"That's not me. Why is he wearing my gear?" exclaimed The Executioner.

The Executioner was deeply upset by this video. He owned that identity. He wore those clothes. He put on those gloves. He used a length of steel construction reinforcement bar. This imposter was stealing his identity. He was trading on the identity that The Executioner had worked so hard to build.

"Don't worry about it. You're like a famous luxury brand; this guy's a knock-off product," offered Marv. "I'm surprised this sort of thing hasn't happened sooner. Anyways, he's no threat to our business. And I don't think that he's a threat to you. But we'll keep an eye on things, and if we get any more info, you'll be the first to know."

"Yeah, this guy is my first priority," said The Executioner.

"Well, don't worry too much about him," said Marv.

"OK."

It was not OK. The Executioner was deeply angry and wanted to focus all of his attention on this imitation executioner. He wanted this problem fixed now. Nothing had been going right for him lately, from the failure to get the runner in Burma to pay out, to the failed attempt to grab Mick in the Yucatán.

Marv didn't seem too worried about The Executioner's problems as he busily made notes in pencil on his paper notepad. Marv was big on paperwork; from operations details to contact info to future budgeting. Marv dealt with data security by never using computers for business. He had no online trails to follow. He had no computer files to steal. He had no records to download. Instead, his office had the feel of the 1950s. And his most important records sat locked in an office safe built on technology from that same era. If anybody wanted to hack Marv, it would have to be with a knife in his back.

Marv sat silently for a few seconds before declaring "So, that's your business. Now onto business that's relevant to everyone."

He turned to the unnamed man who had been sitting silently and said "Rich, can you introduce yourself and repeat the basics of the deal to the guys? I understand everything now, but I don't think I could put it in words myself."

"Sure, no problem. My name is Rich. I have a last name just like you guys. And like you guys, my company has no name. But what we do is lobby the government in DC, inasmuch as they are still relevant. We have many clients who do work overseas, just like you. Long story short, your business thrives on runners being stripped of citizenship and on American embassies and consulates overseas denying consular services to Americans who are in the process of defaulting on their debts. However, you all have been riding in the wake of the big loan collection companies who operate domestically. It is their lobbying that stripped debtors of citizenship and legal protections. However, the overseas market has not been a focus of these companies for a while. So my job is to keep on top of the members of the Foreign Affairs Committees in the House and in the Senate. There is talk of restoring citizenship and consular services to debtors as a way to get them back home where the big debt collection companies have a much better chance to get them to start paying. It would be an amnesty. Good tactic for the big guys, but bad for you."

"I imagine the big players' pull with the politicians is a hundred times stronger than anything we could do. How the hell are we – or Marv rather – supposed to compete with these companies?" inquired The Executioner.

"Well, getting runners to return to the US is a tiny part of their prospective business, but a huge part of yours. It's like a fox and rabbit thing. They are running for their dinner, you are running for your life. Or rather, let's just say they probably won't put much effort into this thing, and they won't lean too hard on the committee members. So we merely have to take care of these rats in Congress. They will gladly feast at our table right after feeding from the big boys. But what our strongpoint is – my company's strongpoint, not yours – is public relations and media manipulation."

The Executioner laughed, noting the obvious, "Our reputation can't get any lower. You are not seriously suggesting trying to sell our image to the public are you?"

"Yeah, he's not talking about debt collection anymore," said Marv, cutting in to the conversation. "You missed the last meeting. We are doing some expansion into new growth areas. That's why Rich is here."

The Executioner then realized what he had briefly forgotten: that he was still only a very successful debt collector, not a regional manager. He opened another beer, asking "So, what's this new growth area?"

Everyone looked to Marv. He looked directly at The Executioner and said "We sort of already discussed this last year. It's about moving the female runners to Dubai and the other Gulf Arab cities."

"Oh, the white slavery thing? I'm not too keen on that," said The Executioner.

"Listen, you were invited to the last meeting," said Marv. "We said it was important. But it wasn't to consult you on what sort of new business opportunities we can find. It was to offer you a chance to keep your head above water. The truth is...the debt collection business is in decline. You know this. But we can pick up work by moving girls to the Gulf Arab countries. You would be the best person to handle exports from Southeast Asia. And as a regional manager, not just as a debt collector."

Marv was right. The debt collection business was in decline. The main problem was not a shortage of debtors. The problem was that the overseas debt collectors had become too effective in catching runners. And The Executioner's video uploads had had a very strong deterrent effect. Many debtors were now resigned to staying in America and giving up on the option of living overseas, especially as that meant living with the constant fear of being caught or executed. As for those who continued to flee, they were generally more savvy than the earlier generations of runners. Blue Team was giving them good advice and helpful tools. Another American small-to-medium-sized business was being destroyed, as far as Marv was concerned.

"Right, OK," said The Executioner. "But Marv, here's my concern: you want to get into the business of selling white American girls on the slave market to Arabs? I know that some of the other debt collectors are already doing this occasionally. And I know what the other debt collectors are doing to the women when they catch them. Everybody knows this. There are videos being sold online. We can call it lies and slander, but nobody buys that. This will bring some seriously ugly attention that will raise our target profile."

"Sure. That's fair," interjected Rich. "Nobody buys that. But do they care? I don't think they do. It doesn't affect their job security. It doesn't affect their family. Whatever level of concern they are showing right now can be washed away with the right sort of messaging, to make sure it doesn't gain any traction."

"Messaging? What's the English translation for that buzz word?" asked The Executioner.

"OK. Let's first deconstruct this white slavery hysteria," said Rich. "First of all, the buyers are from many different races and religions. These people who are complaining, these internet and news commentators, they are motivated by Islamophobia. Why focus so much of their so-called anti-slavery campaign on Muslims? Their complaints are thinly disguised hate speech. Furthermore, nobody complains about all the Latina, black and Asian girls being sold. But when a single white girl decides on her own to go work as a prostitute in Arabia, everybody is all up in arms. This is simple racism."

"What?"

"Ridiculous, of course," said Rich. "But I can swing the FCC to sanction any of the smaller players who attack the trade in girls to the Middle East. Their criticism is Islamophobic racism and slander against American allies, etcetera, etcetera. It will never get on TV. If it's on the American internet it gets fined and exiled. If it's coming from the foreign internet it gets blocked. Simple. And we've already had some great articles published on countering the white slavery myth. Journalists are easy."

"Wait, you're threating the journalists or paying them?" asked The Executioner.

"Both," replied Rich. "The deal is..."

"Sorry," cut in Tim, "what is the FCC?"

"It's the Federal Communications Commission," replied Rich. "They are God's representative on TV, the internet and in virtual reality, as far as viewers and producers of content should be concerned. They can shut you down for slander or racism or expressing views that harm the American economy. So, uh... where was I?"

"The journalists."

"Yeah, the journalists. We can threaten them with our friends in the FCC. But that's the stick. The carrot is that we commission articles by journalists. They are cheap. Really cheap. And desperate. We pay them for two weeks work what you would get in one day. We already bought our first cycle of articles and social media attention. I sent the campaign to Marv. Lots of stories, commentary and secondary mentions on social media. It's moving well enough. Basically, to sum it up for you, we bought a bullshit story that says we have worse slavery here at home, everybody knows it, the American girls are willingly working overseas, etcetera."

Tim cut in, asking "What about that documentary from that European filmmaker? That was brutal. I watched it last night while doing research. The testimony from the American girls who had been rescued by that humanitarian organization was pretty convincing. Shit, I wanted to bomb the entire Persian Gulf after watching that. That was slick. Good production value. But, well...I already wanted to bomb the Persian Gulf for no reason anyway, so I'm not sure how effective it was."

"Sure, sure," conceded Rich. "We're working on our next cycle of the media campaign. The story is pretty much ready. We are saying that those girls in the documentary went willingly and independently to pay off debts. We are gathering testimonies of their promiscuity and prostitution. We have combed their old social media for images of them in skimpy clothes, drinking, putting their hands all over random guys. One of them even had some nude photos – that's perfect. One was sued in college for making a rape allegation. They've got baggage. Consider their reputations trashed."

"Why so much focus on trashing these women?" asked The Executioner. "Anyways, besides that, we target runners. These women probably weren't even running from debt. I saw that documentary. Only one of those girls was in debt, and she still had a couple of years before we, or others, could legally target her for full collection. She was in the earliest stages of default."

Tim laughed out loud, asking "Are you serious? Dude, you smash in people's skulls. You are brutal. You spill their brains out onto the concrete floor of random abandoned industrial facilities in whatever third world country. And now you are some humanitarian, all worried about women's rights? We all know that you avoid targeting female runners for collection. As if they are allowed to get away with destroying the American economy just because they are weak and vulnerable girls?"

"He's right," added Marv. "You are so brutal to the extreme with the guys, and then you let women off the hook. You kept turning down female clients until I quit sending them your way. And you don't seem to look for any on your own. You could have doubled your take if you would work with women like everybody else does. Why do you think that you are still not a regional manager even though there is an open slot in Southeast Asia?"

"Fine, say what you want," said The Executioner, with minimal effort. "I think that women should be treated differently."

"You're a dinosaur. Women's equality means that women get treated the same as men," laughed Tim.

"Someone should sell you into sexual slavery, Tim. You would probably enjoy it."

Marv decided it was time to stop a fight from starting.

"Long story short is that there are not enough debtors to go around," he said. "And there are not enough female debt defaulters on the run to support a business that focuses on moving girls to Dubai. In particular, not enough young and pretty ones. Young, _white_ and pretty ones. The guys in the Persian Gulf are just such racists. So...listen, any girls working overseas are fair game. They left America, they left their rights behind. They abandoned this country. In my view they abandoned their citizenship. Simple."

Marv again looked directly at The Executioner and asked "You in?"

"Did you just say that we will be targeting girls who are in the early stages of default? And not only the ones that are in full default?"

"Yes."

"I need to speak to my lawyer, the Indonesian one. I'll see the legal ramnifications or ramifications...or whatever. If I'm going to be traveling all over Southeast and East Asia I need to know what the legal liabilities are for me."

"Fine," said Marv. "Let us know by the end of the month. Otherwise, you can continue with the debt collection for as long as you can squeeze some money out of that. But we'll have to find a regional manager, so this job offer has a time limit."

Tim, still looking to provoke The Executioner for his own amusement, mockingly asked "Hey Marv, can we rewind the conversation a bit? We need to focus on getting our friend to acknowledge his deep-seated racism against Muslim customers who just want to buy American."

"Tim, how many Muslims did you 'evacuate' from France?" asked The Executioner, using his fingers to indicate scare quotes on the 'evacuate' euphemism.

"Not enough. Not enough, man. But seriously, I have no problem with Muslims living in Muslim countries. But they were asked nicely to leave France and they reacted violently. And now I have a French passport and twelve apartments in Marseilles," said the smiling Tim. "If they had left when they were asked to, they could have sold those apartments, not left them empty and free for me."

"You were a volunteer?" asked Rich.

"No. Mercenary. I got paid in Euros, French citizenship and spoils of war," stated Tim matter-of-factly. "I'm not like the new class of war tourists. God, I hate volunteers. It used to be that you had to fight in your own country's wars first and get some experience. But now you can fight in whatever war you want. Any idiot can. And I don't mean like private security and whatever, because those guys can shoot straight. I mean whatever dodgy random dude who read some stuff on the internet and wants a cause to join."

"What do you mean, exactly," asked Rich.

"Like, for example, I know a guy who fought in some place in Africa," said Tim. "I can't remember the name – it's all Kalashnikovs and bananas to me. He went there because he believed the diamond mining industry and some government death squads were killing villagers. So he goes and joins the resistance. He had never even served before. Not even like the National Guard or law enforcement or anything. So he was online all the time at first, posting pics of himself with all these black militias dudes like some big celebrity: the crazy white guy who wants to fight in Africa for no pay."

"Sure," said The Executioner, "just like the guys who went to fight in the Balkans as volunteers. And not like the war criminals who got paid by the French government to toss little Muslim kids into the Mediterranean."

The Executioner actually couldn't have cared less about Europe's ethnic cleansing of Muslims. He was only trying to bait Tim in to getting angry.

"Exactly. You'll really like the ending now..." said Tim. "So, the photos...the online war-selfie fest slowed down. Then nothing. He wasn't a really close friend so I figured, whatever, I guess he's dead. But he wasn't. He turns up back in Europe looking for work. So I meet up with him, not that I've got work for a guy as unstable as that. And you know what he told me? He tells me that this village liberation organization militia he joined turned out to be ten times as bad as the government. Basically, it was a mix of crystal meth and cannibalism. It was the most insane horror story I've ever heard. Refugees wanted to flee towards government-controlled areas ASAP. The diamond mine death squad stories were total BS. It was actually some weird tribal, anti-government criminal drug war thing where the rebels had forgot what the conflict was actually about in the first place. So I figure that he's learned his lesson. But no he hasn't."

"Did he go back to Africa?" asked Rich.

"No. He flew to Bulgaria or Romania or somewhere to whatever country is unfortunate enough to share a border with Greece. Then he slipped across the border to some really lame overweight version of Sparta to join an insane Christian crusader militia - one of those outfits that go into combat carrying those ridiculously heavy Highlander swords that they only ever use to execute prisoners. So he's now posting pics from...I don't know where – Bosnia or the Former Macedonian Republic of Greece or wherever. Total idiot. He's got some medieval monk haircut and he paints a cross on his forehead. He spends his holidays decapitating Albanian villagers or Turkish soldiers or Arab refugees or something, I don't know. Completely hilarious."

The Executioner had quit listening part way through Tim's story. He excused himself and went to the kitchen for another beer. He then decided that he would rather drink by himself in the kitchen. There he could just barely hear the conversation continuing on the deck. But it was quiet enough.

Rebecca entered the kitchen. Smiling, as always, she asked "How long you will be in Los Angeles for?"

"I leave tomorrow morning. To Vietnam, actually. I have some business there."

Rebecca's broad smile widened even more.

"Where in Vietnam? What city?"

"I'll be in Ho Chi Minh City for about ten days. I have to train some of Marv's new local contractors."

Rebecca's smile had now reached its maximum.

"That's my home! Please, you can visit my mother? Can you bring her my gift? And gifts for my daughters?"

Courier services would be far quicker and way more accurate, and not at all expensive. But The Executioner didn't bring up that fact. He couldn't say no to Rebecca's smile, which now suddenly seemed far more genuine. He agreed.

Rebecca returned from her room with a small wooden box in her hands.

"I will get your number from Marv," said Rebecca. "I will send you my mother's address and my mother's messenger ID. Use translator app on your phone. She doesn't speak English. My daughters, they are learning in school. They can maybe speak a little bit. My mother has lot of energy. She will take you to the good places. Not to the bad tourist places."

The Executioner smiled and took the box from Rebecca. It was the first time he had smiled in a while. Walking back out onto the veranda, his smile disappeared.

Chapter Five

Mick was tremendously disappointed with the sailboat. In his mind he was to have been put to use busily scrambling around winching up sails and learning to tie knots. Instead, the engine was put to use for the entire trip, with speed being the priority – not Mick's sailboat dreams, now crushed under the weight of diesel fumes and calm seas.

As for the travel companions, Mick had memorized the basic fake facts and fictional relationship connections between himself, Ally and the quiet couple on whose yacht they were catching a Plan B ride. There were no bulk quantities of drugs on board, so any interrogation by a long-distance American coast guard patrol would be brief. But Mick didn't take his task of memorizing the made-up story too seriously, nor did he take the yacht couple seriously. Apparently, in real life their new travel companions were anarchist sympathizers who wanted to do their part. Mick figured this was typical: wealthy white leisure class couple with revolutionary leftist sympathies. On a yacht. Heading to Cuba.

Ally sat down next to Mick on the deck and asked "You familiar with Cuban port of entry practices?"

"Yup. Anonymous one month visa on arrival for $500 that can be redeemed with a voucher that shows you bought and lost at least $500 worth of chips at a casino."

"I was thinking more about the zapping booths."

"Oh, that."

"You have implants?"

"Yeah, I have an appetite suppressor implant."

"I don't think it's functioning, Mick."

"It is. It's only set to kill my appetite after 7pm for a few hours."

"Well, consider it fried. I hope you don't get too fat."

"I don't know, Alison. The casinos have lots of really cheap seafood."

"Well, you can swallow another implant in the departure lounge of the Havana airport, so you have only a week or so to get fat."

Mick was concerned about the airport departure. Skeptical, he asked "Is that deal with anonymous departure legit? We're coming in on a boat, but leaving into international airspace is a bit more serious."

"Yes. Definitely. $1000 cash and they don't enter your name in the European or American systems as you go through exit customs."

"Plus $500 for a new implant. Bastards."

"Well, be grateful that tech implants are banned. You should be happy to see that ridiculous 'No Cyborg' sign at arrival customs. You know that if it wasn't Cuba, then some idiot with an implant in their hair or eyebrow or nose ring would unintentionally record video and audio of you and then upload it later. I would give you about 24 hours before an instant match is made to your face or voice."

"Yeah, I've got a list of no-go countries that allow recording implants. I just wish they wouldn't zap my stomach implant. It's harming no one."

"Well, they have to zap everything to be sure."

"Have you been in a zapping booth before?" he asked Ally.

"A hundred times – at least."

"This will only be my fifth time. We don't need them in Mexico," said Mick. "The first time, which was not that long ago, scared the hell out of me. My friends were laughing saying that the electrical current hurts way more than they advertise. By the time I got in the booth I was freaking out. I thought it was going to be like

on the street in Cancún."

Mick realized that he had brought up what could be a traumatic memory. Fearing that he had put his foot in his mouth, he sat silently and looked out over the water, hoping that the moment would pass.

"Mick, you think I'm fragile, don't you?"

"No. I think you're a mean bitch."

Ally smiled and then playfully punched Mick in the arm. It was harder than Mick was expecting.

*****

Ally walked down from one of the women-only rooms at the hostel in Havana and found Mick in the courtyard finishing an extra large guava milkshake and eating some mysterious round fried objects.

"What are you eating?"

_"Papas rellenas_."

"Stuffed potatoes?"

"Sort of. The Cuban style is mashed potatoes with meat and other stuff in the center, then deep fried."

"Other stuff?"

"Veggies, maybe. I'm not sure. But probably not."

"You're going to get scurvy eventually."

"That's what the fruit shakes are for," Mick said, shaking his shake at Ally.

"Feel yourself getting fatter? Has the self-loathing set in yet?"

"Nope. But I'm concerned about you. Your hair and your clothes are different. That blouse is quite loose, and actually fashionable – especially considering that you're American. Are you covering a new baby bump or a recent weight gain? "

"You actually like my new look?" asked Ally.

"Well, the American college girl beach look had to go. Now you look like a European, or a particularly fashionable grad student."

"I guess you would know..."

"About Europeans?"

"No, grad school," said Ally.

"Ah, yeah. What I meant to say is that you don't look like an American undergrad anymore."

"I look older?"

"A decade at least. You're growing old with grace."

"You aren't."

"I'm not what?" asked Mick.

"Growing old with grace," replied Ally.

"Doesn't matter. I'm a guy. We have longer shelf lives. I mean, it looks like there's a fifteen year age difference between us, with me being your senior, obviously. But everyone here probably thinks that we're a couple."

"Well, up until the point where I go back to the women's dorm room."

"Yeah, what's up with that?" asked Mick. "Why aren't we staying in a nice hotel and sharing a big bed to protect our cover as a happy vacationing couple?"

"Well, for one, I'm more man than you. It would be awkward. Also, this is Cuba. We don't need a cover. I could go out in the street and loudly pledge my loyalty to Insurrectionary Anarchism and not a single person would care."

"So this country is like some sort of anarchist paradise?"

"No. Not even close."

"So a libertarian paradise then?"

"No," said Ally emphatically. "This whole deal with the zapping booths and the ban on eye glasses in public places, it's all in service of government control and revenue generation. It's not for reasons of libertarianism and privacy. It's for reasons of control over the locals and to make a nice environment for the shady tourists who come here to gamble and hang out in brothels."

"Hmm. Clear as mud. Repeat that again, please. And in a language that a person who's not an anarchist wannabe can understand."

Ally was getting exasperated, and Mick was probably just baiting her, but she had the energy and patience – for now – to offer a longer explanation. She also had nothing else to do.

"OK. For example, eye glasses with cameras in them. After they were introduced back in the day, they got banned in all sorts of places: in clubs, in the gym, in the classroom, at the beach, at some restaurants. But they weren't illegal there. They would just kick you out if you refused to take them off. And when the cameras became so small that they couldn't be noticed, the ban extended to all eye glasses. But then the cameras moved to places that were harder to notice, like your eyebrows."

"I'm still waiting for them to be implantable right in the eyeball," offered Mick, unhelpfully.

"Sure, give it another 25 years and you can have that. But you will be a second class citizen. You will be greeting by signs that say 'No Cyborg Losers' and by a zapping booth that will fry all your internal electronics. Say goodbye to your ridiculously expensive implant."

"You're killing my dreams, Alison."

"Good. But for now let's just kill your illusions... So implants that record audio and video make you unwelcome – but not illegal – in certain places, especially places where people want privacy. But when and where is it actually illegal?"

"Airports, government buildings, when talking to the police, that sort of thing," answered Mick.

"Exactly. All these so-called Privacy Laws are to protect authority figures," stated Ally. "The police love to record everything. And when they shoot or beat someone, their video equipment mysteriously malfunctions. But private citizens' recording gear always works perfectly. And that is a threat. It's a threat to corrupt and brutal police. It's a threat to politicians who whore themselves to lobbyists and don't want an audio recording from their free dinner at a 5-star restaurant to appear online. So what happened? We got the Privacy Laws. And who do these privacy laws protect? Police, government workers and politicians. Not you. You can be recorded at anytime. And the recording can be streamed or uploaded. But what happens if you upload a video of a cop beating someone? You go to jail for violating their constitutional rights. Record riot police? You are guilty of harassment and inciting a riot. Record and upload video of some nobody being a jackass in a club? No problem. Record and upload video of a politician's son being a jackass in a club? To jail you go."

"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to test your anarchist battle skills," said Mick. "I'm on board, why do you think I chose the Yucatán? I've been hiding for a while. Uploading video of someone there will result in a severe beating. It's just something people know not to do. Kids there grow up as if audio and video privacy is the 11th commandment. They don't need laws to tell them to not be jerks."

"Yes, but in the US we don't have an idea of privacy for everyone," said Ally. "We now have a caste system where it's OK to record and upload random citizens, but not authority figures or powerful people."

Mick paused for a second to think, then asked "And why do you not like Cuba's system?"

"Because it is so similar to the American system. They have different slogans, but the same content. The state spies intensively; the people can't do the same in return. We as tourists are given the privilege of being anonymous. We are allowed to pay for everything in cash, we have an anonymous tourist visa, and we can go to casinos, clubs and brothels and be sure that our image or voice won't be captured. We are in this hostel and the manager has no idea who we are. He only knows that we paid. But locals don't have any sort of privacy like we do. This whole system for foreigners is set up to boost tourism and to scoop up the tourists who are too shady to be allowed to visit a classy place. Now do you want to hear about how Cuba is economically unequal and exploitative?"

"No. When I went for food I saw the _nouveau riche_ yuppie larvae in their luxury cars and the street kids begging on the same street. It's clear enough."

"So you are developing a sense of social justice?" asked Ally.

"No, no. Not at all," replied Mick "I believe what Alexis de Tocqueville said: 'Every nation gets the government it deserves.'"

"Mick, that was Joseph de Maistre."

"Well. I at least narrowed it down to Frenchmen," said Mick, shrugging.

"de Maistre was a right-wing monarchist Frenchman who thought that the Pope should rule the world. Nice of you to reveal your true self, Mick."

"Well, you're no fun."

"Sorry, those are the facts."

"There are no facts, only interpretations."

"Mick, if you start quoting Nietzsche, I will personally inject you with Cubola."

"If I was in the unfortunate position where I was to be regularly subjected to your lecturing, I would inject the Cubola myself."

Ally scowled.

"You're not witty enough to have come up with that yourself. Who are you paraphrasing now, Mick?"

"Sorry. I don't know. But you're right; I'm stealing that from someone. Or recycling... whatever."

Mick and Ally then took a moment to enjoy the silence.

Mick's enjoyment of the silence soon ran out and he lightly kicked Ally under the table. He looked at her and said quietly "Don't look right away, just turn around casually and check out the guy over there."

Across the small courtyard was a tall and skinny young man with questionable style in clothing that may not be accepted as fashionable for at least another five years, if ever. With a furrowed brow, He was furiously punching away on a faux old-fashioned typewriter with his phone attached, screen spread wide. Mercifully, the typing of the plastic and metal keys was muffled.

"Maybe this guy is going to write the great novel of the 21st century?" guessed Mick. "That honor is still up for grabs. But I bet he'll at least write a best seller and make a ton of money, maybe even enough to pay off his loans for that Master of Arts in Critical Literature Studies. Maybe he's even the second coming of Ernest Hemingway. I mean, we're in Havana, right?"

"God, I could imagine a guy like you absolutely loving Hemingway in a hero-worship sort of way. He was such a real man, not soft and indecisive like today's men," said Ally, as drily as possible.

"What? Hemingway was a clown...and a fake."

"Seriously? He's not the real uber-man that all you types fawn over?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Mick with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Hemingway invented the Bloody Mary, he hunted Nazi submarines with his yacht, he braved war zones, etcetera, etcetera. But come on, really? Look at those ridiculous photos where he's posing with all his props, usually guns – typical of a guy who was never actually a soldier. Or that famous photo of him striking an old-school boxing pose with the gloves on? Hemingway says, and his supporters helped perpetuate the myth, that he challenged anybody and everybody on some island in the Bahamas to defeat him in a boxing match. Big cash prize. What a man-child fantasy: he defeated an entire island of black men! Everybody who wrote about Hemingway – all fans – didn't mention that the first half-competent guy to step into the ring kicked his ass. That fact was discovered way later."

"Oh, Mick! Your pursuit of truth is so noble," said Ally, far less deadpan than before.

"Yeah, whatever. But listen... Now, since at least, what, the 1990s, we can debunk people's BS with a crowd-sourced investigation online? If Hemingway was alive today we would have video of him getting spanked in the boxing ring. We would have surveillance footage of him senselessly attacking another writer in some publishing house. His ex-wives and one-night stands would have an outlet for their stories. He would be destroyed. People who saw him in war zones would be able to upload their thoughts on, what, maybe his cowardice, who knows? And his hunting in Africa? He probably had some Rhodesian guide hold his hand and walk him to some tethered cat to blast away at. It was probably somebody's pet lion. Back then, before the internet, you could create whatever image you or your publicist wanted. Whatever. The dude liked getting drunk and watching Spaniards kill cows while other Spaniards cheered. Anyways, the man was a good marksman at short range with a shotgun."

Mick had clearly rested his case.

Ally was not impressed.

"Mick, did you switch majors after half a semester of a Bachelor's in Literature? Because that was the worst critique of a writer that I have ever heard. You avoided his writing entirely and went straight for attacking the man. It was like the internet comment section of literary criticism."

"I love internet comment sections! I feel that, there, in that special place, I'm in my element."

"Mick, take your ADD meds!" laughed Ally. She was actually not annoyed with Mick. He was starting to grow on her.

"No, no. I'm focused. Hemingway, right. You know, I read _Old Man and the Sea_. I liked it. But I'm not sure about his other books. I've never read any of them."

Mick was silent for a while. Then he said, while avoiding looking Ally in the eyes, "Actually, I watched the film. I didn't read the book. A park in Mexico was playing classic movies for free at night during the summer. I watched a Spanish dubbed version of _Old Man and the Sea_. I was a little bit drunk because the beer vendor kept coming back to me and my friends because we were paying more than the locals. So that's maybe why I thought I read the book. I guess that's why I had such vivid images in my head."

Mick looked up and shrugged.

Ally was not surprised.

*****

The next morning a very tired Ally sat down at Mick's table in the café across from the hostel. She smiled. But not at Mick. Or rather, not because of Mick.

"How was last night? You seem like you didn't sleep much," noted the suspicious Mick.

"I went out with some of the girls in my room."

"Oh?"

"We bumped into the typewriter guy from the hostel at a restaurant after we went dancing."

"Ew, yuck. I've heard enough," said Mick.

"You know, he was a really nice guy."

Mick laughed. "He was a _nice guy_. You can't be any more brutal than that. Poor guy, did you let him down easily?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Ally, already exasperated after only twenty seconds of Mick.

"Calling a man, or a boy in this case, a _nice guy_ is, essentially, saying that you are not interested in him sexually or as a boyfriend or as a husband because he lacks confidence, looks and income. All you can say that is appealing about him is that he is a nice guy – a meek and timid boy who doesn't come across as threatening."

"You are so cynical, Mick. You know, he asked me about myself: my story, my dreams, what I like, my thoughts on life, that sort of thing. The things that you haven't asked me about the entire time we've been together."

"So he read a few tutorials on how to talk to girls. And he's not a socially dysfunctional autistic jerk."

"So does make you a socially dysfunctional autistic jerk?" asked Ally.

"Well, under the circumstances of our brief relationship, are you surprised at my behavior?"

"OK, fine. That's fair."

Both sides took this as a truce. But Ally was not done with her story.

"I told him about Liz," said Ally.

Mick didn't respond.

"We left the restaurant and went for a walk," she said. "And we talked for a few hours on the street. I didn't tell him any important details. I merely said that a good friend had been killed recently. We talked about all the good memories I had of Liz."

Mick tried to push the conversation away from its newfound serious tone.

"Did you talk about the great American novel that he's crafting?"

"No, we actually never talked about his writing."

"Really? Being a writer is probably the guy's main identity. You better let him tell his story to you today or he'll cry himself to sleep like all literary geniuses do."

"He left this morning."

"Well, that's that. Will you be talking to typewriter boy in the future?"

"No. His views on economic privilege are regressive."

"And...the Bolshevik is back. For a second there, Alison, I thought you were a regular woman."

"Bolsheviks were the opposite of anarchists, Mick," said Ally. "Well, one of the many opposites."

Ally had grown tired of Mick once again and shifted her attention to her coffee.

Mick squirmed in his seat and let out a deep breath.

"What?" asked Ally, sensing Mick had something important to say.

"My money is under attack. I grabbed a new secure phone yesterday and checked my accounts. They're frozen. Only the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes could do that. I'm not sure...I'm not sure if that's the doing of the Office on its own, or if your infiltrator friend has set that off to make me less independent and more reliant on you."

"It's not me, Mick. The Blue Team informant was doing internal surveillance and noticed that one of the more corrupt officers had been reaching out to debt collectors, trying to make money on the side. That's when she noticed your name. But more importantly, that's when she said that the info was being sold to The Executioner. I can't prove anything to you. But that's the truth."

Mick said nothing.

"How much of your money is frozen?"

"All of it. If any entity starts digging into my accounts, my money is automatically transferred and frozen in new accounts. Nobody except for some stupid algorithm knows where for about six months. Then I get my access back. Until then I'm living off the cash I took with me. It sucks, but it's the most secure way to store your money."

Ally let the conversation pause for while.

"You know, Mick, this is not going to go away. This guy is not going to stop. I think that The Executioner gets obsessed with targets and keeps after them no matter what the cost. That's his reputation, anyways... What I'm saying is this: I think you need to stick with Blue Team for a while. You need to go along with their plan. That's your best chance."

"Is that your opinion, or are you delivering me the communique of some internal revolutionary committee?" asked Mick.

"My opinion is pretty much the same. If I was you, I would want to get this guy off my back. We need to trap him. We _can_ trap him," said Ally. She paused, and then added "You are the best bait for that particular trap. That's the basic truth. We don't need an immediate answer, but within a week we need to..."

"Alison," said Mick, interrupting her, "I'll go along with this, and I'll go wherever. But on one condition..."

"OK, what's that?" asked Ally.

"We stick together. You stay with me until this thing is over."

"Oh Mick, I do believe you are developing feelings for me!" cooed Ally, in her best fake southern belle voice.

"Gross," he said. "That's just gross, Alison."

"Call me Ally, please."

Mick did his best not to smile.

Chapter Six

Ally sat uncomfortably at the table, not being used to the type of humidity that North Carolina had to offer in the dead of summer. The first of the three Blue Team representatives at the table, and the only man present, spoke: "Is this your first time in Asheville?"

"No. I stayed here once when I was a kid," answered Ally. "My family was going up to the Great Smokey Mountains. It was soon after we were forced to move east. But I remember it being nice and cool."

"Well, this is our first time here as well. And this is far less humid and hot than where I live. Anyways, locals are telling us that it's unseasonably hot right now... So, now that we've narrowed down the regions that we may or may not be from, let's get to discussing a few things," said the man.

The first woman spoke to Ally, in a friendly but business-like manner, "Can you update us on the situation with the Larson guy?"

"Sure, Mick...or rather Michael Larson, he's cooperating, but possibly only out of fear. He's not unsympathetic to our cause, but he's not anywhere near being supportive in any significant way. He's quite cynical and accepting of his fate within the system. That sort of thing..."

"Your plan?" asked the woman.

Ally pushed her chair away from the lunch table slightly and spoke, "We think that The Executioner feels at home in Indonesia. He has done a lot of work there – everybody knows that. He may even be based there. If not, then he must live nearby. My plan is to take Larson to Indonesia and then lure The Executioner there. I have a well developed plan for that."

"Will that look too much like a trap to The Executioner? Going straight to a country that may be home for him?"

"Lots of foreigners go to Indonesia. It's friendly to Americans, and it tolerates runners and debtors. It's actually a really good choice for a runner. I'm betting that The Executioner won't be too suspicious that Mick has chosen Indonesia as a place to flee to. Anyways, his greed will blind him. Greed blinds most people, in our experience," said Ally, hoping she didn't sound like she was trying to sell a product.

The second woman cut in and said "We agreed before you arrived that we would give you lots of leeway. You've made many aggressive decisions, and they've always been on mark. It's a thin line between a calculated risk and a reckless move. But you've proven yourself plenty of times. There was no way we were going to reject your plan, unless you lost your mind and proposed something insane. But this is fine. We don't need the exact details."

"Of course," said the man, "we didn't invite you here to interrogate you about a proposed operation. You've been approving most of your own work for quite a while now with no oversight."

The man paused briefly and then continued, "We were told that you lost your partner. I'm sorry. I was also told that you paid for a service to recover and repatriate her remains. Is that right?"

"Yes, I paid from my own pocket while I was in Cuba. The service I contracted had to pay off the local coroner in Mexico for her body. And then they flew it to her family in Arizona," added Ally, matter-of-factly.

"Did it cost more than $100,000?" asked the first woman.

"No. Commercial flights often carry remains between countries, so it wasn't too expensive."

"OK," said the first woman. "Withdraw from whatever account you want and pay yourself back."

The second woman leaned back in her chair and said, with no small amount of sympathy, "Listen, we are not supposed to know these sorts of small details, but we do. It's obvious that you've been working with the same person for quite some time now. We don't know her; we don't know her name. But we know that you two were close. We are truly sorry. Do you want to take some time off?"

"No. In fact, I want to get to Indonesia as soon as possible. The longer Mick sits in Havana, the more likely he'll change his mind and run off," said Ally.

"Right," said the first woman, "then that takes care of all operations issues. But again, that's not why we invited you here."

"I'm cycling out of the committee position," announced the second woman. "I'm taking a new job in the government. It's a position from where I can help Blue Team more than I can while sitting here on the leadership committee. So we want you to take over my spot. That will make you one of three equals at the top of Blue Team."

Ally sat silently for a few seconds, and then spoke softly, saying "You know that over on the Insurrectionary Anarchist side of things, that we've killed a lot of people, right? And that we will continue to kill? I'm fully committed to that."

"You know," said the man, "when I joined the committee, there was an anarchist who had been on board for quite a while already. And he was about ten years your senior. His body count was far and above anything that you kids come up with these days. So don't worry, we're not squeamish. We don't faint at the sight of blood. There are torturers and murderers occupying every sort of post in our government, so why shouldn't the opposition have a few dangerous people?"

"How soon do you need an answer?" asked Ally.

"We would have liked one now," said the man. "But we can wait a few months. For now, you deal with the operations group for this Indonesia thing, not us. When you want to give us an answer, you know how to get us a message."

Ally thought silently about how much she did not really want to serve on the committee. The idea bored her. But the next thought that came to her mind did not bore her; she was now free to find and meet up with her anarchist cell.

*****

By the standards of industrially-damaged rivers, the pathetic blackish-brownish-green body of water that Ally and her fellow cell member walked next to was not so bad. Or rather, it was not as bad as it used to be, thanks mostly to there being no real industry left, neither in the Pittsburgh area, nor in western Pennsylvania at all. Ally was not impressed with the river, as she had spent her early childhood out west with, as she remembered, 'real rivers' that flowed quickly and seemed to come only in two colors: blue or crystal clear.

Ally glanced at the map on her phone briefly, checking their progress on the 13-mile riverfront walk.

Standing at the confluence of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers as they joined to form the Ohio River, Ally thought silently to herself, 'boring, boring, boring,' silently judging each of the three rivers.

Brady, the other cell member, pointed to yet another sign extolling the virtues of Pittsburgh. This particular sign read 'Zero violent crimes on the Riverfront Park since introduction of tolling system. Congratulations Pittsburghers!'

Brady frowned and added, "Yeah, no crime anymore because they charge an expensive entrance fee to walk by the river and because refugees, in addition to not being allowed to vote in local elections, are only allowed to come down here Tuesday and Thursday between 9am and 4pm."

"So...refugees are responsible for all the crime here?" asked Ally, though not in an accusing or judgmental manner.

"I won't lie – areas resettled by refugees do show a serious rise in rates of theft, assault, rape, and whatnot," said Brady bluntly.

"Hmm," added Ally, ending this line of conversation. She thought about her early days as a young anarchist and how Brady's comment denigrating refugees, whether true or not, would have led to a brawl and demands for punishments or an expulsion from the group. Now, all the long-time anarchists were jaded and had given in to describing the world as it was, with no regard to the sensitivities of the listener.

As for Brady's comment in particular, arguing over the refugee issue was pointless. Nearly everybody in America had made up their minds and the controversy was now hardened into two camps. The first wanted the refugees to go back to where they came from – the South and the Midwest. The other side was sympathetic to their plight and argued that freedom of movement within the United States was an inalienable right. Of course, refugee advocates seldom lived in neighborhoods that were candidates for hosting refugees.

Pittsburgh, its population having doubled in the last decade, was not the only city dealing with newcomers who were fleeing collapsed government, a destroyed economy, decaying services, crime and violence. All cities had their own approach. Here in Pittsburgh, the local government had decided several years before to introduce a strict system of residential, voting and visitor permits for the city and the surrounding suburban areas now under its control. Ally and Brady had easily secured temporary visitor permits. However, the third member of the cell had his request refused, as his profile was deemed too similar to that of a potential refugee. You should never admit to anyone that you are from Missouri. The third member of the cell knew that, but he was too stubborn and too proud of his home state.

The effectiveness of the permit system was made clear on the first day of Ally and Brady's informal planning sessions. They had to show their permits at the hotel, on public transport, in a supermarket and, randomly, once in the street to plainclothes police officers. It was not something that the average anarchist enjoyed. But Ally had become immune to this sort of document checking, having spent so much time overseas bearing the passport of an undesirable nationality.

"OK, break's over. Back to work?" stated Ally, picking up the pace of her walk.

Quickening his step and catching up to Ally, Brady made a proposal. "Can we get some of these unrealistic requests out of the way now?"

"Which ones in particular? Half the ones I read last night from your people were beyond ridiculous. Are you talking about that Massachusetts cell?"

"Yeah, those ones," answered Brady. "I'll hold my thoughts for now, what do you think?"

"Well, for one, their proposed targets are all human targets. They clearly have no desire whatsoever to do the unexciting but effective work. And not only that, the people they are choosing are..."

"The cool kids at school that ignored them?" added Brady quickly.

"Exactly," said Ally. "All they want to do is kill athletes, business executives, trust fund kids, and politicians. If you are popular, they want to kill you. I bet if they saw you on the street, Brady, they would want to add you to their list."

Brady laughed out loud again. Ally's last comment was understood without any more clarification needed between the two. Brady was tall, athletic, handsome, and dressed well – particularly for an American male. He could walk into any room and deploy his considerable charisma to subtly ingratiate himself to almost every single person there. Unfortunately for Brady, the anarchist recruits were still dominated by people who seemed to hate people like him at first sight, mostly out of resentment at their own social position and their imagination of where Brady fits within the hierarchy of American society.

"And that's not their only problem," continued Ally. "Even if we approved these hits, the way they want to go about doing it is unnecessarily elaborate. The plans are all gigantic media hungry drama stunts. It's almost guaranteed that something will go wrong. I mean, seriously? They want to set on fire some girlfriend-beating football player? During a game? On a live stream? And why does everybody want to set everybody else on fire all the time? Whatever happened to simply shooting someone in the face in an underground parking lot? Their plan will fail fifty different ways."

Brady laughed along, agreeing with everything that Ally was saying. Pausing to catch his breath, he said "Yeah, I told them already that I thought that plan was a bad one – amongst their many bad proposals. I'm wanting to counter their crazy plan with something proportionate and easy: grab the football player at gunpoint near his home and smash his knees on camera, and then upload the video with a message that this is what happens to guys who beat their girlfriends and wives."

"OK, done. I agree. But that message, I think it's a little too White Knight. I'm not sure...just make it simple. And no branding the guy's face with a hot iron like the one cell was doing. We should destroy his football career, but not make him unemployable for life. What's next?"

"Well, could I go ahead and reject most of the similar plans?" asked Brady.

"Definitely. But what do you want to do about the overall crappiness of their proposals?"

Brady thought for a few second and then said "How about we assign them some unpleasant homework? I was thinking that they need to get used to targeting a broader array of people. I'm getting quite weary of their usual choice of targets. They need to select an artist, an actor or some sort of lefty type person who is sexually abusive or who economically exploits those below them... But they may need to go to New York for that."

"Sure, sounds fine," replied Ally. "But make sure to add some infrastructure or system targets. You know, the grinding and unappealing stuff that the kids hate to do. Like...I don't know, maybe wrecking some government contractor equipment in a New Jersey warehouse, for example. Property insurance doesn't cover anarchist attacks, so make sure we claim it."

"OK. Done," agreed Brady.

"And aside from the corporate executives, athletes and professional frat boys that they want to kill and cripple," added Ally, "it's clear that these guys want to exclusively focus on symbolic and cultural targets. They need that desire to be beaten out of them, and quickly. Or at least balance it. If they propose something like...say, cutting the tongue out of an obscure right-wing talk show host, fire them – or make them match that by throwing a left-winger in the river at the same time. Maybe a professor who trades grades for sex with undergrads, for example. There are still plenty of those these days. And I'd say to have your cell throw someone off a building for having unpaid interns, but I think our Unpaid Internship Punishment Unit was way too effective. So for now, let this cell know that they are on the fringe. Their places are not guaranteed. You know how to handle that."

"I know, I've been pushing back a lot on them," said Brady. "But, you know this: our system is set up to reward initiative, creativity and aggression. They are worried that if they only do the quiet jobs, they will just languish forever at the bottom of the ladder."

"These kids need to read our history," said Ally, "to see what happened when we were infested with all those claw-your-way-to-the-top egomaniacs who all wanted to be famous and powerful and loved. It was a cesspool when I joined. It was like anarchists had become members of the Chinese Communist Party, or like the newest young MBA hire at an investment firm. The bootlicking, bureaucratic warlordism and backstabbing was atrocious. I only joined because I was ignorant, just like every other seventeen year old. We almost didn't recover from that period."

Ally couldn't help but to let her frustration show.

"Anyways," she added, "send them to New York for a while and watch their enthusiasm for corporate targets drop off when they see the sort of security that the Wall Street crowd goes around with. What are the other cells proposing?"

Ally and Brady continued their planning session as they crossed another bridge and chose the direction that would take the most time to walk. As they headed upstream, the various proposals were vetoed or approved, money and support was levied, and operational plans were discussed. All the cells they spoke of were nameless, along with their members. Brady only knew two others – the members of his regional cell. And even then he knew little of their lives, or even their real names. Rarely, Brady would meet with the lower level cell members, but only one-on-one and always with full anonymity precautions. Ally herself only knew about a dozen anarchists, and she wasn't even fully sure of the roles played by half of them.

The structure of the Insurrectionary Anarchist's network was not entirely clear, even to the top ranking members themselves. Each region and its individual cells were free to adapt their structure and tactics to meet the challenges that the local environment provided. Overall, the sense within the network was that if the anarchists themselves didn't know what was going on, then neither would the law enforcement agencies or private security firms that were hunting them.

Ally's cell was very high-ranking, and focused mostly on operations and far less so on ideological control – even if they avoid the word 'control,' as the anarchists deemed that concept to be fascist and military terminology. But control was needed, for both ideology and for operations. Ideology had been deemphasized in order to cut down on the incessant infighting that had plagued the Insurrectionary Anarchists after their membership surged following the death of their 'martyr' Robin Lapour. Not only was the infighting highly toxic, but the imaginary world of ideology attracted people who could only be described as useless. Self-identified 'activists' created ineffective social media campaigns and published worthless tracts that raged endlessly about every barely-relevant issue possible in the most ideologically extreme manner, while at the same time avoiding any mundane or hard work. Overall, they gave the general impression that upon seizing power, they would dispense not good governance, but rather some sort of anarchist Sharia law.

The Insurrectionary Anarchists had, when Ally was a young recruit, began to purge the ideological warriors and others who were deemed disruptive. Soon after, new opportunities quickly opened up for those young operatives who were willing to do dangerous work and who were willing to kill. This led to the need for more control over operations. While this sounds easy enough, the anarchists had evolved a highly decentralized leadership structure in order to avoid losing their entire leadership in a single raid. This structure gave rise to the necessity to allow lower level cells more autonomy in selecting and conducting operations. However, the various cells began an unspoken competition, each trying to out-do the other with increasingly elaborate and spectacular attacks. This spiraled out of control and led to many incidents that damaged their reputation with the public. Robin Lapour had been clear while he was still alive, and his idea still stood: in order to survive, the Insurrectionary Anarchists need the support of at least 10% of the population in their early revolutionary phase.

A good example of the anarchists' many public relations disasters, which all newcomers to the anarchists' ranks were required to read about, was the bombing of an exclusive golf and country club in Connecticut. The clubhouse bombing killed nearly a dozen members, all wealthy businessmen and family who happened to be with them at the time. The Insurrectionary Anarchists immediately claimed the attack and released a video, along with a condemnation of the predatory business practices of the club members in general.

But in addition to the vast majority of the public being against indiscriminate killings of this type, the identities of some of the victims caused a harsh public opinion backlash. The anarchists had killed four members of a family that ran a transport company known for hiring employees for life, providing healthcare to workers even when they weren't required to by law, giving heavily to charity, and living frugally.

The anarchists, embarrassed and looking to avoid responsibility, condemned the bombing soon after, blaming it on a rogue faction. Then, one week later, they claimed an attack on a police precinct in Boston that was torturing suspected anarchists. They hastily declaimed it the day after when it was reported that the civilians on the public side of a bullet-proof glass barrier were the only ones killed. The bad month for the anarchists continued with the fallout from their shotgun killing of a college basketball player accused of rape. The lawyer for the slain basketball player quickly showed the media the evidence that the defense had been collecting – evidence that completely exonerated his client.

The internal response to these public relations disasters was for the Insurrectionary Anarchists to introduce a relatively strict system for approving operations at the lower levels. Rapists, police interrogators and predatory CEOs were still to be killed, but you had to wait until their guilt was clear, you couldn't kill them along with their entire family, and you had to 'do the paperwork,' a phrase which had lost its meaning to the younger anarchists. The anarchists had no paperwork, and they had no data, nor any files, digital or otherwise. This resulted in a lack of written guidelines to follow, and certain anarchists did their best to forget the verbally stated rules that restricted their ability to act as they wished – with no oversight.

Ally hadn't imagined that one day she would find herself approving and vetoing operations for most of the northeastern United States. And with the vague structure of the organization, she was not sure how many other cells had the equivalent rank. But what she was sure of was that there wasn't actually anybody above her in terms of operational control. There was no leadership to decapitate. In fact, long-term 'leadership' of any sort was discouraged. The turnover and semi-retirement of top cell members, along with the avoidance of strong personalities in charge, was seen as necessary to the survival of the organization. Long tenures will result in stagnation – that was the belief that the Insurrectionary Anarchists now held on to. The organization worked hard to broaden its membership, recruiting from amongst groups and individuals previously ignored. And the old class of power-hungry anarchists who couldn't hide their unbridled ambition were pushed out, often violently. Ally and a few other younger members had been key to this process.

As for Brady, he was the perfect example of the new anarchist. And he was about to prove it to Ally.

"Ally, could we delay the assessment of the other cells' plans for a bit, like about 20 minutes?"

"Sure. Walking and no talking?" asked Ally, assuming that Brady wanted a break.

"No, I actually want to talk about something else."

"Sure. What's up?"

"The two guys in my regional cell are both capable of taking over for me at this level, and we know a girl that should be promoted up to the regional cell in my place. She's in a cell below the guy that I think should take over for me here."

Ally hid her disappointment from Brady. This meant that she would no longer be working with him.

"Have you already decided where you are heading?"

"The South. I want to go down a level and recruit cells to go after the forfeiture police. They're a plague there, and we are weak south of the Mason-Dixon. I want to give it a try."

Ally was quiet about Brady's self-demotion. This would be extremely dangerous, and Brady would be heading south with very little operational support. But the 'civil forfeiture police' were a perfect target for the anarchists. Their name was an informal term for activities that went back decades. Basically, this activity was the police robbing motorists and other random citizens of their cash, cars and valuables, declaring these to be proceeds or tools of crime – with no evidence whatsoever. The federal government banned the practice once it spiraled out of control, but local and state governments soon continued the programs under newly passed local laws. You were, of course, welcome to return in three months with your lawyer to fight a drawn out legal battle in some rural courthouse to regain your property, but it was usually not worth it. And even if it was, you would probably die mysteriously soon after you returned to whatever Texas, Louisiana, Georgia or Virginia town had confiscated your cash or vehicle. Ally had been to plenty of third world countries where police robbing drivers was commonplace, but in America it had become a fine art on the part of the government to pretend that the police in most southern counties were not 21st century highwaymen, terrorizing travelers and getting rich.

"And one final thing," added Brady. "I'm going to communicate with the operations group and the financing cell, but I'm not going to have any sort of back-and-forth with the ideological cell. I'll keep reading the literature and the newsletters, but I'm done with this fantasy world-building exercise of theirs. It's just that...we've completely reformed our image as much as is possible, and still our approval rating maxes out at only 15% in the cities. We are comatose in the rural areas. Plus, blacks and Latinos don't really care for us. And what's left of the working class would rather avoid us."

Ally listened without comment.

"Furthermore, our membership has always mocked church-goers, and I would say there is a clear strain of hatred for southern whites in particular. We make fun of the way they talk, they way the dress, the sports they like, and we denigrate them and their culture," said Brady. "I know that we briefly tried to recruit from southern refugees for a few years, as if exploiting vulnerable people was an acceptable tactic that would produce actual real insurrectionary anarchists. And then we were surprised that the people we ridiculed as white trash and rednecks don't like us? We are white, urban, and over-educated. And we completely dismissed the type of people who have done most of the fighting in our country's wars – whether white, black or Hispanic. We have no support from minorities. We have no support from rural whites. We have almost no support from the working poor. We never gave those people a chance. We never listened to them. We dismissed them. Whose idea was that? It was Robin Lapour's. That's no way to win an insurgency. And we are now all too scared to deviate from the words of a dead man."

"The ideological cells," continued Brady, "they are deluding themselves if they think that we will ever have anything to do with running this country. Even if the system was to magically collapse and we were thrown into a position of power, what do any of us know about running government bureaucracies, building businesses and delivering social services? We would be like Bolsheviks or Islamists: people who were good at killing during their rise to power, so they think that the best way to rule and govern is to continue killing."

Ally didn't outwardly show any surprise, or any emotions whatsoever.

"Brady, I would say that you could continue with support from the financing and operations cells for about eight to twelve months. Then the top ideological cell can veto your funding and support. Soon after that they'll want you out."

"I know. That's my guess too. I'll try to create activities down south that are sustainable without funding and operational assistance."

"So, are you still an anarchist? Or is that your resignation statement?" asked Ally.

"I don't think I've ever really been an anarchist, Ally. Anyways, I guess now I'm just a fellow traveler," said Brady, with a shrug.

Brady then let out a long breath, trying to cover up for what should have been a sigh.

"My replacement will contact you in a few months. And I'll sort out everything with my regional cell within a couple of months. Then I'm heading south."

"OK," said Ally, now unable to hide her disappointment. She thought that Brady was the type of person who could actually help transition the organization from an insurrectionary faction to a governing party. But she also truly enjoyed working with Brady. Meeting with him was something that she had always looked forward to with great anticipation.

"And...uh, I'm not heading back to the hotel with you," said Brady, almost apologetically. "I checked out already and my bag is waiting at the airport."

"Why?"

Brady looked down at the ground, and then to the side, avoiding Ally's eyes. Then, after composing himself, he turned to face Ally and looked her directly in the eyes.

"Ally, you're a scary person. You are truly terrifying. I know that you... I know that you are one of the people who did the internal cleansing. The purging of the old members. You killed dozens of people because, in your eyes, they had deviated from the organization's charter."

Brady tried not to fidget with his hands as he felt his discomfort rising.

"Your reputation – what I was expecting – I've never seen any sign of that myself. But, it's always been in the back of my mind. I'm sorry, Ally. I wasn't sure how you would react to this."

"I'm not that person anymore," said Ally quietly, almost under her breath. It was all she could think of to say.

Aside from Liz, Brady was the only person that Ally felt truly comfortable and safe around. Both of these people had helped Ally to push away the feelings of aggression, anger and paranoia that she had been living with for so long. This admission by Brady was deeply hurtful, and Ally was not sure how she was going to handle it.

Ally's mind stopped racing with so many different thoughts and started to focus on the fact that Liz was gone and Brady was leaving. Ally had a feeling of abandonment building inside her. A tightness formed in her chest and started to creep up her throat. It was not a familiar feeling. Since she was fourteen years old, Ally had only cried once, and that was the week before in the Yucatán.

"I know. I'm sorry, Ally. I don't feel good about parting ways like this."

Ally realized why Brady was leaving her like this; leaving her by the river, in a public place. To Ally's shock, Brady feared for his life in her presence.

Brady, doing his best to look Ally straight in the eye, said "I'm going this way," pointing to a side street leading away from the riverfront.

Ally stepped in towards Brady and, getting up on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek.

"Goodbye Brady."

Ally turned around and continued her walk up the river. She felt completely, utterly alone. But she didn't cry.

Chapter Seven

Mick sat in a hotel lobby in Yogyakarta, playing a drone strike game on his phone. Across from him sat a fully-grown Korean man with virtual reality goggles on and a cacophony of sounds spilling out of his earphones and into the lobby. Mick was still not used to such bizarre public displays, as everywhere else he had lived was populated by people who frowned deeply on wearing virtual reality gear anywhere but in the privacy of your own home. Everyone assumed you were watching porn. But, what was considered grounds for expulsion from any public space in the western hemisphere and in Europe, was apparently acceptable here in Indonesia.

Mick, figuring the man was watching some sort of extremely deviant porn, debated moving over to the other side of the lobby and waiting there until Ally arrived. After some thought, he decided to stick with his comfortable couch and his drone strike game. The game was created with actual video and audio of real drone strikes, and it was not easy to put down when there were active targets on the ground. The addictive game could be paused, of course. But Mick was not a procrastinator when it came to video games.

However, before he could finish droning what was either an Albanian terrorist training center or an Albanian refugee camp, he sighted Ally. She looked completely different than the last time Mick saw her. She was now wearing a conservative business outfit. And she looked like she had always worn that style.

"Hey Mick, how was your holiday away from me?"

"Great, of course. But what's with the corporate clown suit?"

"You don't like it? Not that I care what you think..."

"No, no. I like it. You are actually selling this look, Ally. I almost take you seriously as a person who should be entrusted with investing and managing my money."

Ally smirked at Mick.

"And your outfit matches your accommodations," added Mick. "Nice hotel, by the way. Better than the one you people put me in."

"Oh, this isn't my hotel. I just walked in through the restaurant entrance on the other side."

"My god, Ally, you suck."

"What, you think I tell everybody where I stay? Is that the sort of incompetent person you want to team up with?"

"So we're a team now?"

"No, you're my sidekick, obviously," said Ally, with her smirk turning to a playful grin.

"Well, if you're the hero then you're paying my salary."

"Nah, this is something like an unpaid internship."

"Don't you anarchists kill people for that sort of thing?"

"Yup. We did. We had a special unit for that. But, unsurprisingly, unpaid internships have fallen out of favor. Not so many targets anymore..."

"Yeah, that's really inconvenient when you have to end a program because you murdered everybody."

"No, that's the sign of a successful program," said Ally. "I wish we could end them all similarly."

"I wish we could end this conversation."

"No, I think you like our little talks," insisted Ally. "You're only grumpy because you're hungry. You get like that, silly. Let's go get a burrito."

"They have burritos here?"

"No. No, they don't. Do you believe anything that sounds enticing?"

"Well, that's it," said Mick. "I officially have zero trust in you. Now, please, if you are done torturing me, pick a lunch spot for us."

After arguing over restaurants while reading competing online reviews and ratings by over-fed expats, Mick and Ally finally chose a place that promised you wouldn't see many other expat diners.

Sitting in the side of the restaurant that had the fewest westerners, Mick and Ally got down to business while they waited impatiently for their lunch orders to be boiled.

"How's the situation with your new ID?" asked Ally.

"No problems. The American consulate here is as corrupt as the consulates and embassies in Latin America. They deny me consular services because I defaulted on my debt, but they'll sell identities out of the back door as usual. I'm now a decorated war hero. Well, I was until I changed the name in the passport."

Mick didn't need to give Ally any more details. She knew what he had done. Consular officers in American embassies and consulates around the world had paid for their positions. To be precise, they had paid for their positions with a small bag of high denomination Euro banknotes. The consular officers, having purchased their position from higher ranking State Department officials, now had a set amount of time to make their bribe back. If you were really good, you could make it back in six months and then spend the next two-and-a-half years making pure cash profit. The salary was a joke, so the bribes and payments that consular officers took in from American expats was the focus of their work.

As for bribes from local nationals seeking a tourist visit to New York or a terrorist excursion to Washington, these were collected by the ambassador or the deputy chief of mission. Of course, nobody would ever meet the ambassador. All bribes went through local national employees. Everybody knew what the Americans did in their embassies overseas. But still, nobody enjoyed their time on hidden camera footage, so the best you could do would be to reveal the corruption of a rogue local employee.

As a result, Mick was easily able to procure a new passport with a new identity; or rather, a new passport with somebody else's identity. The most popular identities were those of recently deceased soldiers. They were of the age that matched most Americans on the run overseas. And, as they were dead, they wouldn't be complaining about their identity being stolen. The process was simple: the consular officer paid a mid-ranking bureaucrat in the Department of Defense to send the identity file of a dead soldier with the bio-data erased. And then, the consular officer would insert the bio-data of the bribe-payer. A quick edit would be made to change the name, and a new passport would be issued. It sounded risky, but the Department of Defense had classified as top secret the numbers and names of American casualties from operations overseas and at home. This, plus the embarrassing level of corruption that went up to the highest level, gave everyone an incentive to block any investigation into this activity – not that anyone really cared anymore.

America and most other countries had the most incredible surveillance and security tools. Their bio-data identification and tracking systems were flawless. But this was all easily circumvented with the payment of a reasonable bribe. Criminals, terrorists, anarchists and American debt runners were indebted to this corruption. Furthermore, without the corruption, the State Department would, in fact, collapse. It was a giant pyramid of patronage and bribe-taking, and many people were invested in the system.

But this didn't bother Mick. He now had a new passport and, hopefully, a new life.

"You feel dirty at all?" asked Ally.

Mick shrugged.

"What's your new name? Something sexy?"

Mick shrugged again.

Ally did her best exaggerated fake frown and said "I don't get to know your name? That was your chance to show me that you trusted me."

"Trust? Like the trust you showed me by telling me to meet at your hotel which actually wasn't your hotel because you don't want me to know where you sleep at night?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that," admitted Ally. "So are we even?"

"Only if this food is good. If not, then you're going to have to invite me to your secret safe-house and cook me a decent dinner. "

The food arrived and they both ate silently; Ally enjoying the silence and Mick enjoying the food.

After being talked into full-sugar sweet iced tea by the waiter, Ally got back to business, if only briefly.

"No news yet on your debt collector friend," she said. "All I can say is that he knows you are here, in Indonesia."

"Yeah, great news, Ally. Thanks," said Mick, not smiling.

"Don't worry. He thinks you are in Jakarta. And we're not going there for a couple of weeks until everything is set up and ready."

"Are we done for the day?"

"Yeah, we're done. But the day's not over," noted Ally while smiling. "If you're free, let's be tourists and go visit some temples."

Mick was surprised at what appeared to be a sign of genuine friendship, even if he didn't show it.

"Sure," said Mick, secretly quite pleased. "I've got nothing better to do. Just please, go back to your safe-house first and change out of that investment banker outfit. You're embarrassing me again."

Ally kept smiling.

*****

The Executioner had almost finished his video chat with Marv, having taken down all the instructions for the upcoming training of the Vietnamese contractors. Tomorrow was to be the first of many long and boring work days in Ho Chi Minh City. That was all settled. But he still had one thing that he needed to tell Marv.

"Marv, before we finish up, I want to run something by you."

"Sure. What?"

"I'm tracking a runner. He has a standard student debt load. Nothing remarkable there. But he has cash reserves that may go over ten million."

"Now that's remarkable," observed Marv. "Why doesn't he just pay back his defaulted loans and get on a plane to the good old USA?"

"The money is dirty and he can't step foot in the United States."

"OK," said Marv, "now what is the exact problem?"

"I'm getting tips on his location. 10% of ten million for the tipper is a decent payday. But the tips are coming from someone in the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes."

"That's unusual. The Treasury Department is usually pretty tight – no leaks. I'll do some checking. What is the runner's name?"

"Michael Larson. He goes by 'Mick.' Former army – but he doesn't have any skills that would make him dangerous. He was living in Mexico and now he's in Indonesia."

"Right. If I hear anything, I'll let you know. Anything else?"

"No, that's it for now."

"OK, enjoy Vietnam," said Marv. "Have you stopped by Rebecca's mom's place? She said that you were bringing a present to the grandma and the kids for her."

"Yeah, I'm on my way there now."

"OK, thanks for that. If you have any problems with the training sessions, let me know."

The Executioner had become increasingly uncomfortable with the ease at which he was receiving tips, but he didn't think that Marv would come up with anything through his government contacts. Putting the thought aside, he decided that he couldn't sit in his bland room any longer.

Leaving his hotel, The Executioner was not in hunting mode, as he had no interest in finding runners while in Ho Chi Minh City. This allowed him to travel and live as he wanted, not how he had to in order to blend in with the American expats. So today, instead of commuting cheaply with the locals, he was taking a long and expensive taxi ride to an outer district of what the driver preferred to call Saigon. The taxi moved briskly forward, past the crammed buses that stopped on every block.

Seeing on his phone that he was almost at his destination, The Executioner exited his taxi and took to the streets. He texted ahead, warning of his impending arrival. Walking down a quiet residential lane, his phone pointed towards an unassuming but comfortable-looking house. As he approached the gate, two little Vietnamese girls skipped up to the other side, shyly smiling.

The older girl spoke first, blurting out "Hello! Welcome to our home. My name is Annie and I am ten years old. This is my sister, and her name is Rose. She is eight years old. How old are you?"

"Really old. I'm almost four times older than you," he answered, making sure to fully enunciate every word.

"Are you older than our mother?" asked Annie, as Rose did her best to hide behind her sister.

"Rebecca? I don't know. How old is your mother?"

The two sisters whispered to each other in Vietnamese and then giggled.

"Our mother is young and beautiful. She is 33 years old."

The girls turned to each other, spoke in Vietnamese and giggled again. The Executioner had no idea why.

"Well, I'm a few years older than your mother," commented The Executioner.

The girls whispered to each other in Vietnamese again.

"Annie and Rose...are those your real names? Or are they your western names like how your mother's name in America is Rebecca?"

"Our mother's Vietnamese name is Jenny," replied Annie, in what she assumed was a clear and helpfully answer.

"What are you and your sister's Vietnamese names?"

"I am Annie and she is Rose."

"But do you have other Vietnamese names also?"

"Those _are_ Vietnamese names," stated Annie in a slightly bemused manner.

"OK," said The Executioner, admitting defeat on the issue of the ethnic authenticity of the girls' names.

"Do you know Marvin also?" asked Annie, moving on to the next phase of the interrogation.

"Yes, I work for him."

"We don't like him," said Annie, in a matter of fact tone.

"Nobody likes Marvin," said The Executioner, in the same tone of voice.

Again the sisters giggled.

"Please, come into our house. Would you like to meet our grandmother?"

"Yes, of course."

"Our grandmother does not speak English."

"I know. I sent messages to your grandmother using the translator app on my phone. How about Rose? Does Rose speak English?"

Rose giggled but said nothing. Annie, speaking for her little sister, said "Yes she can. In our school we must speak English in class."

"Perfect, then you two are my translators."

Later, after being force-fed several extra servings of Rebecca's mother's home cooking, The Executioner was again targeted for another question and answer session by the sisters. The two girls had clearly not come close to exhausting their repertoire of English vocabulary.

"Mrs. Anh, your granddaughters speak perfect English," said The Executioner.

Annie quickly had an exchange with her grandmother in Vietnamese and then turned to The Executioner and said "She says that we are very good students, and that she is glad that Americans talk to us so that we can practice our English."

"You and Rose get to talk to lots of Americans? In Saigon?"

"No. We talk to Americans online. We talk to girls who are our age. Our school helps us find American girls to talk to. But also, we talk to old people."

"Old people, like my age?"

Giggling as if it was her default response, Annie said "No. Old American people who are older than even our grandmother. They have free time, and I think that they are lonely. Also, old Americans are more educated, and my teacher at school says we should speak like them, not like young people."

"Well, Annie, I think you speak excellent English. But what about your sister?"

Rose hid her face in her hands, and then peeked out from behind her fingers to look at The Executioner.

"She is reticent," said Annie, helpfully.

"Reticent? That is a word that Americans don't say very often. I would say that she is shy."

"I'm not shy," said Rose quietly, breaking her silence.

"OK, Rose, can you tell your grandmother something for me in Vietnamese?"

"Yes, I can."

"Can you tell her that I brought a present from your mother?"

The Executioner reached into his bag and pulled out the wooden box that Rebecca had given him in Los Angeles. He handed it to Mrs. Anh, having no idea what was inside.

Mrs. Anh allowed her granddaughters to open the box, revealing three sets of Mexican Catholic prayer candles, embedded in glass containers decorated alternately with Jesus and the Virgin of Guadalupe. They were like the candles that The Executioner recognized from Latino corner markets, but these were of artisan quality.

The girls, in a flurry of cheery debate, chose their own set from the box.

"What do you call these in English?" asked Annie.

"Candles."

"I know that! What kind of candles? Do these have a special name?"

"In Spanish they probably have a special name. But I just call them prayer candles," answered The Executioner, who was not the type to stop every conversation to search online for the correct terminology.

Mrs. Anh spoke briefly into her phone and then interrupted the youngsters. She handed the phone to The Executioner. On the left of the screen was Vietnamese text, on the right was the translation: 'Rebecca was not very religious until she moved to California. Now she goes to mass at a church in Los Angeles. She goes there to make friends with the Vietnamese women and to hear her own language. Now she sends religious gifts. She wants her daughters to be observant.'

Mrs. Anh pulled Rose up on to her lap and kissed her cheek.

Mrs. Anh then spoke to Annie and Rose in Vietnamese. Annie was quick with the translation.

"We will show you your room."

"Oh, I.... I already have a room at a hotel. And my baggage is at the hotel."

Another rapid-fire Vietnamese exchange flew between grandmother and granddaughter. Then Annie announced, with no small amount of concern, "It is too late at night and it is dangerous outside. You must stay here tonight."

It was only 7pm and Saigon's taxi services were perfectly safe, as was the neighborhood. The Executioner knew this as well as his hosts did. But he found the idea of staying for the night far more appealing than the thought of returning to his depressing and impersonal hotel.

The Executioner's agreement to this arrangement was met with enthusiastic approval by the sisters.

Later that hour, as Mrs. Anh walked him to a neighborhood supermarket to fetch a toothbrush and deodorant, The Executioner was briefly interrogated ('How old? Married? Why not?'). He was then given the family's full story. What at home in Illinois would take a newcomer years to learn, was here given in less than 30 minutes. He was told that Rebecca had married a Chinese businessman and moved to Indonesia where her husband was transferred for work. The relationship eventually went bad. Before divorce was even mentioned, Rebecca left Indonesia with her young daughters. The husband never bothered to contact them, nor did he send any money. This led to a dire situation, as Rebecca had no career and Mrs. Anh was a widow who had not worked in years. It was only the four of them: three generations of women with no income.

But, as Mrs. Anh said via her translation app, this was where Marv came into the picture. Divorced women were not considered undesirable by most Americans. But this particular American wasn't interested in somebody else's kids, as the marriage broker service's website helpfully noted besides Marv's profile picture. So, after chatting online regularly and then briefly meeting in Saigon, Marv married Rebecca and returned with her to Los Angeles. Mrs. Anh had initially hoped that Annie and Rose would go to America as well, a country where being half-Chinese wasn't a problem like it had been recently in Vietnam.

Mrs. Anh clearly did not like Marv, and she did little to hide that fact. But he had fully committed to the financial promises that he made. He paid off the remainder of the house loan, and he sent money regularly for living expenses, including the girls' private school fees.

The Executioner didn't particularly care for Marv, but he knew far more about him than Mrs. Anh did. He wasn't sure why she had such dislike for Marv. His best guess was that Marv had accepted her daughter, but rejected her granddaughters. The Executioner thought about it further, wondering how anybody could meet Annie and Rose, and then turn their back on them.

*****

Eight days later, The Executioner, having long ago checked out of his hotel and into Mrs. Anh's guest room, stood outside Annie and Rose's school, waiting for class to be let out. He had been able to quickly train the local contractors that Marv had hired. So, for the last two days he was able to commit to a leisurely schedule, which now included picking up the girls at school, filling in for Mrs. Anh. As the girls ran over to The Executioner, he spotted some of their classmates looking at them and alternately giggling and whispering into each other's ears. It amused him greatly.

When the weekend came, The Executioner was taken around Saigon by Rebecca's mother and daughters, visiting shrines, temples and parks. However, Mrs. Anh insisted that the War Remnants Museum was not a place worthy of a visit. She was apparently embarrassed by the collection of victory trophies that Vietnam had collected in the form of American helicopters and assorted military equipment. The Executioner had to visit that museum on his own, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. His grandfather had gotten through the Vietnam War in one piece, and The Executioner had no feelings one way or another about the whole American misadventure in Indochina.

On his last day in Vietnam, The Executioner walked together with Mrs. Anh to pick up the girls at school. Through her phone she stated that when Rebecca was a schoolgirl, she had walked to and from school by herself or with her classmates. But now, she said into her translation app, girls regularly disappeared in Vietnam. Mrs. Anh spoke further, telling The Executioner that decades ago this was something unthinkable – she remembered that it only happened in Cambodia and Burma. But now it happened in Vietnam, especially to the prettiest of the young girls. Annie was ten years old, but in two years she would be the exact type of girl that traffickers kidnapped.

The Executioner knew how the business worked. A girl would be kidnapped and then immediately taken through a zapping booth to destroy any child-locator implant she may have, making her untraceable. Within a few days the girl would be locked in a room in another country where she couldn't speak the language. If she was lucky she would become someone's wife, the least worst of the terrible options. But, like most of the women, she would more likely be drugged and raped every day of what remained of her life by a succession of paying customers until she eventually died or committed suicide. Very few survived more than five years.

The idea of what happened to trafficked girls had always disgusted The Executioner, but Mrs. Anh's mention of her worry for Annie and Rose had made it tangible for him. The thought now truly bothered him. And it worried him.

As for Mrs. Anh, she was also worried about her daughter. Out of earshot of her granddaughters, she told The Executioner of her fears. She said that she didn't trust Marv, and that Rebecca, now approaching her mid-thirties, might be abandoned by him. Mrs. Anh also confided that she herself was starting to get health problems, and that it might soon be Annie and Rose that looked after her, instead of the other way around. Mrs. Anh's plan was to convince Rebecca to return to Saigon. They could sell the house and downsize to cheaper accommodations, using the leftover money to live off of until Annie and Rose were grown. Rebecca would probably still have to work, but Mrs. Anh figured they could manage.

While Mrs. Anh thought that Marv might replace Rebecca, The Executioner knew for a fact that he would. In the time that he had worked for Marv there had been a succession of foreign women living with him as his short-term wife. The joke amongst the men who worked for Marv was that no woman made it anywhere near age 40 in his house. He didn't say anything to Mrs. Anh.

That evening, while helping Annie and the now very talkative Rose with their homework, The Executioner thought about his time in Saigon and at Mrs. Anh's house. He had, in less than two weeks, cleared his mind of so much. Drinking tea in the backyard garden, walking through Saigon's parks as Annie and Rose pulled him along, and his halting but pleasant evening chats with Mrs. Anh had all been the exact opposite experience of the stress he went through with work. He had the strange feeling that he should not be leaving. He felt at home.

As he left Mrs. Anh's house to make his way to the airport, The Executioner promised the girls that he would visit Saigon again, and that their house would be his first stop. Annie and Rose, for the first time, hugged him, restating their demand that he talk with them online regularly.

Chapter Eight

Mick was struggling as he did his best to keep up with Ally's moderate uphill pace.

"Ally... it's the elevation. The air...is thin."

Mick's excuse was the same at the beginning of the hike, a little ways past the base of Mount Rinjani – Indonesia's second highest volcano. Now, approaching the rim of the crater, Mick's complaining was somewhat more understandable.

"The beaches...Lombok has amazing beaches. I don't know why we aren't still down there. I can see them from here..."

"I thought you would have had enough of beaches after so many years in Mexico," replied Ally.

"No. Never. I love beaches. Mountains...and volcanoes... They're a little more difficult than walking down to the beach for a quick swim."

"I expected more from a young army veteran," said Ally, clearly enjoying Mick's suffering.

"Intel. I was in intel. And then I did archival work. I didn't hike up and down volcanoes."

"Mick, you'll thank me when you see the view at the top."

"I already did. I saw all the pictures."

"Then why don't you just look at pictures of the beach instead of going to the beach?"

Mick decided to conserve his breath. He had none to spare.

Eventually, Mick's torment came to a pause at the rim of the volcano. The view was far better than anything the photos could show. In one direction were the beaches of Lombok, and in the other was the turquoise volcanic lake. Mick was about to express his amazement, then he thought better of it. Ally would say 'I told you so' in response. He knew she would.

Later, as the sun was setting, Mick grew fidgety as he wasn't used to such silence. He decided to pick a fight for fun and amusement.

"Ally, why aren't you crazy like all the other anarchists?"

"Do you want to sleep in the tent tonight, or outside on the ground?"

"Seriously though, why aren't you all angry and militant? You seem like a reasonable person."

"Quit believing everything you see online," said Ally, hiding her exasperation. "We are low on crazies these days."

"Come on, seriously. If the anarchists take over, we won't have a utopia, we'll have the guillotine," said Mick. "Plus, it would only take a few weeks until the anarchists are addicted to power and money. Absolute power corrupts...like, for sure."

Ally did not respond.

"And then you all would start with the infighting. You would destroy yourself," said Mick.

"We already went through that phase over a decade ago, Mick. I know. I was a part of the infighting."

"Story time! Let's hear some details..."

"Well," started Ally, "the Insurrectionary Anarchists were only really united by Robin Lapour. Plus, he rejected the idea of leadership in the way that you probably think about it. And he had just been thrown in prison for leading by example. That's when the problems started. There were two factions that then started battling each other, but only with words at first. One side wanted to continue with the way it was: loosely affiliated members who didn't take orders from any leader or committee. And on the other side was this guy named Carter."

"What side were you on?"

"Not Carter's. I was quite young, but I was all into ideology at the time, so I had some quite strict views on how we should organize ourselves. Carter wanted to turn the movement into his little personality cult. Or, at least that's what I felt he wanted to do."

"Who won?"

"Not Carter. I killed him."

"Are you serious? How old were you?"

"Um, I had just turned twenty one."

"What did you do?"

"Carter thought he was a lady's man. It was merely one aspect of his whole cult-building personality. I had always avoided him and his circle, as the other women had told me that he was a little creepy. But nobody knew me. I was a nobody from the other side of the country. So I introduced myself to Carter and said what a great leader I thought he was. Of course he invited me over to his place to discuss the future of the anarchist movement. I accepted gladly. I went over to his place that night. When he answered the door, I shot him in the stomach. Quite a few times, actually. I emptied an entire magazine into him. I don't know why. I mean, I don't know why I shot him in the stomach so many times. I was so confident with a gun. I had planned on two in the chest and one in the head. But when the door opened....I don't know."

Mick didn't reply. He just listened quietly. It didn't feel like the appropriate moment for a sarcastic moment.

"Everybody knew it was me," continued Ally. "Word got out immediately about the new girl who got the usual and expected invitation from Carter. Plus, I skipped town the same night. I wasn't trying to hide it at all. But the way the story was told, it made me out to be some sort of self-defense hero. In fact, it was an internecine assassination. Nevertheless, many were convinced that Carter was a sexual predator and that I had bravely ended his reign of terror when he attacked me."

"Was he actually a sexual predator?"

"He used his position of authority to attract women to his bed, for sure. But I don't know if he used his position of authority to pressure them into his bed. I didn't talk to any women he had been through. Whatever the case, he was a bit slimy. When I dragged his body out of the doorway and into his apartment, I saw a bottle of wine and two glasses waiting on his coffee table."

"So, obviously, you got away with killing him. What exactly happened to you after that?"

"What I did by killing Carter was to help the Insurrectionary Anarchist movement to greatly clarify their views on top level leadership. I had eliminated the only high ranking member that fancied himself a charismatic leader who should be entrusted with ideology, operations and finance."

"So that's what happened to the organization," said Mick. "But what happened to you?"

"There were a significant number of people loyal to the faction that Carter had run. They didn't all just run away and quit. So I came back from hiding after a couple of months and helped to hunt them down and kill them. People started treating me like...a hitman."

"Hitwoman, Ally. You're a hitwoman."

"Thanks," said Ally forcing a small smile. "All these other anarchists gave me credit for so much. According to them, I was the ultimate defender of women. I had killed a serial rapist. I had saved the movement from splintering. But most importantly, I was an unstoppable killer. Pretty soon, people were too scared to disagree with me or contradict me in anyway."

"That's my dream, actually," said Mick.

"Yeah, it's actually not cool at all. Even my friends were intimidated. They acted as if every argument was going to be settled by me using deadly force. It was like Soviet Russia 1937."

"Wait, I'm missing something," said Mick. "How did you first join the anarchists?"

"Well, I was into music..."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"When I was a teenager, like fourteen or fifteen, I was going to shows. Punk rock."

"I thought punk rock was dead?" said Mick.

"Well, it was a very small scene in a very big city. And it eventually disappointed me once I met the musicians. They said I was too young to come to their house parties and basement shows. They worried how it would look. But a few of them did take me to a shooting range regularly, that sort of thing. I think they wanted to adopt me like a foster child or something. They had become respectable, these punks. Some of them even had kids my age."

"Sounds like they were looking out for you, no?" said Mick.

"Yeah, I was a feral kid. My mom didn't care where I was. Anyways, after a while I was old enough to move around the scene without age-restriction checks by middle aged punk dads. And...the scene had its share of anarchists. But, as I came to learn, not the ones that could really be effective. After some investigation, like maybe five hours online, I joined up with the Insurrectionary Anarchists because they promised action. I bounced around anarchist circles for a while, moving from city to city – again and again. And that's when I had the fortune to meet Carter. After that I moved up the ranks pretty quickly, mostly because the people at those ranks were dead. Not that we really have ranks. Not in the way that you think..."

"If you don't mind me asking," said Mick, "how did you get away with all the killings?"

"Everybody was laughing at us, and the government was just sitting by and doing nothing. They were letting us killing each other off. We were doing their job for them. They didn't investigate or arrest any suspects. I even got tips on target locations from people who were probably working for the police and FBI. I had free reign. I built a killing machine. A machine for killing fellow anarchists. And when Robin Lapour was killed in prison, I was able to transform the internal killing machine into an external killing machine."

"That's when the government started to take an interest?"

"Exactly," said Ally. "Then the heavy government response started. But by the time they were able to start attacking us, we had some serious momentum. To tell you the truth, so many people joined and we had so many new resources that, I think, the movement didn't really need me anymore. Then, because of our recruiting success, we had to start purging the unsavory new members who had joined for ulterior motives – like personal ambition."

"That sounds about right," added Mick.

"So I decided that I had to make a change," said Ally. "I disappeared and moved to Europe for a while. It was there that I concentrated on helping anarchists and student loan debtors flee, disappear and evade surveillance. That sort of thing. Eventually some people based in Europe started Blue Team and recruited me. I joined up with them at a low level and, at the same time, I rejoined the Insurrectionary Anarchists back home. But by that time the anarchists had started operating in small isolated cells, and nobody had to know that I was back. I met mostly new people, and I was anonymous and under a new name. Almost nobody makes the connection to my backstory. One guy I'm close to knows. But Liz didn't know. I had always wanted it that way."

Ally had begun to tell the story in a very matter-of-fact way, with no emotion. So Mick felt that he wouldn't upset her with a question that was floating around in his head.

"So, who has killed more people, you or The Executioner?"

"Unless he has a secret body count that he's not telling anybody about, I would say that I have an insurmountable lead over him."

"How has that worked out for you?"

What do you mean?" asked Ally.

"I mean. Do you stay awake at night thinking about it with deep regret? Or do you have a trophy wall decorated with the skulls of your enemies?"

"You ask direct questions."

"So do you."

"Yeah, that's fair."

"Well?"

"I have no regrets," said Ally confidently. "No PTSD. Every single person I killed had it coming. They needed to be killed. I sleep well at night."

"What have you killed more of, anarchists or non-anarchists?" asked Mick, not yet done with this line of questioning.

Ally had to pause for thought.

"Well, if you mean personally, by my own hands, then definitely anarchists. But if you include killings I approved or gave the orders for, then I've killed more non-anarchists."

"Do you think that you can transition from a kill-destroy-assassinate organization into a sort of political party or government structure? What I'm saying is, god forbid, could the anarchists run the United States of America?" asked Mick.

Ally laughed. She laughed right at Mick's face.

"Revolutionaries suck at governing. I know this. I only want to inflict heavy damage on the system and make it accept changes to the point that it is unrecognizable. The days of some beret-wearing revolutionary running a state are long gone. You can't rule this country. Nobody can. Certainly, we can't."

"But let's just say, for example," said Mick, "that there is some sort of shock that brings the system down. Like a spontaneous street revolution that topples the government. It's happened in plenty of places that weren't expecting it. Why not America?"

"Have the organizers of the protesters ever transitioned from running a protest to running a country?" asked Ally, who was about to answer her own question. "Usually, as soon as the government falls apart, counter-elites take power."

"Counter-elites?"

"People with connections, money and/or guns and the will to use these resources," said Ally. "They're pretty much the same as the old elites, only that they were outside the ruling circle. The protestors and demonstrators are usually composed of students, professional demonstrators, labor unions, obscure political parties, leftists, religious crazies and, at home and in Europe, anarchists. Plus the bandwagon jumpers that join at the last minute when victory is in sight. These types of people pretty much never make it into the new government. And if they do, they have no influence over policy. There is rarely a true revolution, merely a regime change."

"So, you're pessimistic?" asked Mick.

"I'm realistic. The system adapts. It's resilient. We are going through the decline and fall of the American Empire, and it might just be a three hundred year long process."

"What about the Insurrectionary Anarchists? You just think that they are a force that can be used to moderate and change the system by attacking it in small doses?"

"Yes, that's about it," said Ally.

"You are righteous killers. Is that how you imagine yourselves? Why did you feel that you needed to resort to killing as your main tactic?"

This question annoyed Ally.

"Why did we feel that we needed to resort to killing as a tactic? Because it is effective," said Ally. "American society was, and is, like a spoiled brat that needs to be spanked, because that's the only way to alter its behavior. It would have been great if we said 'Do not rape, exploit or oppress because that's not nice,' and everybody responded by changing their ways. But they didn't. And they won't. I wish we could have encouraged the government to build a nation where we all live under equal rule of law. I wish we could have helped develop a culture of empathy that would make people realize that theft and cruelty is wrong. None of that worked. None of it will ever work. Murder, however, is amazing. Death, and the fear of death, was, and still is, the best, most effective way to change the behavior of a nation of sociopaths, criminals and assholes."

"Hmm," responded Mick.

"Yeah, don't hide your apathy. People like you, the majority; you just stood by and let this all happen."

"Ally, from kindergarten through high school, my life was a series of humiliations and indignities – not only at school, but anywhere in my hometown. And then, at university, I was finally spared the physical violence, but it was still made clear to me that I was a person whose opinion wasn't worth considering. Then, to pay back my insane student loan debt, I joined an undemocratic organization that doesn't include the mandate of fixing American society. I'm sorry. I don't know what you expect of people like me. I may be a relatively free and independent individual, but there is a nation of people who are overworked, underpaid and always living on the edge...and with their kids in tow. You expect them to all become, in the free time that they don't have, social justice crusaders? And you expect to win them over. How? Your attacks? These killings? Don't you realize that all this killing has done irreparable damage to your reputation? I mean...the reputation of the Insurrectionary Anarchists?"

"All of history's heroes are mass murderers. People love killers, as long as they win. We're comparative amateurs as far as killing goes."

"And there, that's the source of my aggressive neutrality," said Mick. "Or, as you call it, my apathy. I'm to choose between a corrupt, unfair system or a killing spree? Now what about Martin Luther King, Gandhi.... Nelson Mandela.... people like that? They succeeded without violence."

"They succeeded because the systems they were fighting were already on the way out. Segregation, colonialism, apartheid...they were dying as part of unstoppable historical trajectories – like the dominoes of the communist countries falling. Now imagine if Martin Luther King tried the same tactics in the 1920s, or if you took Gandhi and Mandela and put them fifty or even twenty years in the past. They and their peaceful tactics would have failed."

"Is our system on the way out as part of some unstoppable historical trajectory?"

"No. Not anytime soon. It's resilient."

"Yeah, you said that already," noted Mick.

"It's worth repeating: too many people have a stake in continuing the way it is. And most others who don't benefit are worried that radical change may go wrong and end up leaving them in an even worse situation. The system won't collapse. But, if for whatever reason, the system does fall apart, we should not seek power. We are at best an antibiotic, we help regulate a system, we attack the worst of the system, but we can't run it."

"That's not exactly a very inspiring speech. You don't start anarchist rallies with this sort of pessimism, do you?"

"Well, we don't do rallies; those are just ego-stroking exercises for narcissists."

"Ally, serious question: why are you still a member of the Insurrectionary Anarchists?"

Ally didn't feel like arguing anymore.

"I don't know, I guess it sort of turned into a job," she said. "I have a place in life, I have a salary, I get to travel, I get to kill bad people. And I don't know what I would do in real life if I quit."

"Sounds exactly like the reasons for joining and staying in the US Army."

"And you ran off on them, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes I did. Perhaps you could take some inspiration from my brave act?"

"Don't give me any ideas, Mick."

"Seriously, why not? Can't you quit the Insurrection Anarchists and be full-time with Blue Team?"

"Mick, can we talk about something else?"

"OK. What?"

"I don't know. You are the one that just can't shut up," said Ally. "Surely you can think of something else to discuss?"

"OK, sure. I've got one. Not that I'm complaining," said Mick, "but why have you been hauling me from tourist spot to tourist spot?"

"Because the Indonesian government has strict face permission rules in all the tourist zones in the country."

"Face permission?"

"You know, like in Europe when you publish a photo. Under European law, you have to switch out the faces in the photo with randomly generated fake faces unless you have permission. But here it applies to taking photos, uploading photos, sharing photos...pretty much everything. And you can't use a camera or a phone here that isn't connected to a network, so there's no way to cheat."

"Oh yeah, that. So we're pretty much invisible?"

"Exactly," said Ally. "Indonesia modelled the law on the European one, but they added the stipulation that you need to be connected to a network."

Ally's tactic of sticking to tourist zones was a wise choice. She and Mick would appear in the background of many tourists' photos and videos, but their faces would be replaced in the millisecond after the photo was taken. This was unless they gave their permission to the photographer by looking into the camera lens and saying 'face permission' in any language they chose. This was the moment at which you showed to any newfound friends that you trusted them – by giving face permission. It was not given very often.

Of course, in the United States the various social media companies and law enforcement agencies lobbied against the tool being introduced into American law – one wanting to preserve their ability to do effective targeted advertising by knowing where you were all the time, and the other wanting to know where you are all the time, just in case they need to know.

"In Mexico, people beat you up or harass you online for uploading photos of them," said Mick. "But I like this system as well. It should be mandatory in the United States."

"Yeah, right. That will happen," said Ally sarcastically.

"So, uh, are we banished for all eternity to roam the tourist zones of Indonesia?"

"No, sorry to have gotten your hopes up. We're going to Jakarta after we get off this volcano. But we're going separately."

"What's the plan?"

"We stick you in a hotel. Me and Blue Team will be nearby. The Executioner shows up. We grab him. And it's done."

"That simple?" asked Mick.

"That simple...Unless you have a better idea?"

Mick and Ally then found a spot away from the rest of the foreign tourists who had pitched their tents for the night at the rim of the volcano. Mick had promised to memorize their cover stories that were to be used for small talk. This time Ally agreed to let Mick name her as his girlfriend. But, to Ally's relief, nobody struck up a conversation with them. They settled into their tent in the dark, ready for a full night of sleep and an early morning hike to the summit of the highest peak on the rim. Mick, however, wasn't finished talking for the night.

"Ally, can we please talk about you needing to leave the Insurrectionary Anarchists?"

"No. No, we can't."

"So...good night?"

"Good night, Mick. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning," said Ally in a fake English accent.

"What?" laughed Mick. "What's that from?"

"That's from me...to you. Just now."

Mick immediately reached for his phone and spoke the quote, minus his name, into its search app. A short video clip appeared at the top of the search returns. Mick played it. It was a scene from an old film. He didn't recognize it. A handsome swordsman dressed in black led a beautiful woman in a red dress through a dark and dangerous forest. The swordsman spoke the phrase to the woman, quoting from his days as a pirate's apprentice when the ship's captain would speak the same line to him every night.

"Ally. This is amazing. This is us, isn't it?"

"Yes it is."

"But this woman in the video is far more feminine and graceful than you."

"Mick, it is us. But you're the woman. I'm the brave swordsman. I'm saving you, exactly like this guy is about to save her from the quicksand."

"What, do you have the entire film memorized?"

"No, I haven't seen it in years. But there are a bunch of memorable lines and scenes in it."

"What's it called?"

_"The Princess Bride_."

"What a terrible title. Let's watch it. Right now. Give me a second to find the whole movie."

"Mick, we'll watch it when we get off the mountain. I'm too tired right now."

"Yeah, sure. That plus you probably can't deal with how this film portrays women: as elegant, gentle and with beautiful hair."

"Mick?"

"Yes, Ally?"

"I might just instead kill you in your sleep tonight."

It was dark and Mick couldn't see if Ally was smiling or not.

Chapter Nine

The Executioner was always glad to see his Indonesian friend Rukma. He considered him a joy to work with. It was not easy to find a reliable local crew in any city, and Jakarta was no different. But Rukma was that rare street-smart guy who could also be relied on to be 100% honest.

"I must tell you," said Rukma, with a great air of seriousness, "I never thought that I would have an American friend. Because I am not educated or rich. But then I met you. And now we are friends. And do you know why?"

"Why?" said The Executioner, in a half reply to Rukma's rhetorical question.

"Because even though you are American and I am Indonesian, we are friends. We are friends because we are both crime-inals...craminals."

_"Criminals_. We're criminals. But please tell the women that we are outlaws. It sounds better."

"Yes, and criminal work makes us friends. I'm glad," said Rukma, grinning widely.

"That was very heartfelt. Thank you."

"Put that word in your translator app, please."

The Executioner typed in 'heartfelt' and showed the translation to Rukma.

"This is not a word for outlaws, man!" said Rukma with exaggerated disgust. "Be hard! Say hard things."

"Well, speaking of hard things...let's talk about the job."

"Yes, OK. Let's make business. Americans are very rude and want to talk business very fast. No tea. No food. No beer. Only business."

"Right, here's the deal, if you are done crying. It's another runner. But he just arrived in Jakarta and he may leave at any moment. I don't know. So I need you to grab him tonight from a hotel."

"No problem," said Rukma confidently. "We use girl. Honey trap is best trap. _Sooo_ sticky."

"Yeah, no. That's not going to work on this guy. I want you to take him from his hotel room by force."

"Oh, that's expensive. Hotel security is difficult."

"Yeah Rukma, some hotel boy and one old lady who cleans the rooms. That will be so difficult. I hope you survive," said The Executioner as sarcastically as possible.

"Cameras, man. Cameras everywhere in hotels."

"Then cover your face. I've seen you in action. You own a mask. Your entire crew owns facemasks. You are like the Indonesian Olympic snowboard team, bravely facing a winter chill."

"I didn't understand any of that. You speak English poorly," said Rukma.

"Your face. Cover it with a face hat."

"Oh yeah, why you think I don't know that?"

"Great. That's solved. But there is another small problem."

"Oh no. Sounds expensive!"

"Yeah, the guy you are grabbing has a very dangerous friend."

"No, man, no. Why do you make danger for me?"

"Yes, it's not the usual easy job. That's why I'm paying you triple."

"Triple means what?"

"It's more than double."

"So, double again? Four times bigger?"

"No. Three times higher."

"Oh, I still feel danger. Who is the runner's friend?"

"It's an American woman that may or may not be traveling with him."

"Ahahaha! Ha!" laughed Rukma in the most fake way possible. "Girls are not dangerous. I'm not scared of a girl, man."

"Dude, seriously. This is the 21st century. You need to respect women. And this woman is a killer, I guarantee it."

"I'm so scared of American girls. _So scared_."

"Rukma. Listen to me. You need to be scared of this one."

"OK, I'm very scared. And also I am afraid. And I respect women. Now give me the location for this runner."

The Executioner was not sure that he would see his friend Rukma alive again.

*****

Marv's unsmiling face appeared on The Executioner's phone, the video having been rerouted through various proxies and encrypted and unencrypted several times in the last second. Marv had news that couldn't wait. And he was, as always, old school. He wanted to talk to a face on a screen.

"Let's get to it," said Marv, not wasting any time. "I told the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes that they had a leak, and that the person was going to leak info again soon."

"You burned my source?" asked The Executioner, incredulously.

"Your source is BS, son. Seriously, you are too trusting sometimes. I figured 50/50 that it wasn't genuine, and that your leaker was probably an anarchist infiltrator or a Blue Team informer. I told them the sort of info that had been leaked and the sort of info that I suspected would soon be leaked. Anyways, they used an old tactic that's been around forever. They spread a rumor online that said they knew who the mole was. They sprinkled it with info about the first leak that only you, the leaker and the anarchists or Blue Team would know. Then they watched to see which employee ran for it. And an employee did in fact run. But they didn't get far."

"They're sharing this info with you?"

"Yeah, it's the reward for bringing this to them," said Marv. "And this doesn't even come close to paying me back. I have to thank you, having the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes in my debt is a hell of a coup for me."

"So it's a trap? This guy Larson is being used as a trap? That's not a huge surprise," admitted The Executioner. He was truly not surprised at all. Just disappointed and now very worried.

"It's not only that. You are not going to like this. But their interrogation of the wayward employee was quick and efficient. Not much of a committed anarchist, I guess. The deal is, Michael Larson doesn't have any serious money. He has a modest stash that quickly disappeared into some blind transfers. But his savings are nothing that would be worth your time. The anarchists exaggerated his savings to attract you. And, obviously, it worked."

"Right. OK."

"So I would forget about Larson and, uh...do your best not to get killed by anarchists if you can."

"Well, that's not so easy. My guys grabbed Larson late last night."

"Well, get rid of him," said Marv with a shrug.

"Yeah."

"OK, if anything else comes up, I'll let you know. For now, just send me an update occasionally to let me know that you're alive."

"Sure."

The video call ended and The Executioner sat and thought about his situation. After a while, he silently asked himself why he wasn't crushed that he would not be collecting over $10 million in cash. This was supposed to be his early retirement fund. This would be his key to leaving behind debt collecting. It should all be a massive disappointment that weighed heavily on him. But instead he felt nothing. He felt completely neutral, and slightly numb.

The Executioner stood up and started to focus on his next chore. It was time to go meet Mick.

*****

The always cheery Rukma greeted The Executioner warmly on the street. The Executioner informed him of his plans for Mick. Rukma agreed, as he always did...eventually. After the brief debate, Rukma escorted him inside and into the elevator.

Rukma, doing his best to fake a scowl, declared "One day, you learn to do the dirty work. By yourself."

"Then you'll be out of a job, won't you?"

"You are a bad learner. My job will not be disappear."

"My job will not disappear. There is no 'be' in that sentence."

"This is serious business, not English lesson."

"Rukma, you're the one that demanded that I correct you when you make a grammar mistake."

"Yes, OK. I know. But I didn't sleep last night. My head does not work now."

Walking down the hallway of what looked like a perfectly normal residential apartment complex, Rukma stopped at a door and knocked.

"Anything that I should know, Rukma? Has he said anything interesting since you picked him up?"

"He asked for weed. We give him weed. He is calm now. You need to say to him that there is big penalty for smoking marijuana in Indonesia. OK?"

"There's also a big penalty for kidnapping in Indonesia. OK?" said The Executioner in reply.

Rukma didn't have time to reply. The door was opened by another smiling Indonesian who led The Executioner to a windowless room at the back of the apartment. It was there that he met Mick for the first time. Mick sat quietly in a chair, his shirt covered with ashes from the joint he had earlier smoked.

"Hey man, how's it going?" asked The Executioner as he pulled off Mick's blindfold.

"OK."

"We're going to have a long chat," said The Executioner, untying the rope that held Mick's arms bound behind his back. "Do you need to use a toilet or anything before we get started?"

"No."

"Alright, if you do need to go, let me know. The floor is carpeted and I think one of the guys that kidnapped you actually lives here. So you are not allowed to piss your pants."

"Right, sure."

"Straight to business then...Where's your lady friend?" asked The Executioner casually.

"Alison? Maybe she's visiting Blue Team headquarters? Maybe she decided to take a last-minute vacation? I don't know. She was supposed to stay nearby. But obviously that wasn't the case."

The Executioner had not, until that moment, known for sure of Ally's affiliation. He made no reaction and showed no surprise.

"Well, my guys didn't see her. I was worried that there would be a big trap ready to be sprung by the fully combined might of Blue Team."

"Yeah, I'm thinking Blue Team is not exactly a formidable force."

"Why do you think that?" asked The Executioner.

"Because all I've seen of it is Alison. And she said that Blue Team would grab you before you grabbed me."

"Maybe their goal all along was to let you be taken?" said The Executioner.

"Why would they do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe they tagged you or your clothes with a tracker. But if that was their plan, it failed. The Indos who picked you up at your hotel took you into a zapping booth at some point in your journey to this room. I'm sure you felt that. So...you are invisible. What, then, do you think could be Blue Team's brilliant plan?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe they are making it up as they go along?" guessed Mick.

"I can sympathize with that. I'm like that most of the time."

"So, are you going to kill me?"

"Why does everyone always ask me that question?" exclaimed The Executioner in an exasperated tone.

"You have a reputation."

"It's mostly lies invented by Blue Team, plus me being credited with stuff that other debt collectors do. What did your friend Alison tell you might happen?"

"Well, I saw your friends kill Alison's partner in Cancún. So she didn't need to say anything."

"Those weren't my friends; they're just some random locals I hired. I never grab a runner myself."

"Why not?"

"Locals know best – always. They'll always do a better job."

"Except in Cancún?"

"That's the exception to the rule," said The Executioner. "It's a law of averages. Plus, I had never hired anyone there before. I do almost all of my work in Asia. My crews here are far more reliable and less trigger-happy. Anyways, if I had tried to grab you myself in Mexico, I would be dead."

"About that, and this...you are under the impression that I'm filthy rich from cash I embezzled from terrorist financiers?" asked Mick.

"Yeah, no. Not anymore. I was only recently filled in on the true state of your financial health."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. This is just so anti-climactic. You have no real money. I'm no longer interested in you. It's over, I guess..." said The Executioner. "I thought this was going to end dramatically...or lucratively."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Mick. "What's going to happen now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you going to kill me and toss me into the ocean?"

"What? No! Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Your name is The Executioner."

"Again, you need to quit reading anarchist propaganda."

"Yeah, I will."

Mick was quiet for a few seconds, which was a long time for him. He then broke his silence and asked "So, what's up?"

"Um...You want to go grab a beer?" suggested The Executioner.

"Yeah, sure," replied Mick, not entirely sure if he had a choice. "Can we go to a place that also serves food?"

"Definitely."

*****

"So, Mick, where are you from?" asked The Executioner.

"You don't know?" asked Mick, already on his third beer.

"I'm not the NSA, I usually only have fragments of info on the people I am tracking. Just enough to find them: name, face, approximate age, student loan debt outstanding...that sort of thing. And often the names and ages are fake. So sometimes I only have a face."

"Oh...Well, I'm from Illinois."

"Me too. What suburb of Chicago are you from?" asked The Executioner.

"Why do you think that I'm from Chicago?"

"Everything about you. You don't strike me as being from anywhere outside a big city or its suburbs."

"People from Chicago identify as being from Chicago, not Illinois," said Mick. "If I was from Chicago, I would say so. I'm from a small town in southern Illinois."

"Seriously? Where?"

"Do you know Metropolis?" asked Mick, unhopefully.

"Yeah, I'm downriver from you."

"People live downriver?"

"Yeah, in Cairo. You ever been through there?" asked The Executioner, also unhopefully.

"No. But my sewage has."

"Yeah, you and everyone else's sewage on the Ohio River. Thanks for that."

"Have you been to Metropolis?" asked Mick.

"When I was a kid my mom took me to the Superman museum. I was into comics back then. It was the highlight of my summer that year."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, life on the river is not all that exciting. But it gets worse," said The Executioner. "I also went there when I was older. My friend was getting married and some of the guys thought it would be fun to go to the riverboat casino in Metropolis. So that's it, one museum trip and one gambling trip. All I did was play a few of the slot machines at the bottom of the boat with the rest of the degenerates."

"Well, those days are over. The anarchists burned down the boat," said Mick.

"Really?"

"Yeah, they didn't claim it because they ended up killing three cleaning ladies who had the early morning shift. But of course it was them: the Insurrectionary Anarchists," said Mick. "They had been up and down the Ohio River, lighting up all the casino boats – for the good of the people, of course. They can't just sit by while the irresponsible working poor throw quarters into slot machines, can they?"

"So how did that work out for Metropolis?"

"I can't say that it was met with acclaim by the locals. And the casino was in no mood to rebuild. Insurance these days doesn't cover acts of war and rebellion – which the insurers claim anarchists attacks are."

"Did you have a chat about that with your anarchist buddy Alison?"

"No. But she said something about her group having learned their lessons from their early phase of extremism and ill-advised attacks. And I didn't feel like debating with her about it. I barely know anything about the incident. The arson happened while I was in the army."

"I'm surprised that you served in the military, to tell you the truth," said The Executioner.

"It shouldn't be surprising. I'm from a small town on the Ohio River. I'm from a lower middle class white family. I served in the US Army," stated Mick. "I'm not an anarchist sympathizer."

"So what are you?"

"I'm a cowardly moderate," said Mick.

"Yeah, everyone is a moderate these days. Or rather, everyone is a militant moderate."

"Don't 'militant' and 'moderate' cancel each other out?"

"Not at all...Take Indonesia, for example," said The Executioner. "Over the last century it has carried out two waves of mass murder. One against the communists back in the day, and one against the Islamists more recently. They killed the left wingers and then they killed the right wingers."

"I don't know much about this part of the Muslim world, but I know the Middle East pretty well," said Mick. "And what you described sounds a lot like the authoritarian governments there that have, at one time or the other, killed all opposition, whether from the left or from the right."

"Yeah, but here the militancy of the moderate is embedded in society. Like, uh... For example, the killing of Islamists and the militant attitude towards them was not a government directed operation. Maybe the anti-communist thing was a government initiative, but this purge of Islamists was a movement from the core of Indonesian society."

"This all happened recently in history, right?" asked Mick.

"Yeah, not even twenty years ago. People here will still talk about it. They are proud of it," said The Executioner. "They say the Islamists were trying to destroy Indonesia and join a global caliphate, or something silly like that. But, of course, not silly at all. The Islamists were killing westerners, Chinese, non-Muslim Indonesians, moderate Indonesians, religious Indonesians who weren't religious in the right way. All the usual craziness. Nothing the government tried was working. But then one day the Islamists attacked a private British-style local school and killed a couple hundred little kids because they were getting an infidel education. The country went berserk. Within one month every Islamist on the watch list – I'm talking hundreds of thousands – was dead or out of the country. Mobs of people went into horde mode and destroyed any neighborhood that was home to a significant number of Islamist sympathizers. All the businesses belonging to Islamists were destroyed. Their children that were young enough were confiscated and adopted off. But often their kids burned in their homes with their parents."

"Sounds pleasant," said Mick with a frown. "How is it now?"

"People here are still Muslim, obviously. But it's a private affair, except for the religious holidays. And it has affected people's behavior in other ways as well. Nobody will publically criticize the way a woman dresses, or harass a foreigner because he's not a Muslim, or say anything bad about a restaurant that serves alcohol, or complain about a Chinese pork butcher. That sort of behavior will get you a visit from the police. And away you go...never to be seen again."

"So it's basically an authoritarian paradise for foreigners who like pork, alcohol and women?" said Mick.

"Well, watch yourself with the women thing. But full speed ahead on the bacon and the beer."

"Not a problem for me, but can you date local women?"

"Christian and Chinese Indonesians are fair game," said The Executioner. "But with the girls from Muslim families...it depends. If the girl has a job, speaks English, wear jeans and a tight shirt, then there is a good chance that she is from a family that would be cool with it. But..."

"What?"

"There are lots of low-rent Americans around here. 'Cockroach' is a term that is well used in Indonesia," admitted The Executioner. "So, often a family's objection to their daughter dating an American has nothing to do with the fact that he is foreign and not a Muslim. The objection is economic – who wants their daughter to marry a heavily indebted guy on the run from his defaulted loans? Plus, there is a definite informal caste system among the expats here, and the locals are not always sure where you fit in it. Are you an investment consultant, or an English teacher? They both look the same to an Indonesian. But they figure if you are an American that lives in Indonesia long term, then you are probably a loser. A _cockroach_."

"You ever get called a cockroach here?"

"Occasionally. It's usually kids in passing cars or drunks on the street. You get used to it. They aren't trying to pick a fight with you. They don't hate you. They are just...drunks and stupid kids having fun."

"Overall, how do you like the country?" asked Mick.

"I like it here. It eventually worked out. The people are fine. The country is friendly. But I feel like I need a change, I guess...Plus, it seems Blue Team now knows where I live. I'm not sure where I would go next. I don't want to go home to America, so probably elsewhere in Southeast Asia."

"Why not America?"

"I would always be looking over my shoulders," said The Executioner. "There are lots of people who want to kill me, as you may have noticed. I'm safer living overseas."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get into the debt collection, kidnap and ransom business? Were you in the military or law enforcement before?"

"No. Nothing. Not even mercenary or war tourist experience. I was an English teacher."

"Seriously?" asked Mick.

"Seriously."

"How did you end up as a student loan debt collector?"

"It's not a short answer."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere. Let's hear it."

"OK. I was working in China. It was dodgy work. Eventually I had to leave China. The government was kicking me out. But I had the choice of destination if I paid for my own ticket. I was told by some random guy that there was work in Indonesia, and I was desperate. So I came here on a tourist visa and started to look for employment. I couldn't find anything decent, so I became an English teacher."

"Don't they use VR to learn English here?" asked Mick.

"Well, there is a percentage of the population here who believe that virtual reality is only for immoral people. So they refuse to learn English in VR like most normal people. They prefer real people, and white Americans are in demand. Well, not high demand. But I got by at first. I thought it was temporary, but then I realized that I was stuck."

"How was that?"

"Monotonous. Tedious. Dead end."

"I did paperwork and archival work in my last year of military service, so I understand."

"Yeah, but you had a salary, free food and health care," said The Executioner. "You had a powerful organization protecting you. I had none of that."

"Sure, OK," said Mick, agreeing with the comparison.

"And eventually more and more Americans showed up here – almost all of them fleeing their student loan debt. Pretty soon there was some steep competition for the few English teacher positions. The wages then started to drop. And then one day I fell off my bicycle pretty badly and my phone broke, plus I cut up my leg. Three days later, some insane bacterial infection that was resistant to antibiotics starting spreading through my leg. The drugs I needed to buy, plus a new phone, wiped out my savings. I was living off of instant noodles. All this plus my rent was coming due. I was broke – in every sense. Imagine that: a small bottle of pills and a cheap phone costing you all the money you have in this world. And on top of that, you don't know where you will be sleeping next month."

The Executioner paused to open another bottle of beer. The waiter was now putting down new bottles as soon as any one of the two got close to finishing.

"I had been surviving, but just barely. And then all these Americans showed up. They had been given everything by America. _Everything_. I had been given nothing," said The Executioner, now slightly drunk. "And you know, from the moment I was born, I was told that I was white trash. My schools and my community were holding pens. And when we got out, there was nothing. Just nothing. That's why I came to Asia. And here I was – scraping by. And the people who had helped tear down America came here and took away my livelihood: my stupid little job teaching English. It's like they had followed me all the way over here to tell me that I was still white trash, and that they would be taking my job, thank you very much."

Mick wondered if The Executioner was talking about him indirectly. But he said nothing in return.

"I worked to conceal my feelings around the American expats here, because you never know what opportunities might come up if you are a decent networker," said The Executioner. "I got to know lots of them. Including one guy named Chase who admitted to me that he owed over half a million in student loan debt. He also talked about his family, and I figured out from what he said that they actually had a decent amount of money and property. But they weren't, like most people, enthusiastic about the idea of helping a family member to pay off his ridiculous student loans. So here he was, running from his debt to society. And there I was, broke and desperate. I was in a foreign country with no money and no way home."

"So you turned this guy Chase into your first debt collection?" asked Mick.

"No, not really. I had no idea how to go about doing that. But this was at around the same time that a few of the debt collectors who worked overseas were showing up. Generally, they were looking for the few people who owned assets overseas – usually dual citizens. I met one of them here. He was investigating a couple of Indonesian-Americans who had done OK for themselves in the import-export business. He was collecting insider info for the local lawyers who would then bring a case against the Americans who owned the business. There is some old treaty between Indonesia and the US that allows for lawsuits over delinquent debts from other countries, including student loan debt. Anyways, he told me about the commission that the company he worked for got. They collect up to $200,000 of the debt, and the rest goes to the original lender. But for a big company, that wasn't very much. They were after his assets, which under a newly passed law, goes to the debt collector as additional compensation."

"This is a really long backstory," said Mick.

"I know, but I'm almost done," replied The Executioner. "So this debt collector tells me that all the debtors with assets immediately started to move their money and companies to the countries where they were not vulnerable to a lawsuit. He said that because of that, he couldn't see his current line of work lasting more than another year. That's where I came in. I asked him if these student loan debtors, the ones without big assets overseas, if they were worth anything based on their family's assets and property back home. He said that he had thought about it, but that he couldn't come up with a legal way to do it."

"So you two came up with an illegal way?" asked Mick as he finished off another beer.

"Basically, yes. Within a week we had grabbed Chase, stuck a dirty bag over his head and made him contact his family. He was begging for his life. The family paid up. And then, a little later that year, a bunch of laws stripping rights from debtors were passed by Congress. And the president gladly signed it. The most draconian part of the law, as Blue Team would describe it, was what the law did to debtors overseas. It made runners fair game in so many ways. It's sort of a long technical explanation, but it paved the way for a bunch of guys to get into the debt collecting business. I did a few more jobs with the same guy, and then eventually I got passed on to his friend who had amazing connections and resources back in the US. He identifies debtors overseas, I track them down, and he gets a commission. And sometimes I find the debtors, but I need his help with moving the money from their families back in the US. I still work for the same guy."

"Are you seriously saying that you invented this kidnap and ransom tactic?"

"Well, as far as I know I was the first to apply it to student loan debtors, yeah."

"Man, that was like the worst superhero origin story ever," said Mick.

"What?"

"Your origin story. The Executioner's origin story. It goes like this: He was broke and pissed off, in a general sort of way. And one day he fell into a vat of toxic American expats. When he came out, he had the powers of debt collection and an iron bar."

"I can see why this Alison chick got rid of you," said The Executioner with a laugh.

"But, serious question, what is the involvement of the US government and the big debt collection agencies? Are they involved?"

"No. Not at all. The US government outsources its dirty work. Its involvement is indirect. And the larger debt collection agencies back home don't see the overseas market as worth their effort anymore. They are fully focused on the domestic market. Here overseas it's only small players and specialists like me. All bad people, of course."

"Yeah, you don't have much of a fan club. Alison seems to want you dead or very dead."

"I'm a symbolic target I suppose. She should go after the big debt collectors. But their headquarters are protected by some serious security. Plus, attacking some no-name workers at a collection agency building in Delaware or Houston won't get the anarchists very much press. And apparently I'm someone that would get some media attention. Well, not me; but rather my grossly exaggerated persona. Did she say what they wanted to do to me?"

"She and her friend said they want to bury you. But I'm not sure if they actually meant digging a hole in the ground and then throwing dirt on top of you. I think they just want to kill you in whatever way possible."

"Hmm."

The conversation went through a very brief pause as Mick ordered more beer, despite his drunkenness.

"I'm curious, you didn't say why you first went overseas. Do you have student loan debt?" asked Mick.

"No. Why do you think that I would have student loans?"

"I don't know. Your description of Indonesia and other stuff makes it sound like you've been to university. Plus, if you're from Cairo, you're poor white trash," said Mick, emboldened by the alcohol. "So you would need loans for college."

"High school graduates can actually read. You know that, right?" said The Executioner. "Anyways, from my years of chasing university graduates, I would have to say that some of them are the dumbest people I've ever met. Education doesn't make people smart; life does."

"You notice any difference in how Americans here in Asia adapt? Like those with a college education versus those without? Are...is one of those...them....not fitting? Fitting in?" asked Mick, now heavily slurring his words.

"No. Not really. Not a big difference that I can see. It often comes down to hard work, common sense, and flexibility," answered The Executioner. "Of course, the most successful of the runners are frat boys with business degrees. That seems to really annoy some of the other debtors."

The Executioner had by now cut himself off and switched to juice mixed with tonic water. As for Mick, his inebriation had passed into a new phase. It was time for a mild tirade. And something clicked in his head when he heard the word 'flexibility.'

"Yeah, Americans are flexible. If you offer them a raise in their social status or economic position, they'll shit on the flag and run off to whatever country: as a mercenary, a propaganda loon for the website of some enemy state, a breeder, a convert, whatever... They have zero loyalty. Do you know why? Because Americans have never had their loyalty tested. We're not Jews or Armenians or Koreans or some other nation that had to truly fight for our survival, we always lived as #1. It was easy. But at the point in time when there was both hardship and a way out, Americans took the easy way out. And these people now say 'I do not live in the US. I am not American anymore.' They're like those Americans that ran away to the Soviet Union because they thought they would be promoted to some sort of alpha-citizen. Stalin ended up putting a bullet in their heads. Probably because they were so useless. That's what we have now: useless runaway cry-babies who think hot Asian girls will flock to them."

"That came out of nowhere. Are you describing yourself, or your friends? Or me?" asked The Executioner, slightly amused by Mick's monologue.

"Yeah, sure. Me too. I'm flexible also. But not in the good way you used the term."

"And are you a useless runaway crybaby as well?"

"Uh..."

"I'm quoting your words back to you. Are you a useless runaway crybaby?"

"Oh, no. Certainly not," replied Mick. "I'm a member of the intelligentsia – the thinking class of non-productive losers."

Mick's slurred voice had now been raised to the volume one would expect from an American overseas – or, rather, from an American oil worker overseas on his weekend bar visit. Fortunately for Mick, it was still below the decibel level achieved by the large table of Chinese men across from them. And there were no Brazilians or Russians in the pub, so it was entirely up to the Chinese to drown out Mick's rambling.

"We're losers. Cockroaches!..."

"You don't have to tell everyone, Mick. They know."

"That's what I am...A ruined and adventurous offshoot of the bourgeoisie."

Mick paused yelling to drink while The Executioner said 'bourgeoisie' into the search app on his phone, not knowing exactly what this word meant.

"I'm all of it!" yelled Mick. "I'm a nomadic former soldier. I've been in Mexican jail a couple times. I'm a runaway student loan debt slave from America. I'm a con artist! But I'm no pimp. I'm no ragpicker. I'm no knife grinder. I've never begged!"

"What's a ragpicker?" asked The Executioner, now thoroughly bemused.

Mick then slid under the table, his hand grasping drunkenly at the plastic table cloth.

"Lumpenproletariat! I've been downgraded to a card carrying member of the lumpenproletariat!" Mick yelled from underneath the table.

The Chinese looked over and laughed.

"OK, you're not even speaking English anymore. Let's get you home, Mick."

The waiter, having gladly taken the generous tip and sharing part of the blame for the drunken state of Mick, helped The Executioner support Mick on his way out of the pub.

Mick, summoning all of his remaining energy and brain power, spoke to the waiter, saying "And now you are a porter. A porter! You are one of us. One of the...the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass!"

The waiter tried to ignore him.

"The French! The French, they have a word for it..."

Mick then vomited on the street.

Chapter Ten

Mick woke up in a bathtub. It was a generously large and empty tub, and he fit quite nicely. But he had no idea where he was. Then he remembered a table full of empty beer bottles. He also vaguely recalled yelling arcane Marxist terminology at The Executioner and others. How embarrassing, he thought. Hopefully they realized he was using the terms ironically.

Deciding to investigate his current predicament, Mick walked out of the bathroom and heard a conversation as soon as he stepped into the hallway. Both the voices were familiar in a good-bad sort of way. As he had no other option, he followed the sound of the voices.

Entering the kitchen, Mick saw Rukma berating The Executioner for his lack of skill with a Moka pot.

"It's European, dude. Why do you not know how to make coffee from this Moka pot?" laughed Rukma.

"I'm not European. I'm American," said The Executioner. "I buy my coffee from a person who makes it for me. Or I press a button on a machine that does the same. Or I tell my phone to tell the machine to make one for me."

Seeing Mick, The Executioner added "Mick, if you want coffee...sorry, you can't have any. Rukma is too rude to make coffee for his guests. I hope you know how to use this."

Picking The Executioner's phone up off the counter, Mick stepped over and scanned the Moka pot and said "Find video tutorial."

"See? He's smart," said Rukma. "Watch the video, don't bother me."

Finding what he was looking for, Mick watched the short and very simple video.

Then, taking the coffee grounds away from The Executioner, he said "You're putting the coffee in the wrong part. Let me do it..."

"Do you want some water to drink first, before the coffee?" asked The Executioner. "You puked like six times last night on the street. That's why we threw you in the bathtub. Rukma would have killed us both if you threw up on his floor."

"Do you have anything to drink that has flavor and sugar? Like juice or a sports drink? And I need some hang-over or headache pills."

After going through three cans of coconut water and medicating himself, Mick decided to inquire about the previous night. The facts given matched what he had already guessed had happened: he got drunk, he got sick, The Executioner couldn't take him back to the hotel, and he was generously offered a spot in Rukma's bathtub for the night.

"Hey, sometime today I need to go back to the hotel to get my stuff."

"Yeah...how did you leave that hotel, by the way?" asked The Executioner jokingly.

"You know, I have no idea."

"We put him in wheelie bin," said Rukma with a grin.

"What's a wheelie bin, Rukma?" asked The Executioner.

"It's a bin with wheels."

"A bin?"

Rukma rolled his eyes and spoke the word into his phone.

The Executioner looked over and read the word in Bahasa Indonesian: 'garbage can.'

"Rukma, I'm not Australian. In America we say garbage can."

"This isn't America."

"So it's Australia then?" asked The Executioner sarcastically.

"Close to Australia. Closer than America."

"We say bin in America also," said Mick, cutting in.

"OK. This talking is stupid," said Rukma. "I'm leaving. I need to take money to my...parents. Close windows before you leave, OK guys? No key for you. The door will lock by its own work when you leave."

And within ten seconds, Rukma was out the door and gone.

"So, what's your plan, Mick? Are you sticking around for a while? Heading back to Mexico? Elsewhere?"

"I'm done with Mexico. But I'm not sure where I'm heading. I need to think about it."

"I told you last night that I'll never live and work in the United States again," said The Executioner. "But what about you? Still holding out hope for a debt amnesty?"

"Nah, nobody believes that anymore. It's just something that some random powerless congressman brings up once in a while."

"Did you ever believe that would happen?" asked The Executioner.

"Well, at one point in time I did think that there was a chance. I thought that if enough people defaulted on their student loan debt, then maybe the government would just give up. I thought...or rather I hoped that the problem with student loan debt would reach some sort of critical mass and the government would just give up. You know, sort of like the prohibition of alcohol or illegal immigration – we've had about four amnesties for illegals."

"So why hasn't a debt amnesty happened? I mean...I know. I'm just wondering what goes through the minds of debtors who finally realize that there will be no amnesty."

"This isn't my original idea – I just read it somewhere," said Mick. "The basic reason is that the government and the lenders are not just going to walk away from trillions of dollars that are owed to them. My guess with the end of prohibition on alcohol is that alcohol could be taxed. It made sense from the revenue-hungry perspective of government to made alcohol legal. As for the immigration amnesties, well, both the government and corporations are invested in cheap labor that can be disposed of quickly. And anyways, the debt collection system is not a burden for the government and for the lenders. They make a profit. And the profit is guaranteed by law – as long as they can keep the debtors in the United States."

"Yeah, that's basically it," admitted The Executioner. "You just have to look at where the incentives and the interests lay. There is just too much invested in continuing the current system of student loan debt payments. Nobody is going to walk away from trillions."

"And that's why I live outside the United States," replied Mick. "Sometimes, though, I forget my circumstances and I start to make plans or form dreams or whatever. But then I snap back to reality and realize what I'm thinking of is hopeless, given where I'm at now in life. I will live and die overseas. America is becoming a fuzzy memory."

"But don't you miss home at all? Do you ever think about going back and giving it a try?" asked The Executioner.

"I have a dishonorable discharge from the US Army and massive student loan debt that defaulted. I would basically be living at the bottom rung of American society if I went back. So why would I ever consider going home?"

"Well, lots of runners are going home – probably thanks to me and my friends chasing them all over. What do you think it would be like for you if you went back?"

"My parents wouldn't refuse me my old bedroom if I showed up back in Metropolis," said Mick. "And I know that living with parents is something most people have to do these days, just like in every other third world country. But I couldn't do it after all these years of being independent. And nobody leaves small Midwestern towns and then returns home to live. There is no way I'm going back to Metropolis. And then there is the job situation..."

"Yeah, the American economy is not exactly a worker's paradise, is it?"

"That and my student loan repayments schedule would be crippling. The system has been reworked so that you will end up paying right up until retirement age – even though there's no such thing as retirement anymore. So one day you realize that you are an old man and that you have nothing. You'll end up eating at church soup kitchens and dying of some easily treatable ailment."

"I can see why you ran off," said The Executioner. He expressed sympathy, but not surprise. He knew this sort of story quite well from all the debtors that he tracked down.

"Not only that...With my credit rating, nobody would give me a real job," added Mick. "My student loan default has completely destroyed my rating. Employers have the pick of job applicants these days. And they filter the applicants without even reading the resumes. They use a number of simple tools. Credit rating is one of them. And then there is trying to find a place to live. Obviously, no bank will give me a loan for a house. But with a bad credit rating you can't get by any landlords or rental agencies. I would end up living in a shelter or, best case scenario, a weekly cash-payment place with a bunch of other young and hopeless men. And if these men weren't hopeless enough, you know how dating apps work, right?"

"What, they ask for your verified income?" asked The Executioner.

"Yeah, the good apps do that, but they also make it mandatory to show your credit rating. I mean...why would a girl or guy want to be with a person who would destroy their own hard-earned credit rating? The guy or girl you end up with won't pull you up to their level; you will pull them down to yours. They know that. That's why they wouldn't even glance at your profile. You are already filtered out."

"Why don't you just find a guy in the same sort of situation as you? He wouldn't discriminate, would he?" asked The Executioner.

"Maybe he wouldn't, but I would. Why would I choose a person like that? Two miserable, broke and destroyed guys? I can't even imagine what it's like for a guy who's seeking a girl..."

Mick poured himself some more coffee and added five sugar cubes.

"What about you? You hiding a wife or girlfriend somewhere?" asked Mick.

"No. No girlfriends recently. Not that I'm actually trying. I spend so much time traveling and jumping in and out of different expat social scenes."

"So, there's your chance for a nice American debt runner."

"I'm done with American women."

"Well, that's discriminatory," said Mick, in a not entirely serious sort of way. "Why not American girls?"

"Come on, have you met any local women here yet?"

"Not really. Alison scared them all away."

"OK, then. I'm not going to give you an answer," said The Executioner. "But after you have been here for a while, you will just know."

"Let me guess: submissive and always smiling...in the kitchen, bare foot and on birth control?"

The Executioner laughed.

"I know the stereotype, but anybody who told you that women in East and Southeast Asia are submissive must have last been here in the 19th century. In fact, I find them remarkably confident and straightforward. You need to quit listening to bitter white American women whose ex-husbands ordered a Cambodian wife."

"That's not very patriotic," said Mick in a disappointed and sarcastic tone.

"Patriotic? There are no patriots here. We need to invite Alison over and we'll have a trio of American rascals, all doing their bit to destroy the United States of America."

"Alison thinks that her group is helping rid the country of some cancerous tumor."

"Yeah, and they want to start by removing the brain and throwing it in the trash," said the Executioner. "They are the worst thing America has dealt with in decades."

"They're the new Islamists?" asked Mick.

"Nah. For America, the Islamists were a disease of the skin, but the anarchists are a disease of the heart."

"That's eloquent. Where did you steal that quote from?"

"I didn't steal it. I just thought it up now," said The Executioner. "We were using medical metaphors."

"I steal or paraphrase quotes all the time. And I can recognize when someone else is doing it."

"Well, whether or not I stole that quote, it's true."

"You know," said Mick. "I honestly can't see the anarchists running the country, or even running an apartment building. But they kill a lot of people who sort of have it coming. They're like a really murderous version of Robin Hood. The Islamists, they murdered indiscriminately. They didn't want to fix or help America, they wanted to burn it down."

"Well, the Islamists were an external problem, aside from a few wacko converts and the occasional Muslim American who decided to go all jihad. The anarchists were internal. Rather, they _are_ internal," said The Executioner.

"Yeah, it's not the regular pattern of civilizational decline."

"You don't have a PhD in history, do you? Is that what you spent your student loans on?"

"No. I'm surprised how little you know about the people that you track," said Mick. "Now back to what I was saying: when a civilization is in decline, there is usually internal rot, but there should also be some barbarians at the gates."

"Like immigrants?"

"No!...you racist. Immigrants are attracted by the centers of civilization and its prosperous outposts. They fit within the system in a symbiotic manner. They don't want to destroy or plunder. They want to join."

"So who are the barbarians today?" asked The Executioner.

"Well, there are none. The consensus of the international state system is that we need to cooperate to manage these sorts of people."

"Like how?"

"Well, for example, at a low level, pirates. Even states that hate each other cooperate to destroy pirates at sea."

"Uh huh. Poor pirates. But shouldn't the decadent centers of civilization pay the barbarians not to plunder them?" asked The Executioner.

He was not entirely joking.

"Well, actually, European governments funded a lot of the old Islamist terrorist groups. They paid tens of million of dollars at a time for hostages, sometimes for only one or two hostages."

"Europeans? Did we do the same? I always heard that we relentlessly killed them and refused to ever negotiate," said The Executioner.

"Yeah, back then we wouldn't pay the terrorists to release American hostages. Same as the British and the Canadians. Maybe even the Aussies, I can't recall exactly. This is all a vague recollection from a university seminar class back in the day."

"So European countries would pay tens of millions of dollars to get back just two hostages?"

"Yeah, sometimes they paid that much," said Mick. "It depended on how serious they thought the kidnappers were."

"God, and just imagine that the Europeans used to dominate the world. How did they get so soft?" pondered The Executioner.

The Executioner then started to think, and to connect disparate thoughts in his head. He started to form an idea.

"Couldn't people have pretended to be Islamists and then demanded ten million dollars for some Danish backpacker or an Italian journalist or whatever?"

"Yeah, and they did," said Mick. "There were criminal groups that specialized in it. But usually they were not too savvy internationally, so often they sold the hostages to actual terrorist groups that could deliver and collect ransom demands."

"I never hear about this anymore. What happened?"

"Islamist terrorist groups mostly burned themselves out. It was like all other violent radical movements: they have a limited lifespan. They are still around, obviously. I made a decent amount of money ripping off them and their funders. But they are greatly degraded. Also, NGOs and journalists quit going to the worst of the places, thus fewer targets for kidnapping. So Islamists switched to oil and drug smuggling to finance themselves. They also turned to regular taxation in their areas of control."

"Taxation? Sounds like they were imitating government tactics. The bastards," said The Executioner jokingly.

"Yeah, exactly like a government. You would be surprised how many states started in a similar way."

"OK, so why don't the anarchists do the same today? They must need the revenue? Why not kidnap rich brats and demand that their billionaire parents pay up?" asked The Executioner.

"I don't know. You would have to ask them. I think that they are just very focused on murder and mayhem. So they would want to go straight for killing the billionaire, not stealing his money," said Mick. "Plus, they seem crazy. I have the feeling that if they ever grabbed twenty million in cash from a billionaire, they might set it all on fire and call it performance art."

"You know, I've met some rich kids in China and Southeast Asia. Rich American kids. They like to...slum it with all the dirty expats who have no money," said The Executioner disdainfully. "But obviously, they have no student loan debt and so are of no interest to me. But what if an anarchist was to kidnap and ransom them?"

"You should show up to an Insurrectionary Anarchist meeting and float that idea. They might like it."

"I'm not talking about real anarchists," said The Executioner. "I'm talking about imitators. For example, there is some debt collector out there pretending that he is me. He wears the same gear, uses the same tools, and uploads videos claiming to be me. So what's to prevent me from pretending I'm an anarchist and to start collecting ransoms?"

"You want to be a representative of the new barbarians? Plundering what remains of Western Civilization?"

"No, specifically just Europe. Apparently the Americans won't pay ransoms to terrorist groups," said The Executioner, with no hint of irony.

"You could also add rich Arabs to that list. They are accustomed to occasionally paying ransoms for family members."

"Huh. I didn't think of that. I guess they have money...so why not? I had heard of people making money by targeting Qataris and Saudis – but from killing; not kidnap and ransom."

"I know all about wringing money out of Saudis and Qataris, but how do you make money from killing people?" asked Mick, almost not wanting to know the answer.

"Well, specifically it was hunting. Not just plain old killing. I heard about it from this jerk named Tim. He's in the same line of work that I am. Anyways, he has a military background. And after that he fought in France as a mercenary. Then, afterwards he was looking for ways to make money, and he was doing some security contracting work in the Gulf Arab countries. At some point there he met a Pakistani guy. The Pakistani specialized in arranging bustard hunts."

"What are bustard hunts?"

"Bustards are birds. _Houbara_ bustards, to be specific. Fat and slow. They are on the ground minding their own business and eating seeds and shit like that. And you come along and scare them. Then you shoot them out of the sky. Rich Arabs and Saudi princes love it. It's like an obsession for them."

"So like duck or pheasant hunting?" asked Mick.

"Yeah, but bustards are really hard to come by, especially from early spring until late fall when they all migrate north. You need to go to really isolated places in Central Asia as there are none left in Pakistan or Afghanistan," explained The Executioner.

"I almost don't want to know how this involves making money from killing people."

"OK, so...Tim and this Pakistani guy must have been brainstorming over drinks one night, plus they are probably both sociopaths...or psychopaths. I'm not sure which one. Anyways, the Pakistani guy told Tim that he despises his Arab clients because they treat him like a dog. The Arabs would often make the Pakistani eat and pray separately from them. Stuff like that. But, it's not a problem for the Pakistani as his profit margins are not looking good and he's thinking about getting out of the bustard safari business. So Tim, being a psychopath, comes up with an idea for parallel hunting."

"What's parallel hunting?" asked Mick.

"Well...the Pakistani guy arranges a safari out in Turkmenistan or Kazakhstan or wherever for the Arabs to hunt bustards. And, at the same time, Tim arranges a safari in the same area for people who want to hunt Arabs."

Mick couldn't speak.

Then, after a pause, he burst out laughing.

"Why have I not heard of this sort of thing before?" asked Mick incredulously.

"Well, for one, Tim's clients were mainly Russians. And nobody believes any of the crazy stories and rumors that come out of Russia."

"But someone must have missed the Arabs when they didn't return?"

"Yeah, the Saudis and Qataris did notice that a suspiciously high number of people were not coming back from bustard hunting."

"And they obviously would have noticed that all the missing bustard hunters were clients of the Pakistani guy, right?" asked Mick.

"Well, the Pakistani guy spread it out a bit. He paid for information from other hunting safari companies' employees so that he could target their clients as well. He also got tips from the foreign ministry employees of the Central Asia countries about impending VIP visits from Qatar, Saudi Arabia and the Emirates."

"How did this guy Tim find people who wanted to hunt Arabs?" asked Mick. "How do you advertise that sort of thing?"

"I don't know exactly. He said that he knew a Russian guy who did overseas security for Ukrainian and Russian oligarchs, and that guy was able to hook him up."

"Did the Arabs ever fight back?"

"With a bird gun? Versus a large caliber sniper rifle? I'm not sure. But I doubt it," said The Executioner. "Plus, the Russians were pretty hardcore. They were not soft bureaucrats or stupid tourists. Many of them had gotten rich when they transitioned from the military and security services into more lucrative jobs. One of the Russian hunters even destroyed a Qatari Air Force cargo plane on the ground in Central Asia, out on some hillbilly Turkmen runway. He RPG'd it. I think the Qataris were actually royal family members who had commandeered an air force ride. Whatever. The local authorities in Turkmenistan blamed some non-existent terrorist group."

"This guy Tim, you said, is a debt collector now. So I assume the business model was not sustainable?" asked Mick.

"No, it wasn't sustainable. Tim said that nobody goes bustard hunting anymore, what with the birds being so effective at self-defense and all."

"Damn."

"On the upside, the bustard population has apparently surged back to very healthy levels," noted The Executioner.

"I heard plenty of ridiculous rumors and conspiracy theories when I studied the Middle East, but I can't say I heard anything like that."

"Well, you should get online and spread some crazy conspiracy theory about the bustard hunting deaths. Conspiracies theories are a great way of having your enemy inflict injuries on themselves."

"How does that work?" asked Mick.

"Well, for example, looking at Japan, Korea and China. Hundreds of years ago Japan realized that the outside world had surpassed it in everyway possible. They were weak and were dominated by outsiders. So, the Japanese leaders in, like, the 19th century, decided to travel the world and find the best of other societies and countries and introduce those things to Japan."

"Is this a real story, or merely a random historical guess?"

"No, I had to hang out with some former graduate students when I was tracking debtors. I listened to some runners with master's degrees and PhDs in Asian history and politics and stuff. So I'm only repeating what some smart guy said. It seemed like a great explanation, and I remember it pretty well."

"What does this have to do with conspiracy theories?" asked Mick.

"Just let me talk, it's not a long anecdote. So...Japan decided that it was behind the rest of the world in economics, infrastructure, education, government, industry, military, everything...And they set out to fix that. And they were successful. They went from peasants farming and dudes on rickety boats catching fish to a huge economic, cultural and military force. Now, imagine if instead of admitting that they were behind the rest of the world because of their own cultural, political and social inadequacies, they blamed some massive hidden conspiracy as the source of their problems. Then there would be nothing that they could do about it. They could just say 'We are poor and backwards because of some outsiders oppressing us.' But instead they decided to seriously analyze and fix the cause of their ills, which were internal."

"OK, fine. That's Japan. But what about countries that were colonized? They had their resources stolen and they were kept backwards by an actual real conspiracy," countered Mick.

"Korea. Indonesia. China. Malaysia. Philippines. Vietnam. Look at these countries! They were all colonized – some for hundred of years. Some were utterly destroyed in war. Korea was stamped on so many times. And after the Second World War they were a peasant farming society that was at the same level of development of the African countries at the same time. But look at them now. Korea could have blamed China or Japan or the Americans or the decades of North Korean rule for their problems, but they haven't. They didn't. They said, let's fix ourselves. Let's lift ourselves up. How do we do that?"

"By their own bootstraps?"

"Yeah, why not? They all have in this part of the world. And they deserve the prosperity they now have. I mean...Korea. Look at them. I can't go to Korea because the Korean embassy will laugh at me if I ask for a visa. They are superior. They have surpassed America. I am from a third world country. America is a wreck. Whose fault is that? The Illuminati? Zionists? Anarchists? Islamists? China? Freemasons? Reptilians? Europeans? No, it's our own fault. The fault lies within America. Now, we have crazies that believe some dumb shit, but in general we acknowledge that our weakness is as a result of internal rot. We'll eventually fix it. We'll rebound, just like Japan did after we nuked and destroyed them. Just like China after they suffered under Mao."

"I imagine it's probably far more complex than that..." added Mick.

"Yeah, probably. But my point still stands. Every time I hear about some insane conspiracy theory that's circulating in a country where the people and/or the government hate America and Americans, I think: _good_. I'm glad that you think that. Can you imagine if these people were like Japanese, Koreans or Chinese? They would be, in the worst case scenario, economic and military forces that would destroy us. They could do it in a single generation. But they aren't doing it, and they won't be doing it. They're too busy blaming anybody but themselves. They paralyze themselves with anger and they refuse to fix or even merely acknowledge their problems. This is a godsend. America needs more than a generation to fix itself, and this gives us some breathing space."

Mick didn't say anything in reply.

"So, you're the Middle Eastern expert. You must have a thought on this?" asked The Executioner.

"Oh, I don't know. I think it has more to do with the culture of predatory greed and corruption and nepotism of the ruling classes in Arab countries than with people's beliefs in conspiracy theories," said Mick.

"Nah. It's Mossad. The Israelis have created robo-bird cyber-flocks to eat Arab crops and spray virile Muslim men with birth control hormones," said The Executioner.

"You're being sarcastic, but I wouldn't be surprised if that conspiracy actually exists in some people's minds."

"Well, in fact, I think we should promote conspiracy theories," stated The Executioner.

"But then we might end up with there being a conspiracy theory that blames the existence of conspiracy theories on an American conspiracy," said Mick.

"I can live with that..."

After letting the conversation take a break, The Executioner exclaimed "Wait, we got sidetracked. Let's get back to the anarchist kidnap and ransom thing."

"Are you just talking about that to amuse yourself, or are you getting a business start-up idea?

"I'll be honest; I'm getting really close to being done with debt collecting. I was going to use your sadly non-existent money to leave the business. That's not going to happen now, but I still want to get out of debt collecting. It's turning into nickels and dimes. I have some savings, but I still need to find a new revenue stream, and it sounds like the European countries are reliable sources of income when you kidnap their citizens."

"Well, good luck with that," said Mick.

"But... I can't say I know anything about the Arab world. And you – if my information was not a total lie – you have spent the last decade or so ripping off rich Arabs."

"Yeah, first for the Army and then independently."

"You speak the language and you know the culture?"

"Absolutely."

"Huh. You know," said The Executioner. "I'm good for figuring out the European side of things. And there are all sorts of Europeans throughout Asia. But parts of Southeast Asia are absolutely crawling with Arab princes and rich kids. They can't visit Europe anymore, so lots of them are showing up here."

"What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is," said The Executioner, "are you looking for a real job? Or do you want to get in line to teach English?"

Mick thought about it. He thought seriously about it.

Chapter Eleven

Mick responded to the knock on his door by opening his phone and looking at the surveillance camera to see who was there. To his total lack of surprise, it was The Executioner.

Opening the door, Mick told him to come in and help himself to the strange Indonesian-style fusion burritos that he was experimenting with.

The Executioner reluctantly sat down and was served a burrito of unknown content.

"I'm going to the airport. I have to head up to Canada for a short business trip," said The Executioner, now looking at his half-eaten burrito. "It sucks...but, uh..."

"The burrito?"

"No. Canada does. But yeah, also your burrito."

"Not a fan of Canada?" asked Mick, clearly not offended by the slight against his burrito creation.

"I have no problem with their foreign policy or how they've made it hard for Americans to visit – I understand their reasons for that. If they let down their guard they would be swarming with cockroaches in no time at all. But it's just that Canadians are so smug and smarmy."

"Don't worry, they're a lot better in real life. They just suck on the internet," countered Mick.

"Who doesn't suck on the internet?"

"Yeah, good point. That's not untrue," admitted Mick. "But aside from dealing with Canadians, aren't you worried about anarchists or Blue Team up there?"

"In Canada?"

"Yeah, I have no idea about what countries are anarchist nests and what countries are anarchist-free. I've never had to think about that before, but it should be an occupational hazard for you."

"Well, I did some research on that – and not much else," admitted The Executioner. "Basically, neither the Insurrectionary Anarchists nor Blue Team have ever done an operation there. I guess Canada still has an effective internal security regime. We should probably outsource our law enforcement to them."

"Maybe there are no anarchist operations in Canada because they are OK with the Canadian government?" guessed Mick.

"The anarchists aren't OK with anybody...including themselves."

"Maybe they only want to visit warm countries? Ones with beaches?"

"Nah. You're thinking of Blue Team," said The Executioner. "They have to go to those countries because those are the ones that runners mostly head for. If you're a debtor that's going to run away to another country, you might as well make it a warm one."

"I can't argue with that."

"So, yeah...I need to wrap up some loose ends in Canada and then swing through Los Angeles. I need to sort out my situation with my current boss there. After that...I don't know. I'm, uh..., I don't know yet where I'll go. I'm not going to base myself in Indonesia for a while. I should probably take a break from this place for a bit," The Executioner said as he shrugged. "But what about you? You seem to like Indonesia. Just keep in mind that if you want to work with me, you'll have to stick to somewhere in Southeast Asia. No pressure yet, but you'll need to give me an answer soon on whether or not you want the job."

"I'll give living here a try. I've had enough travel for a while. I guess I'll stick around and figure out which city I want to live in. And I'll have an answer for you soon," said Mick. "Where are you planning on going, to base yourself?"

"I'm not sure yet where I want to go," said The Executioner.

The Executioner knew exactly where he wanted to go. He had already decided on Vietnam.

*****

Walking through San Diego International Airport, The Executioner looked for the gate of his transfer flight to Vancouver.

Getting closer to his gate, he could hear it: the unmistakable sound of Canada's newest crop of moderately wealthy entrepreneurs. At a distance, it sounded like a particularly agitated pack of hyenas, hysterical with laughter. As he got closer, The Executioner could start to make out the sounds of individuals, each chirping loudly in a very animated manner.

Standing near the gate, the Canadians' conversations came into focus. However, the conversations could not be described as back-and-forth exchanges, but rather monologues, with each person shouting past the other while ignoring the other side of the conversation: "I own a place in La Jolla, right on the beach...," "I golfed at the best course in...," "I sold my condo in Whistler and bought a place in Encinitas as well as a property in the desert near...," "I got an American girlfriend down here, but my kids don't like her, so I...," "I bought a boat for my place on Lake Havasu, and then I flipped it for a profit a year later to some guy from Alberta, and now I...," etcetera.

'I, I, me, me,' and the occasional 'we.' But almost never a 'you.'

The Canadian men had faces that matched their voices: their skin was bronzed and their teeth were bleached. Their faces were frozen in permanent Cheshire Cat grins, while the women's faces were paralyzed unsmiling in the grip of their most recent skin tightening operation. Both genders appeared to have spent at least half an hour on their hair.

But one gender predominated. Only half of the men were with their Canadian partner. The rest had just taken leave of their young and vulnerable American girlfriends after having dispensed enough Canadian dollars to tide them over until their return. The most attractive of the American women in the tourist areas of California and the American southwest, outside of the small elite upper class, were now often the somewhat willing mail-order brides of the mid 21st century, desperately looking for a middle aged Canadian or European man to snatch up yet another foreclosed home at auction and provide them with an apartment or house where they could live comfortably, like a waiting mistress.

Off to the side of the boarding area, doing their best to separate themselves from the cackling horde of British Columbians and Albertans, were those Canadians who had, until arriving at the airport, managed to avoid coming into contact with this undesirable class of their compatriots. Quiet and calm, they certainly did not spend their holidays revving the throttle on any sort of machine, whether waterborne or confined to land. These 'other' Canadians were wiry, fit and had spent exactly zero minutes on their hair that morning. Their time in California and Arizona had been passed in kayaks, desert canyons, climbing pitches, and on remote trails. And their nights had been spent in tents or at organic farm B&Bs; not at condos, all-inclusive resorts, or McMansions. They were superior, and they knew it. Their social status was demonstrated by not showing off their social status like those Canadians who were now rushing to the gate, having heard the call for the 'Elite Ultra Platinum' ticket holders to begin boarding.

Sitting in the plane, The Executioner began to ponder his chore in Canada. He was annoyed that he had to take the initiative himself and pay for the intel on the imposter debt collector. The tracking service he contracted charged a lot, and it was taking money out of the start-up fund that he had set aside for the planned kidnap business. It would have been so much cheaper and easier if Marv had shown a real interest and taken care of finding the annoying new competitor. But The Executioner had decided to keep this trip to himself.

The Executioner thought about the task at hand. It had never presented itself as a difficult goal, just an expensive one. The imitation executioner was clearly young and not very well-traveled. The younger generation in America was clueless about managing their identity and affairs online. They were pathetic in their attempts to access info, and they increasingly did not know how to be anonymous and untraceable. It was the first generation of Americans that the government had managed to control in regards to their internet activities. Kids these days were even paying for movies online.

Turning his attention to the operating environment, The Executioner decided to briefly read-up on Canada. He had never really thought about the country before, except for a quick check on the Canadian status of the anarchists and Blue Team. Canada was sort of just there, innocuous and unthreatening. Reading through some brief intros to Canada, he focused on the ones written by Americans as guides for fellow American refugees, debt runners and labor migrants.

Canada soon came into focus as a country that, in many ways, was a mirror to the United States. And like America, it had a problem with its urban/rural divide. It was not only demographics and numbers, but a cultural disconnect. In America it had been the prosperous coastal cities with 'Fly-over Country' in between. Money had increasingly flowed towards the business elites and the government on the East Coast and the cities close to the Pacific Ocean, leaving decaying infrastructure and failing government and communities throughout Fly-over Country.

In Canada, roughly the same process occurred, but starting from a later date and not in such an extreme manner. Here the divide was referred to by the media as MTV versus the ROC. MTV was Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver, all three slowly, inexorably moving toward the status of independent and wealthy city states. The ROC was the 'Rest of Canada,' irrelevant and hardly worth mentioning, despite most of the wealth being derived from natural resources there. While the 'Rest of Canada' had originally been used to describe English-speaking Canada as opposed to Quebec, it now came to denote all of Canada outside of the major international hubs that were fortunate enough to have NBA franchises. But the Rest of Canada, sad as it was, still had a living standard so far above the American average that not only Latin Americans attempted the border crossing into Canada, but American citizens themselves.

Life in the Rest of Canada was not worth living, according to the cultural elite of Canada, but it was a suitable place for American doctors to ply their trade, as Canadian doctors refused to work there. Canada wanted America's medical professionals, and occasionally a specific type of engineer when the economic demands of the day called for it. But most other Americans were considered undesirable. They were a burden. It had started well over a decade earlier when large numbers of American 'losers,' as they were memorably referred to in one Parliamentary debate, made good on their promise to 'move to Canada' after yet another presidential candidate from the wrong side of the aisle was elected. They were, however, people who could offer next to nothing to Canada's economy or society. Canada already had its own slacker class of malcontent middle class white youth who were unhappy with everything and in love with themselves.

Not impressed with the new class of illegal immigrants, Canadians eventually gave in and adopted the international term of 'cockroach' for Americans. As the Canadian Prime Minister had stated recently, after his approval rating had dropped to a personal all-time low of 24%, "The cockroaches have destroyed their own country. Why should we let them come here illegally to destroy ours?" His approval rating jumped immediately to 36%, which was good enough to secure an overwhelming parliamentary majority in the next election.

After testing life in their northern neighbor, many Americans left Canada on their own, disillusioned by the weather, their low social status and the struggle to survive on Canadian minimum wage. Furthermore, the shock of meeting redneck Canadians, mean police, and evangelical Christians north of the border was too much for the young Americans who had mistakenly believed that Canada would be their utopia. The exception was in British Columbia, where the general laziness and blasé attitude of the younger locals, combined with a lack of obvious difference in dialect, allowed the cockroaches to blend in without too much trouble. However, Canada eventually adopted a strict border regime and the Canada option was no longer realistic for Americans who wished to exit permanently. But apparently the imposter executioner didn't realize that.

The province of British Columbia, where The Executioner was heading, was basically a big Idaho with an uncreative version of San Francisco attached to it in the form of the mega-port city of Vancouver. The interior of British Columbia and all of Alberta felt distinctly American. If there was any real difference between western Canada and the northwestern American states, it existed only in the minds of the people – and in a way that could not be described in any objective manner. The people wore the exact same clothes and drove the same trucks. They shot the same animals with the same guns. They sounded the same and they acted the same. Even the hippies, the organic farmers and the microbrewery snobs were the exact same on each side of the US-Canada border.

America was exciting and dangerous; Canada was boring, but reliable and reasonably comfortable. That seemed to be the message The Executioner was getting from his readings. However, nobody could create an index to measure this in any scientific way. The solution, in the mind of the Canadian government, was to tell Canadians that they had an undefinable essence – and to hand out lots of free Canadian flags. Canada had reached peak Maple Leaf a decade or so back, with every corporate product festooned with a red Maple Leaf and backed up by a nationalistic ad campaign that strongly hinted at the moral, social and spiritual superiority of Canadians to the rest of the world – particularly to America. Nobody seemed to care that most of these corporations had a majority of non-Canadian shareholders, or that many of the ad campaigns were designed in New York. As for what made Canada truly unique, a patriot could not describe it; he could only _feel_ it. An imaginary nation was born, and it was quite pleased with itself.

The real difference, once people and culture were put aside, was that north of the border there was far better infrastructure and more effective governance. This had been the case for quite a while. Eventually the United States became an object of pity. Making comparisons of living standards, governance and infrastructure was just beating a very dead donkey. But the donkey's carcass had long ago decomposed. So Canada quietly declared victory in its non-existent war against America. Of course, only Canada noticed.

The Executioner read on and looked through the list of brief do's and don'ts for the newcomer to Canada. To his surprise, 'eh' had long ago faded from the Canadian vernacular, confined now to elderly men in a few isolated rural areas. Like in the United States, most of the worst swear words, particularly the f-word, had become associated with the poor and uneducated. Newer generations on both sides of the border abandoned its use, and hearing it was met not with shock or offense, but with pity, disdain and disgust.

In general, there seemed to be no real differences that The Executioner needed to worry about. Stick to ordering a local brand of beer and you will be OK in Canada. Many Canadians believed, for reasons unknown, that their beer was the best beer in the world. The rest of the world had a very different opinion, but Canada enjoyed this particular delusion.

Walking through the Vancouver International Airport, it was clear that all arrivals from international destinations were being herded through a long and elaborate Canadian theme park, as interpreted by a consultancy firm hired by the government. Passengers were soon enveloped by a surprisingly real-looking Pacific coast rain forest, complete with waterfalls, actual trees, and projections of the various animals that lived within it. The sounds of nature at work – wind, water and animals – were possibly an attempt to soothe the foreigners in preparation for the Canadian customs and immigration officers.

The next section of the walk-through displays exhibited the indigenous people – as the consulting firm imagined they lived several hundred years before. Walking by a mock-up of a Salish Indian village, one of the Canadians in front of The Executioner pointed to the natives preparing salmon for a smoke-house and made a remark to his travel companions about the scene lacking authenticity due to the absence of empty liquor bottles and unconscious men. The group of Canadians hooted with laughter.

The Executioner thought back to the guide to Canada that he had read on the plane. One confusing section in the guide stated that Canadians were extremely racist against the aboriginal people who lived there. Knowing his own country's romanticized image of Native Americans and often having been proudly told by other Americans that they were one-quarter full-blood Cherokee, he couldn't understand where the Canadians got their hate. It seemed like something straight out of the 18th century. The guidebook merely stated that it was complicated, and that you should just accept it as a Canadian eccentricity that is found across all social classes and ideological spectrums in Canada. Canadians on the left condemned racism publically, but after a few drinks in private they reverted to the Canadian default opinion of natives.

The nature and anthropology tour ended and the automotive seizure section began. Leading towards the Canada Border Services Agency was a full wall of luxury and street racing cars, turned into trophies and put behind glass by the Vancouver Police Department as a warning to other would-be racers. Each one was accompanied by information that included the size of the fine (huge), the jail term (surprisingly long), and a photo of the racer (Asian). Vancouver's street racers had apparently taken to removing their license plates and outrunning the police while driving by cameras without being detected. The Executioner wondered why Vancouver didn't have police intercept drones or trackers in everybody's cars like in the US. He also wondered if the unattended children of Asian businessmen were the worst of Canada's social problems.

The two-week business visa that The Executioner purchased at great cost in Jakarta was accepted without comment and he walked into the strangely familiar foreign country of Canada. He thought again about having to pay for everything in Canada himself, but he didn't want Marv to know he was in there. In fact, The Executioner decided that he was going to greatly reduce the amount of information he shared with him. But he still had to share his biodata with the Canadian border guards. In the next section after customs, a stern officer collected his data and a massive cash deposit, refundable when The Executioner leaves the country on-time and with his biodata matching the entry records.

Soon afterwards, he sat on the train to downtown Vancouver watching a video screen cycle through photos and videos of rioters smashing windows, burning cars and carrying armloads of merchandise. The Vancouver police had, according to the ticker at the bottom of the screen, caught almost all of the rioters who were dumb enough to not cover their faces fully. Now they were looking only for those who had thought ahead far enough to show up for the riot with facemasks. These rioters, who seem to have gotten away with their crime, all seemed to prefer the same white skull bones on black cloth design for their masks.

The Executioner was left confused by the display, not sure what a riot that included almost 3000 arrests could possibly be about in one of the most prosperous countries in the world. A quick check on his phone led to a wiki on the 'Vancouver NBA Championship Game Seven Riot.' The Executioner wondered what kind of people rioted after losing a championship. The American approach of rioting after a victory seemed far more reasonable.

Losing interest, The Executioner turned his attention to another screen. A news channel was broadcasting a report about the parliamentary inquiry underway to investigate Canada's increasingly poor performance in international sporting competitions. The next story featured a brief three-way debate between an economist, a real estate agent, and a racist over the issue of whether or not rich Asians' investment purchasing of houses in Vancouver was responsible or not for the median house price creeping over $2.1 million CAD ($4.7 million USD). The final story was a local news item about robberies and thefts. The screen was filled with close up photos of crime suspects in action. They were the grimiest and most suspicious looking Caucasians that The Executioner had ever seen. But overall, the news broadcast left him with the impression that Canadian problems were rather mild.

Looking out the window of the train, The Executioner spotted a huge billboard. It was a public relations advertisement for Canada's border drones. The Executioner recognized the distinctive drone that was pictured. It was a Canadrone. The slogan below it simply read: 'Keeping Canada Safe.' The Canadian government seemed so proud of their all-white drones, decorated with red maple leaves that could be seen from every angle – included the angle you die from, if one could actually see that far. But, spray painted across the billboard was 'MURDER' in red letters. The paint had dripped a little, giving the impression of flowing blood. Perhaps, thought The Executioner, not every Canadian was proud of their drones.

He checked his phone to see how close he was to his destination. But that wasn't necessary, as all he had to do was look out the window to see the city skyline approaching. A massive glass hive of condos rose up out of Vancouver's downtown. The city's core was a giant bedroom, and not much else. The Executioner was bored already. And then it started to rain.

But the next day promised to be more interesting. He was planning on meeting the imposter executioner.

*****

Annie and Rose's faces popped up on The Executioner's phone and immediately launched into a full recounting of every fun and interesting thing that they had done since he left Vietnam. Then, after pausing to catch their breath for a second, the sisters asked how soon he would be back in town. They stopped just short of demanding an immediate return. He decided not to tell them that he planned on basing himself in Saigon. He wanted to be 100% positive of this before he told them.

"Well, it only takes two hours to fly to Saigon from Indonesia, so I can visit on any weekend. Talk to your grandma and ask when would be a good time. I can even visit on a weekday if you two are on school holidays."

"I will ask my grandma," said Annie. "Our mom is in your room, but she said she will share our room if you visit."

"Your mom? Rebecca?"

"Yes, our mom is here."

"You didn't tell me that your mom would be visiting."

"She came home yesterday," said Rose. "It was a surprise."

"For how long will she be visiting?"

"Always," said Rose.

"Forever," said Annie, correcting her little sister.

"Oh?"

"Yes," said Annie.

"Your mother is not going back to America?"

"No, she is staying here," said Annie. The expression on the two girls' faces was one of pure happiness.

"What about Marv?"

"We don't like Marv. And our mom doesn't like him either," said Annie as Rose nodded in agreement.

"Well, don't worry about Marv. But are you sure that your mom is staying? Are you sure she won't go back to Los Angeles?"

"No! She promised us that she would never leave again," said Annie. Her eyes were starting to fill with tears. The Executioner couldn't recall every seeing any person this happy.

"OK, I'm glad that your mother is back home with you. I will give you lots of time before I visit again. You both should spend lots of time with your mom and with your mom only, alright? You can have visitors later."

"No! Visit us again soon, please!" demanded Rose.

"Yes, you must come to our home again." said Annie.

"OK, I promise," said The Executioner.

Chapter Twelve

The Executioner, waiting impatiently over his morning coffee, checked the text message as soon as it arrived. It read: 'Your friend is with us. Come join us.' An address for a house in somewhere called Maple Ridge was sent in the next message. It was going to take a while to get to this far-flung suburb. He assumed that this was the location of choice in the Vancouver area for disposing of people. The inquiry he voiced into his phone ('Maple Ridge crime rate high?') was answered with a murder rate per capita map of the Greater Vancouver region. Maple Ridge, conveniently located with its back to an endless forest, was shaded in a dark burning red on the map.

Walking out of his hotel and onto the street, he asked the doorman "Quick question: Maple Ridge...How would you describe that area, briefly...and honestly?"

"Really scary white people," answered the Asian doorman.

"Great. Thanks."

It was going to be a fun day. The Executioner could sense it.

An hour later The Executioner was on the streets of Maple Ridge. While walking the last mile of his journey, as was his habit, he was slightly disappointed at the white people he saw in what passed for downtown Maple Ridge. The hotel doorman and the Vancouver murder map had him expecting something vaguely hellish in a menacing Anglo sort of way, like London or Darwin or Auckland. But if anything, it felt far more American, with only some minor alterations. The people here were rednecks; there was no doubt about that. But they were like a strange combination of redneck and Los Angeles Persian nightclub bouncers.

The young men strutted to and from their trucks, their steroided, hormone-enhanced muscles prominently displayed. Their sculpted and gelled hair was impeccably crafted and dyed. And their necks and arms were covered with elaborate tattoos. He could see a few older men with faded tribal and barbwire tattoos. But the younger ones were sporting some sort of over-stylized faux Russian prison tattoos that were fused with what appeared to be Salvadoran street gang ink. Obviously, these men were neither Russian nor from Central America. The scene had the look of a prison clown cosplay convention. The Executioner decided that the scene was actually quite entertaining in some bizarre way.

Arriving finally at his destination, the door of the house at the end of a long driveway was answered by a haggard old lady who reeked of cigarettes.

"You here to see my boys?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You gonna take that whiny little American bitch off our hands?"

"Yeah, within the hour if that's OK with your sons," said The Executioner, smiling.

"They're around the back of the house in the garage. Watch out for the dogs. They bite."

The disheveled lady went back to her couch, lit a cigarette and put her virtual reality goggles back on.

The Executioner walked to the garage and knocked on the side door entrance. A chorus of angry barking erupted on the other side.

"Just a second. I'm putting the dogs in the kennel!" a voice said from the other side of the door.

When the door opened, he was greeted by a man who looked like a slightly-toned-down version of the men he had been laughing at earlier in the hour.

"So," the man said, "I'm ready to dump this guy in the forest. But my brother says that you want to talk to him for a while?"

"Yeah, for a bit."

"This place is not sound-proof, but our neighbors aren't close enough to hear anything if this guy makes a lot of noise. And even if the neighbors did hear anything, they are not the sort of people to call the police, especially considering that my brother's a cop."

"And your mother?" asked The Executioner.

"She's used to this sort of thing. She's cool. Plus she spends almost all of her waking day in VR."

"Yeah, she had to take off her VR goggles for a minute or so when I knocked on the door."

The Executioner's new acquaintance then called over his older brother.

The older of the two definitely looked like a cop. He was basically the same as his brother, but with a normal haircut and far fewer tattoos on his muscles. This family had balanced the criminal/cop quota nicely. Hopefully for them, thought The Executioner, they had a cousin who was a lawyer.

After some small talk, The Executioner took out a fat envelope full of cash, saying "You didn't say what sort of bills you wanted the fee in. But the exchange place downtown said that $100 bills are the largest notes that Canada circulates now. So that's why the envelope is so thick. Don't worry, I'm not overpaying you."

"No problem. We just don't like the 1000 or 500 Euro banknotes. Those scream 'criminal,' and we're security consultants...at least on the side," said the cop, laughing.

The younger brother cut in, saying "So, is this guy coyote-food after you talk to him? What's the plan?"

The Executioner then laid out what he wanted to do to the imposter executioner who was at the back of the garage, zip-tied to a chair and gagged.

The Executioner walked back to the unfortunate young man sitting in the chair and released the cloth gag. He held up a clear plastic bag full of what the imposter had in his pocket when he was picked up off the street.

"Is this all your stuff?" asked The Executioner.

The man in the chair nodded.

"Mind if I take a look?"

The imposter said nothing – not that he had any choice in the matter.

The Executioner pulled out a passport from the bag and took a quick photo of the biography page of the passport. He then read the name out loud "Ruiz Clinton Mackenzie? You used your real name? That's not very smart."

"How do you know that I used my real name? Can you tell that it's not a fake passport?"

"No, the fakes and the genuine passports are exactly the same. They are issued by the same people. But the fake ones cost a lot more."

"Then how did you know?" asked Ruiz.

"Your name. It's so stupid that the only possible explanation is that it's the name your parents gave you. If you were to pick a fake name for an identity to use overseas, would you pick a name this ridiculous?"

"I'm not sure, I...What's ridiculous?"

"That family name was once a fine Scottish family name. But now Mackenzie is a first name for middle-aged American suburban white women. And I've never actually seen a white guy with a Mexican surname for a first name. A presidential middle name, whatever...I guess. But, taken as a whole, I don't believe that you would pick this name."

"Oh."

"Sorry, that was rude of me," said The Executioner. "Let's move on to business. Tell me what you are up to, running around dressed like The Executioner."

"Are you FBI?" asked Ruiz.

"Uh...no. No I'm not. I'm an anarchist," said The Executioner with a straight face.

The fear on Ruiz's face was immediately apparent. The Executioner couldn't help but to break into a laugh.

"I'm just kidding. I'm not an anarchist with a can of barbecue lighter fluid and a box of matches. You won't be burning today."

The fear on Ruiz's face was now mixed with confusion.

"The truth is...I'm The Executioner – the real one. And I can't say I approve of that video you uploaded recently. That's my gear that you were wearing. And that was the iron bar that only I use. You, as a fellow debt collector, owe me the professional courtesy of not trading on a reputation that I took the better part of a decade building."

The look on Ruiz's face was now one of absolute dread.

"Now, what I want to know is this: who do you work for? Who is sending runners your way? And do they know that you are using my name? Also, why exactly are you wasting your efforts with the small time runners with a persona – my persona – that could be used to go after big debtors? No rambling. Quick answers only – straight to the point."

"I...I, uh, I don't know who I work for, exactly," said Ruiz. "I started by getting commissions for identifying debtors overseas. I was doing it in Europe a few years ago, then here in Vancouver and elsewhere in British Columbia – mostly at ski resorts. The commissions were OK, but then I started debt collecting myself because it seemed easy enough. The guy who hired me, I don't know his name... He was sending me work, but he said that I had to work my way up to the really lucrative runners. All I was getting were small jobs. The runners that were sent my way had barely any money, and their families didn't have any decent assets or savings either. I was planning on going back to Europe, there's almost nothing worthwhile here."

"Yeah, that's just how the business is these days," said The Executioner.

"But the important part is this: there's a theory going around on the forums online, the one that runners use..."

"A theory? Online? Must be true," said The Executioner, clearly unimpressed.

"But this one fits with everything that I've experienced. I tested it. It's true."

"What is it and how did you test it?"

"The theory is that the big debt collection agencies in the US are now employing most of the overseas debt collectors and that..."

"Let me stop you right there," said The Executioner. "The revenue collected by overseas debt collectors like us is probably way less than 1% of what the domestic collection agencies back home take in. They don't care about the overseas market."

"Yes," said Ruiz, "we only get a small number of the runners overseas, and it's a marginal value for the big agencies, especially compared to the early days. But what they want is for people like us to scare the runners so badly that they return home – and to scare them away from ever leaving in the first place."

"Keep going..." said The Executioner.

"They don't know that I know, but I know. My job...our job is to round up the stray cattle and bring them back to the herd. And you know where that herd's going to end up: sitting in the US making monthly payments."

The Executioner continued to listen silently, showing no reaction.

"You go after the runners with huge overdue debts," said Ruiz. "But the bulk of the debt is held by people with lower amounts. And you don't touch them. The people that hired me want collectors who will go after the small fish, to scare them back home where the collection agencies can scoop them up."

"Your cattle and fish metaphors...or analogies or whatever, they make sense," said The Executioner. "A lot of sense. But do you have any sort of proof?"

"Yes. That's the test that I was talking about. I thought, if they are focusing on scaring the 95% of the runners that debt collectors like you ignore, then I needed to do a test. Basically, I picked out a bunch of American expats here that I didn't like, and I started to inform on them, for a commission. I used a bunch of different anonymous apps and websites so that it would look like it was different people doing the informing."

"Did these Americans you informed on actually have debt...and family assets back home?" asked The Executioner.

"I doubt it. But that's not the point," said Ruiz. "When I informed on them, I lied and made two-thirds of them out to be low value targets. I said I knew them and that their debt load was low and that their families were broke. But the other third, I lied again and said that they had massive debt and that their families owned vacation homes and traveled to other countries where they had condos and stuff. The truth is...all of the Americans were a low-rent sort of people. They wash dishes and clean toilets in Vancouver. That sort of thing."

"And how is that a test?"

"Well, I kept an eye on the guys I informed on," said Ruiz. "They started to disappear. Debt collectors were grabbing them. But not the ones I said had family assets that could be liquidated. The debt collectors were nabbing the ones that didn't have money. And they were executing the runners immediately without even asking for a ransom. I know that before, debt collectors wouldn't bother with someone that had no family assets, and if they grabbed one by accident, they would throw them back onto the streets, not kill them."

The Executioner thought this over. He was almost convinced.

"Also," said Ruiz, "when I talked to the debt collectors, I..."

"Wait, stop," said The Executioner. "What do you mean by 'talked to the debt collectors?'"

"Oh, I had been doing such a good job informing on people that I started to work regularly with one guy who would send debt collectors up here. I would help out the debt collectors while they were in Vancouver. This guy now wants me to move to Toronto and do the same thing there – work as a half debt collector, half informer."

"Does this guy have a name?"

"No, but I met him once in Los Angeles."

"The man you met in Los Angeles. What does he look like?"

Ruiz's description sounded familiar. Very familiar. It was a clear physical outline of Marv.

The Executioner didn't show any surprise. The system that he was a small part of was now coming into focus.

"And these debt collectors you met, what were you about to say before I cut you off?" asked The Executioner.

"I was going to say that they are not trying to collect money," said Ruiz. "They are just executing the runners to intimidate the rest into going back home. I started to pry, and I asked them how they were making money when they never seem to collect a ransom. They all gave a similar answer: they have a base salary and they are now being paid a bonus for every kill. The guy we all work for, he's obviously working for the domestic debt collectors who want to scare the overseas runners into returning."

The Executioner continued to think. He was not surprised that Marv was now working for the domestic debt collection agencies. And he understood that Marv was a perfect contractor to do their dirty work.

After a pause that seemed to signal the end of this line of questioning, Ruiz raised his voice and asked "How did you find me?"

"You want me to tell you how I managed to catch you? Well, I can't say I've ever gloated victoriously and explained everything about my tactics in an extended monologue. The boring answer is that I paid an online private investigator, and he found you. He tied the video of you wearing my gear to some earlier videos based on upload patterns, or something. I don't know the technical terms. All those videos were of runners killed here in British Columbia. Then he put me in touch with the two nice fellows who picked you up earlier this week. A friendly cop ran your videos through a government database of uploads from Canada...and there you were sitting at your computer in Vancouver: no proxy, no encryption, nothing. And the hardware you used was tied to your credit card. Kids these days...unbelievable. Anyways, I was hoping my employer would have done that all for me, but now I realize why he didn't even try. But none of that is your concern. All you need to know is that I'm not killing you. I'm letting you go."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Why?"

"You might not like the answer."

The imitation executioner did not say anything in return.

"I'm exiting this line of work," said The Executioner. "You're going to take over my identity. You're The Executioner now. Congratulations."

The Executioner pulled out his phone and took a close up photo of Ruiz's face and eyes. He then instructed him to put up his hands so that he could get an image of his finger prints. Finally, he made a rapid fire succession of shots as he moved the camera from one side of Ruiz's head to the other, getting a photo of his face from every angle.

"I don't understand," said Ruiz.

"Time for a buccal swab, Ruiz."

"What?"

"A DNA swab. From the inside of your cheek. I need to collect DNA."

"Oh, OK."

"Don't bite the hand that wants to help you to learn how to feed yourself," said The Executioner as he took out a small DNA kit and ran the swab stick across the inside of Ruiz's cheek.

"Are you going to kill me now?" asked Ruiz. It was a reasonable question.

"If this was an elaborate plot to kill you and then have everyone think that I, The Executioner, had died, I would have straight up killed you and _then_ collected your DNA."

"So, you're not going to kill me?" asked Ruiz.

"I just said that I'm letting you go. Like...literally letting you go – it's not a figure of speech."

"I don't understand."

"OK, long story short: I will no longer be using The Executioner identity. I am not working as a debt collector anymore. You can wear the gloves and the goggles and the hoodie and all that. You can whack them with an iron bar. You can tell people that you are The Executioner and that their families better pay the ransom. I understand why you are using my identity. It's effective. If the family has money, they will pay. Absolutely. You're the new Dread Pirate Roberts."

"So I can continue to do what I'm doing?"

"Yes, but you need to get better at it. You were too easy to find. What you need to do, for a start, is read the entire Blue Team website, including the forums, and reverse engineer everything. It's a resource and advice portal for runners. But it is also a resource for debt collectors if you look at it from a different angle. And for god's sake, please read through a tutorial on how to keep up-to-date with the newest techniques to be anonymous and untrackable online. OK?"

"OK. Yeah. I'll do it."

The Executioner took out a lighter and walked around behind Ruiz.

"I'll do my best not to burn you, but I can't guarantee that some melting plastic won't drip onto your skin."

The flame worked quickly and the zip tie strapping Ruiz to the chair melted through and broke.

"So, you need to get back to work. I'll hold on to your DNA and these photos for insurance. But know that now I can find you whenever I want. And I'll be keeping my eye on you..."

"Thank you," said Ruiz meekly.

"These guys are a little upset that I'm not killing you. They would rather not have anyone leave this place alive. But I'm paying them quite well for all of this. So, I said that you are going straight to the airport and that you are never to return. And keep in mind that the uglier of these two men is a cop. That badge that he flashed when he picked you up is real. He will be looking in the system to see if your biodata is entered on your way out of Canada. If not, they kill you and I have to pay an extra fee. And, finally...don't ever come back to Canada. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Is your phone working and do you have credit for a taxi and for a last-minute plane ticket?"

"Yes."

"Go straight out the door," said The Executioner. "Go down the long driveway and then go to the right. Walk up the street until you get to an ugly little strip mall. Take a taxi from there. You can stop wherever to pick up your belongings on your way to the airport. But you need to be gone by the end of the day. Is that all clear?"

"Yes."

"And one more thing. These people you work for... They will kill you for what you just did, giving me all this information. You better forget this happened and start thinking up some lie about why you left Canada. Is that also clear?"

"Yes."

"Then go," said The Executioner, nodding towards the exit.

He yawned as Ruiz scurried out the door without a word. The Executioner had no intention of actually spending anytime whatsoever monitoring him. He figured that within a year Ruiz would be dead, and thus The Executioner would be dead. Whatever anarchist killed him would immediately claim credit and many would send their congratulations to the Insurrectionary Anarchists. Of course, any serious background investigation on Ruiz would come up with many inconsistencies. But what anarchist would, several months later, invite such embarrassment by telling the world that they had in fact got the wrong guy? The Executioner thought his plan had a reasonable chance of granting a new and anonymous life with no pursuing anarchists.

The Executioner felt relieved. It was not the feeling of relief that a person gets when danger passes; rather it was the feeling they get when a tedious and boring chore is finally completed.

The Executioner could see outside through the door that Ruiz had left open. It was raining again.

Chapter Thirteen

Ally had been waiting for the last twenty minutes. She did nothing but wait. Her phone sat silently on the table. She told herself to do something else. The message she had sent might not be replied to anytime soon. It might not be replied to ever.

Then the phone vibrated briefly. Her message had received a reply.

She read the text: 'You are not welcome at our home. You are not welcome in our town. You have taken Elizabeth from us. Do not contact us again.'

Ally put the phone back on the table. She then sat down on the floor.

Ally felt sick. The reply from Liz's parents was so much worse than anything she had expected. She knew that Liz's parents were not fond of her, as they blamed her for Liz becoming an anarchist. And she had believed that they would likely blame her for Liz's death. But she had hoped that they would at least tell her where Liz had been buried so that she could visit the grave.

The clock showed 2pm. Ally lay down in her bed and stared at the ceiling. She decided that she wouldn't be getting out of bed again that day.

*****

Ally hurried down the street towards the nearest convenience store. She was buzzing with paranoia and high on adrenaline.

The leader of Blue Team operations had, with no warning, requested an immediate video conference with Ally. And, with Blue Team rules, this involved getting a new phone and going through the laborious procedures involved to set up a secure video chat line. This, of course, forced Ally out of bed, where she had hoped to spend the rest of her waking day thinking about Liz. She needed the time to figure out what to do about the problems arising from Liz's death that were not going to just go away with the passage of time.

Finally, after picking up a throw-away phone, buying credit with cash and setting up a secure connection, she was ready. She was ready for whatever they had to say. And she knew it probably wasn't good news or congratulations. Blue Team never delivered good news to their members, especially not when they were overseas in the middle of an operation.

A face appeared on the screen. One single face. It was the head of operations for Blue Team. He started speaking right away.

"Ally, thanks for getting online so quickly. I'll be quick with this also. I won't waste your time. This is not a conference call, obviously. Nobody else will be joining us. OK?"

"Yeah, sure," replied Ally. "What's up?"

"Over the last 24 hours I've spoken with the leadership committee and with the relevant people at operations, including our finance people. Your expenses and your activities are unacceptable. And we all agree that you've made some horrible mistakes. Everybody is of the same opinion, there were no dissenters."

"Can you list the expenses and activities that are unacceptable?" asked Ally. She didn't need to ask, she already knew.

"You had operations spend quite a bit of resources and money in Mexico to track down a shooter – the shooter who killed your partner. The shooter's fate was of no importance to the success of our operation, dead or alive. You knew it. There was no need for us to have spent our limited resources on revenge. And you could have died. That's one. The second, and by far the worst, is that our source in the Office of Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes was arrested. We know that it had to do with your work in Indonesia. That person is going to jail for the rest of their life."

Ally didn't know that the Blue Team informant inside the Treasury Department had been caught. She had gone back to the source, behind Blue Team's back. And she knew that it was a high risk to have the same person leak information to the same person three times.

"Ally, you abused the significant reservoir of trust that you had built up within Blue Team. You used it to take some very serious liberties. So...bottom line is this: you're out. No more Blue Team operations or support. We may occasionally call on you in an advisory capacity or as a consultant – if you agree to such a relationship. But that's it. We no longer consider you a member."

"And my current operation?" asked Ally.

She did her best to maintain her composure and to not show any emotion.

"Shut it down," he said. "Cut that guy Larson loose. It's over."

"But this was a priority operation. That's why I led it," argued Ally, even if she knew there was no chance to salvage the operation.

"Listen, you spend a lot of time overseas. You have been missing out on an institutional shift here. What I mean by that is...Well, we don't think that the expenses involved in overseas operations are worth it. Far fewer student loan debtors are taking the foreign option and running. We are going to devote most of the resources we have here, at home. I'm sorry Ally. You eventually would have been shutdown and recalled. What you did over the last few weeks just sped up the process."

"And The Executioner?" asked Ally. "We let him sit on some beach in Indonesia and spend the money that he extorted and ransomed from Americans? We are going to let him get away with all of the murders?"

"Ally, he'll eventually slip up. Someone will kill him for some reason. It's only a matter of time. But it won't be us, and it won't be you. We have a ticket for you. You're coming home. You pretty much have no choice. We're pulling your visa support. We're cutting off all operational assistance."

"Yeah, so that's it. It's done?"

"Yes it is, Ally. But I think you knew this was coming."

"Uh huh. Then we're done here?"

"Yes, goodbye Ally. I'm sorry this didn't work out."

"Yeah, so am I."

The call ended and Ally returned to her bed to continue her line of thinking that had been interrupted by Blue Team. She again stared at the ceiling, thinking. It wasn't possible for her situation to get any worse, she thought. Only weeks ago she had been offered a leadership post at Blue Team, and now she was off the team completely.

Ally thought to herself, debating what she had actually been planning on doing with her career. She told herself that how she responded to Mick's criticism was merely a reflexive defense of the Insurrectionary Anarchists. She had said the same things hundreds of times before. It was like an automatic response. But the truth was, Ally thought, that she had been ready to leave Insurrectionary Anarchism and take the promotion with Blue Team. Now that option was gone. Furthermore, she doubted that Blue Team would ever seriously consider her as an advisor. And the consulting would just mean getting pumped for information by a low level operations planning assistant. Now, she was merely an anarchist – a disillusioned anarchist who wanted to leave. The cause was hopeless. Ally accepted that.

And Liz was dead.

And The Executioner was still alive.

*****

Ally woke up in the dark and looked at the message notification on her phone. It was from a phone number with the same area code as Liz's parents. Not sure what to expect, she opened the text. It read: 'Alison, you don't know me, but I'm Elizabeth's brother. My parents told me that you contacted them. They showed me the message they sent you. I don't agree with them. Liz had these ideas in her head way before she met you. I don't blame you. You asked where Liz's grave was. She doesn't have one. We cremated her. If you want, you can visit the place where we spread her ashes. It's at the Horseshoe Bend on the Colorado River. I have attached a photo of my parents spreading the ashes. You should be able to figure out the exact spot from the photo. I strongly suggest that you don't try to talk to our parents again. They are stubborn people. They won't have a change of heart. Good luck. PS: We have no photos of Liz from the last six years. If you have any, I would be grateful if you could send some to me. Thank you.'

Ally looked at the photo from Liz's brother. She recognized the parents. They were both holding on to an urn of ashes, tipping it over a cliff. Far down below was the Colorado River. The water was a dark blue.

Ally immediately went online to access her photo collection. Within ten minutes she had sent Liz's brother every photo she had. She didn't include the photos that she was a part of. Every photo was Liz, by herself.

Chapter Fourteen

The Executioner had decided to do a land crossing back into the United States, as he had never been in Washington State before. He enjoyed his time in Seattle, more so the trek up Mount Rainier than the city itself. The hiking made him feel better, and the angst that had slowly been setting in had now receded. Feeling in a good mood enabled him to get work done efficiently, so he immediately set out to buy a car for his cross-country drive to his hometown. Not being a fan of progress, he did a quick online search of Seattle cities and neighborhoods to find the one with the lowest level of electric car use. The petrochemical-loving city of Renton filled his need for a non-electric car, which he would need if the vehicle was to be of use in his hometown.

The Executioner finished his chore quickly and drove his new diesel engine car east out of Seattle. After about 30 minutes, the disapproving looks ceased as his politically incorrect choice of transportation became more acceptable with the changing demographics. And the changes were a surprise. He had assumed all of Washington State was electric cars, vegan aquaponic farms and marijuana kiosks. But, not too far outside of Seattle, the sights from the Interstate 90 highway revealed a blue collar and rural population. And in the new America that was not a good thing. 'Blue collar' was term from a forgotten era when there were still factory jobs to be had. Rural now meant only one thing: poverty. All rural areas were mired in poverty – unless they were sitting on top of oil and gas. Then they were mired in moderate poverty and environmental contaminants. The people throughout the area that The Executioner found himself driving through were, if they were lucky, employed in some sub-contract or service work for the Chinese logging companies working the forests. But most could only dream of steady work.

Farther east, over the mountains and into the rain shadow, the sun came out and the farms began, although it was nearly impossible to actually see a farmer. The circular fields with their center-pivot irrigation sprinklers were dotted out in all directions, with not a single house visible. The massive combines and the labor migrants would harvest in one methamphetamine-fueled harvest later in the year. Until then, only an occasional tractor or crop drone could be seen.

The interstate highway soon started to feel eerily empty. The trucks that were once common were now a rare sight. And with people no longer feeling the need for a personal car – or feeling the need but not having the cash – other motorists were few and far between. Most normal people would fly. Few would bother driving across more than one large state. Even fewer would consider the long drive that The Executioner was undertaking.

The Executioner was used to empty rural areas, but not areas as exposed and treeless as eastern Washington State. Back home in The Executioner's part of Midwest, a thick line of trees paralleled the roads, leaving you to imagine that perhaps there was something still alive beyond the green barrier. Here there was nothing to obscure the procession of dead towns and abandoned houses along the interstate highway. The death of rural America was on full display.

Despite the lack of drivers, advertisers still dotted the roadside with billboards. Of course, none of the ads were attempting to sell a real product – unless you consider religion a product. Aside from the religious exhortations, there were various migration and work scams: 'Work in Russia for top wages!' 'Guaranteed immigration to Australia!' 'China needs English speakers!' and other false offers littered the roadside like trash.

As The Executioner got closer to the city of Spokane, he spied his favorite series of video billboards so far. The first billboard featured a fluttering Canadian flag and the question 'Thinking of sneaking into Canada?' in both English and Spanish. A hundred yards down the road the next billboard read 'Think again! You won't make Canada your home!' The next billboard after that featured a video loop of a Canadrone border patrol UAV firing a missile that flew low to the ground and then sprinkled mini cluster bombs over some unfortunate group of...whoever. The Executioner chuckled, approving of the Canadian approach to undocumented border crossings. The final billboard in the series then cited the grim statistics. It seemed that everybody who illegally enters Canada is either caught, killed, or deported soon after – at least according to the numbers released by the Canadian Prime Minister's office.

As The Executioner entered the outer suburbs of Spokane he spotted a friendlier Canadian billboard that read 'Medical or dental degree from a top tier American school? Under 37 years old? Apply for Canada's rural medical visa! 10 years of service in one of Canada's beautiful small towns guarantees citizenship!' This billboard was in English only. As for Americans, those in rural areas could only dream of living anywhere near an actual doctor.

The Executioner crossed the Washington-Idaho border and approached the center of Spokane, which was technically actually Coeur D'Alene. Only the older locals still called the city Spokane-Coeur D'Alene. Spokane won out eventually, thanks to intensive lobbying from the Chamber of Commerce, who felt that 'Spokane' was easier to say and remember for the Asian investors who, a decade ago, built most of the downtown high-rises. The city, now approaching four million inhabitants, ignored both the state governments of Washington and Idaho. The attempt by the city of Seattle and the Washington State governor to reign in Spokane through an economic blockade failed miserably, as Spokane negotiated favorable terms from the port of Vancouver and the Canadian government. Spokane's main road and rail connection headed south, east and north. West to Seattle was a fading connection. The large corporate farms to the west of Spokane also found the state government burdensome, and chose to deal instead with the new city-state, which helped them to export through the Canadian route to their Asian markets.

Passing through the last of the Spokane eastern suburbs, The Executioner was greeted by the sight of the City of Spokane Customs and Immigration Deportation Facility. Beyond the razor wire were the would-be migrants to Spokane. They would be brought before a judge, stripped of their assets and possessions, and placed on a budget prison plane flight to wherever in the United States was considered by the deportees to be the most inconvenient place to wind up in. Basically, the punishment for illegally entering Spokane or overstaying your visitor's visa was a penniless exile to a homeless camp in a strange city where, if you were lucky, there would still be a church that was enthusiastic about feeding America's army of beggars and hobos.

East of Spokane, beyond the city's reach, the real America began again. The only business appeared to be logging, and the convoys of heavy trucks passed by with their loads of timber, escorted by old Humvees with autonomously-controlled .50 caliber machine guns mounted on top. The convoy's guns automatically tracked The Executioner's car as he drove by. It was not a good feeling to see right down the barrel of a gun. It was a feeling that the hijackers had had enough of. The road piracy and kidnap of truck drivers had declined steeply as security stepped up. There was no longer any serious threat, but the companies knew that the piracy would return as soon as they cut back on security.

As the prime timber lands transitioned to less commercially viable forests, the quality of the road surface deteriorated. But more worrying was the warning sign: 'You are now entering a Department of Transportation patrolled region.' Most people who lived here were well aware of what this meant. The Executioner had only found out when researching his road trip. This meant that the police on the road were not there to protect or serve you. They were there to kill anyone they suspected of road piracy. Their name was DOTSOC: Department of Transportation Special Operations Command. At their disposal were unarmed surveillance UAVs, armed drones, spotter planes, several satellites, heavily armored intercept vehicles, refurbished A-10 attack planes, and numerous weapons systems in development or in the early stages of procurement.

The Department of Transportation found its military ventures more rewarding than its secondary line of work. As a result, it now focused more on combat operations rather than on road construction and maintenance. The head of the Department of Transportation directed most of his energy towards arranging the acquisition of weapons systems in consultation with lobbyists from weapons manufacturers and the senators that he helped to get elected. His deputy in turn was mostly engaged in hyping the road piracy threat – something that had long been on the decline due to the take-no-prisoners attitude of the various armed lawmen that patrolled the roads.

As for the actual management of transport infrastructure, highway construction and road repairs west of the Mississippi had long ago been subcontracted to a large Turkish company. The Turks, apparently completely immune to terrible security conditions, sent their engineers and foremen to supervise the equally desensitized Guatemalan and Mayan laborers who arrived every construction season from the Chiapas region of Mexico. DOTSOC found guard duty to be beneath their dignity, and so the construction crews and their equipment were protected by Ugandan guards who were much cheaper, less trigger-happy and far more sober than American guards. Their orders were: 'Protect the equipment first; the Turks second; and the laborers last.'

DOTSOC country was a blur of half-dead towns and semi-abandoned wastelands populated by multi-ethnic drug gangs and rampant decay, especially once The Executioner crossed into Montana. The city of Missoula was barely alive, with the University of Montana long gone. Butte was poisoned by every type of heavy metal and chemical imaginable. The city was completely abandoned, except for the Chinese mining company that was reworking the old mining sites. Their Burmese workers would likely have short and very unhealthy lives. Not even Americans would take the mining jobs here. Farther east was Bozeman – also stripped of its university – which appeared to be getting taken over by nature. Not much of Billings could be seen at night, and very few lights were actually on.

But Montana was, in the eyes of The Executioner, the most beautiful state be had ever visited. He imagined it as a paradise a century ago. He couldn't understand why such dysfunction had set in. Then he remembered that he blamed both the government and the people of America for the death spiral that the country was entering. This brought back the unsettled feeling that he had lost on Mount Rainier. And his mind was now comparing his present feelings with the complete and total relaxation that he had eventually come to feel in Saigon. It was deeply frustrating.

He didn't feel any better before or after he went to sleep in his car in the outskirts of Billings. The truck stop he slept in offered secured parking for a fee, but the security measures included bright flood lights that The Executioner couldn't keep out of his eyes, no matter how he positioned the shirt over his face. The next morning began on a depressing note as he drove by the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. It might as well have been a monument to two dead cultures, with a large sign apologizing for the closure and promising to re-open when the security and funding situation improved. The sign was more than a decade old and beginning to fade.

Farther down the road a large home-made sign read: 'Dear non-Native Americans: How you live now is how we've been living for the last 200 years. Don't panic yet. It's going to get worse.' It wasn't clear what the point was in erecting this sign. But what was clear was that for the Native Americans it was also getting worse in terms of quality of life; but better if you prioritize land ownership. The Plaines Indians in this and in other sparsely populated rural areas were moving back onto Federal land that they had been long ago forced off of. And for now, they didn't include private property in the unauthorized resettlement schemes, but their non-native neighbors were still wary.

Living on the resettled land was hard, but several European charities were supporting the Indians with buffalo reintroduction programs while building schools and medical clinics. The buffalo programs, however, were determined to be not only worthless, but actually harmful to local livelihoods. The buffalo were destroying fence lines and colonizing new areas on their own without any help, and they had no commercial value to the locals compared to the cattle that they chased away or killed. But the European donors always insisted on a buffalo-component to their development projects on the American Plaines. Some of the same charities with unclear funding were allegedly also secretly providing training and a range of military equipment well suited to the insurgent guerilla. If and when the federal government decided it would move against what it termed 'illegal squatters,' it would likely find a very difficult and bloody job in front of it.

Wyoming was even more deserted than Montana. Traces of a fence of some sort could be seen along stretches of the road. Beyond what remained of the fence line, there was nothing but sage brush and isolated tufts of grass. Occasionally a dirt road would cut across the interstate highway, leaving a patch of dust on the road. There were no signs to indicate where these roads came from and where they were going. Only locals knew and it was of no concern to outsiders. Very little around here was of concern to outsiders, something that many locals of the anti-government variety grew to appreciate.

The Executioner knew that one of the many potholes on the decaying interstate highway would eventually cause a flat tire – not too serious of a problem. But after pulling off to the side of the road in South Dakota with a flat, he could see that the pothole had also put the rim of the tire so badly out of alignment that he would need to hand everything over to a garage. The car had already said as much, displaying the recommendation on the monitor screen – a recommendation that The Executioner didn't even bother too look at.

The Executioner eventually resorted to allowing the car to call the American Patriotic Automobile Association. If the Association wanted to make one thing clear, it was that they were in fact Patriotic, even if 80% of their members drove foreign electric cars. Even the most patriotic American could not help but acknowledge the fact that foreign cars were half the price and twice the quality. As for the non-electric customer, they had to agree to not display the Association's sticker on the car, and they would be treated just as well – for 40% over the regular membership price.

When the tow truck driver dispatched from Rapid City eventually showed up, he was, unsurprisingly, wearing body armor and sporting an old Heckler & Koch MP7A1 Personal Defense Weapon, which in some cities could only be termed an 'Illegal Personal Offense Weapon.' Of course, the city governments of New York and Washington never appreciated the nuances of German submachine gun ownership. But in Fly-over Country everybody had a gun these days, even the hippies and their marijuana plantations – _especially_ the hippies and their marijuana plantations.

The jovial tow truck driver strode over to The Executioner's car to take a glance at the rim, more out of force of habit than necessity – thanks to remote diagnostics. He greeted The Executioner in the traditional local manner.

"Hey man, you want to buy a gun? My scanner says you're unarmed."

The Executioner smiled and retorted "No thanks. Guns scare me."

"That's exactly why you need your own gun. You know that some people have illegal scanners and can see that you have no gun, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm only doing one trip and I only stop for diesel. I'm a fast moving target."

"Sure, sure. Well, you are going to probably have to wait a few days in Rapid City until a new wheel flies in. Parts for the newer cars take forever. So you have plenty of time to cruise the gun shops. But if you want something decent, and I mean German, let me know. I have exclusive dealer rights in a 50-mile radius from Rapid City for the Heckler & Koch line of products and I offer a quick local repair and support service on top of the manufacturer guarantees. But seriously, why don't you have a gun? From the wrong side of Spokane until the Pennsylvania state line is, like, Mad Max territory. I mean, we're not Missouri or some crazy place like that, but there's shit that happens here that you won't see in the news. It would make you sick. Entire families, man. _Gone_. Those roadside memorials are probably only 1% of what's gone down on the roads here."

"Yeah..." was all The Executioner could say in return to the tow truck driver's rapid-fire monologue.

"What you gotta realize is that the DOTSOC police are here to make money or to kill whoever they think are the bad guys, not to help you. They pay for their positions now, and they gotta make that money back somehow. And road piracy is picking up again. It was gone for a few years, but it's back. And it's clear that the new pirates have a deal going with some corrupt DOTSOC guys. If you are in the transport business, you pay the DOTSOC crew or the pirates will get your trucks, guaranteed."

"Huh."

The tow truck driver, deciding he had dispensed enough knowledge, then asked a very vague question.

"So, did you just get released, or have you been out for a while?"

"From where?" was the only question The Executioner could give as a reply.

"From prison."

"What makes you think I've served time in prison?"

"You got the look. I was there. I can recognize it. I can't explain it in words, you know? But you got the look. The way you act and hold yourself. It matches. You are respectful, but wary. You are keeping your distance, but you aren't acting scared. You also seem like you're sorta tightly wound, and like you could release all that energy."

"Yeah, you aren't the first ex-con to recognize that. Where did you do your time?" he asked the tow truck driver.

"Here. In South Dakota. I was a road pirate, ironically enough. I got caught with most everybody else in the big sweep by the Interstate Army guys – that's what we called DOTSOC back then. I didn't go after regular people like some of the others. Me and my crew hijacked transport trucks and sent the driver walking. I ended up doing my time in the main State and Tribal correctional facility. It's a joint jurisdiction thing to save money. It made for some crazy racial stuff. But I kept my head down and did my seven years. And you?"

"I did three of a five year sentence in Illinois for accessory to armed robbery. I drove the car. That was a while back. I also did two years in a Chinese prison."

"China? Damn. How was that?"

"Very controlled. Not much happened. There was a separate section for the local white collar guys that were put in for financial crimes. Foreigners willing to teach English were welcome in that section. I guess we were considered the wimps. I learned a bit of Chinese and a lot about how dirty money works."

"Why did the Chinese throw you in?" asked the tow truck driver.

"I was in a bar and some random guy punched a girl and then kicked her while she was on the ground. I didn't know who they were or why he hit the girl, but I figured the guy deserved a beating."

"Two years for beating a guy up?"

"Well, he died," noted The Executioner.

"Shit, OK. So then the question goes in the other direction: why only two years? I thought that China was hardcore with punishments."

"The guy that died was American; the girl he was beating was local."

"Ha! Good stuff. Beating up local women in foreign countries is something you should know is not good for your health. Never underestimate the stupidity of your fellow American!"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean to kill the guy," said The Executioner. "I only kicked him in the head a couple times."

"Huh. The human body can be a fragile thing... Well, anyways, I should get moving. The car behind the tow truck is yours until your ride is all fixed up. Throw your stuff in and off you go. Insurance regulations say you gotta let it auto-drive for you, sorry! But they're paying this bill. So manual drive is disabled, except in emergency situations where it will switch on at your request. And, uh, if you don't want to use your phone, go ahead and use the navigation screen in the car to find a motel or a couch to crash on. My suggestions are listed on the front page menu. Most of the places in town are half decent, but I've put a warning notation on the profiles of the places that are cheap, but full of addicts, weirdos or US Air Force guys. And if you were Air Force, I thank you for your service and for whoever you're bombing this week. Please add Washington, DC to your target list.... Just kidding, man! I know you're not Air Force. If you were one of them, you would have said some weird shit about me being sent by Jesus or something. God I hate those guys....I was a Marine. _Am a Marine_ , as they say. Come to think of it, I hate most Marines too, always talking about how they are still a Marine. But at least other Marines don't tell me I'm going to hell. I already know I'm going to hell. After I was discharged I fought in France for cash Euro money. Nah...just kidding. I don't believe in hell and I love the south of France. I didn't serve long enough to get my French passport, but I can visit visa-free whenever I want. The French are great, by the way. Total rednecks. I love 'em! Don't listen to American media commentators. They lie."

The Executioner had all the information he needed for an exciting three days in Rapid City. Thanking the tow truck driver for the help, he got in his new car and was driven off.

*****

The Executioner spent his free time walking around Rapid City, which he found to be generally pleasant. The signs and posters warning of the various offenses which were punishable by exile from the city were everywhere, and it seemed that the threats were effective. The city seemed quite safe and serene under the gentle guidance of the Pennington County Sherriff's Department. Less reassuring were the warnings that stated the Sherriff's deputies could only respond to emergency calls from outside the extended city limits during daytime hours. Parts of rural America could be a nightmare-level type of scary place. There was an incentive for the federal and state governments to keep the main interstate highways and a few key cities out here safe, but they couldn't care less about the rural areas. Those were left to fend for themselves.

The rural areas in this part of South Dakota were not on their own entirely. The long distances could be covered by rapid response State Police jet engine drones. Unfortunately for the trigger-happy crowd, the drones were unarmed and could only record video evidence and follow suspects after a crime was committed. However, Rapid City was not covered by the State Police drones. As a person drove into the city, they were greeted with a city government sign that declared the city a 'No Drone Zone.' A second smaller sign read: 'We trust our citizens. No drones, whether private, city, state or federal are permitted.' The need to patrol such a small and well-policed city with drones was not exactly dire. So nobody really thought too much about the issue.

However, in the rural areas there was broad approval for the State Police drones. And there were even regular requests to arm them in the fight against farm and ranch raiders. The people of rural South Dakota felt that they could only sleep peacefully in their beds at night if drones stood ready to do violence on their behalf.

Keeping the Sherriff's disclaimer in mind, The Executioner confined his scenic drive through the nearby Black Hills to daylight hours. With plenty of sunlight still left, he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the Mount Rushmore National Memorial. A decade ago the memorial would have been packed with tourists, especially in late August. But roving bandits, terrible roads and quick, cheap flights to safer overseas locations had really put a dent in tourist numbers to America's national parks and memorials.

As The Executioner got closer to the viewpoint on the trail, the presidents, carved in granite, came into view. George Washington, his face decorated in full Indian war paint, was first. A red band crossed his face, right above and below his eyes. Spreading from his chin to his right cheek was the outline of a black hand – a symbol reserved for Sioux warriors who had killed an enemy in hand-to-hand combat. The rest of his face was saturated in yellow – the color of death. To his left was Thomas Jefferson in drag. His cheeks were subtly shaded with rouge, his eyes popped out with the help of eye-liner and his lips...his lips were of a color that had been described as worthy of a 19th century French brothel. Farther to his left was a darker shade of red. Blood flowed from Theodore Roosevelt's mouth and left splatter marks on the rock below. The rest of Roosevelt's face was left untouched except for the black circles around his eyes that gave him the look of either a Halloween zombie or a raccoon. Finally, Abraham Lincoln stood stoically in frog-colored green-face. Apparently, the intention was to have him look like Frankenstein, but it wasn't that obvious. The pranksters had run out of time with Lincoln and fled the scene, leaving two dead park rangers in their wake. Graffiti artists did not usually kill, but for an operation this size and importance they arrived fully armed. Even in the quiet winter months it was not possible to spend a full day painting over American monuments without drawing an angry crowd.

A sign near the viewpoint spelled out the difficulties in restoring the monument. It would require the rock to be shaved back half an inch over the entire face, as the expensive chemical dye that the graffiti artists used was not coming off – it had permeated the rock. The French graffiti collective that had pulled off the prank – and the alleged but very likely killings of the park rangers – were met with acclaim in Europe upon their stealthy return. The indirect support of the American military and the direct support of American volunteers to the French government in their ethnic cleansing operations had not been appreciated by the European left. The French collective's hastily scheduled auction of their full range of art was, however, appreciated. It was a great success, with many Russian and Arab buyers calling in their bids without knowing what exactly it was that they were buying, just that they should buy it. Back in America, death penalties were passed in absentia by the State of South Dakota, even though they did not have jurisdiction over crimes committed at National Monuments. This led the European press and activist community to roundly criticize the savage Americans for their frontier cowboy justice and their complete lack of an ironic sense of humor.

The Executioner didn't know exactly what he felt. But it wasn't a good feeling. Somehow the whole episode was another reminder of how pathetic America had become. America was portrayed as a dysfunctional third world country, hysterical with anger over the desecration of their gods by the sophisticated Europeans. As for the dead rangers, most Europeans believed that they had killed each other in the cross-fire while trying to murder the European artists in cold-blood. This all seemed small in comparison to Europe's regular cycle of horrific mass murder, in which they had recently engaged in with the help of American volunteers. Perhaps they needed America to compare themselves favorably. Whatever the case, most Americans had either quit caring or quit noticing.

The Executioner started to feel increasingly uneasy. His thoughts started to cycle and repeat in a negative feedback loop. It was not necessarily about the decline of America; he actually welcomed that as a necessary first step in weeding out the bad and the lazy from the country through hardship. He was not sure what it was that was really bothering him. He felt the need to walk and clear his head. The Executioner alternated between attempts to distract himself by thinking about his next trip to Asia and by not thinking about anything at all. Taking the long route back to the car did nothing to make him feel any better, nor did the return drive through the forest affect any change in his mood. Then he noticed his right hand. It had started to shake. This had never happened before.

Chapter Fifteen

The Executioner had seen all of Rapid City, and his motel room wasn't a very exciting place. Still waiting on his car to be fixed, he decided to take a recommendation from the one very bored tourism info center employee. The suggested excursion was a drive through Badlands National Park, a short trip from town. He was told that it was perfectly safe, as barely anybody goes there: no travelers; no bandits to be attracted to the travelers. The few tourists were usually heavily armed evangelicals from the nearby Ellsworth Air Force Base, taking a break from their contract bombing work. They did not make good targets for robbery. They were also known for trying to forgive the robbers that they didn't kill. The counter-attack and capture of bandits was a brief prelude to a discussion about Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. It was very annoying if one only had the desire for killing and robbery.

This time The Executioner drove slower and watched carefully for potholes. He hoped to be spared another one-way conversation with the same tow truck driver. But soon his attention switched to the scenery of the badlands. It was like a bleak and strange alien planet. He loved it immediately. After driving the length of the main road he turned back and re-drove the same route. He looked at the strange rock and earth formations and wondered how he could put it in words, as he never took photographs. He decided that he couldn't describe it.

The Executioner was told earlier that day that he could probably have a sunset all to himself if he stayed away from the popular viewpoints. So, leaving his car with a backpack full of food and drinks, he headed off on foot into the badlands until he found a spot that seemed isolated enough. Propping his bag between himself and a rock, he began to drink. He wasn't sure why he brought so much to drink. But back in town at the liquor store it seemed like a good idea.

After finishing his beer, he switched to the whiskey, inappropriately branded with the side profile of a stoic Indian chief of uncertain tribal membership. The food he snacked on had done little to slow down the process of getting drunk, and as the sun went down The Executioner suddenly started to think intently about the soil and the sand and the rock, the geological layers separating millennia and the unwelcome erosion exposing them to view and judgment. Or that's what he thought was going through his head. It was starting to get nonsensical and symbolic.

But soon the indescribable symbolic thought faded away and his more shallow thoughts started to dominate. The feelings that he believed were gone were now back in full force. It was the type of rapid deterioration in mood that only alcohol could bring about. In under a minute the unwanted monologue in his head laid out his life for a full and critical examination. The driving force behind these thoughts was his acknowledgement that nothing had gone right in his life recently. The accumulated failures and missed opportunities were just getting higher and deeper.

The Executioner summarized his situation: he was in his late thirties, single, childless, nomadic, without true friends, and holding no prospects for the future.

The Executioner struck back at the self-pity, mocking his own feelings as belonging only to a weaker sort of person. The repression of emotions, a trait so common to the rural white working class that he was a member of, was a more effective tactic than most people would admit. He pushed, bullied and knocked his feelings of doubt and despair away. He hid them. Hopefully he would forget where he had placed them.

As the sun started to fall behind the horizon, he felt that he was winning another fight with the self-doubt. But as these thoughts receded, they were replaced by something else – something equally unwelcome. For reasons unknown, banished memories reappeared in quick succession. The images of his dead victims lying on the ground, blood trickling out of their heads and onto dirty floors, came into focus slowly and then melted away, only to be replaced by a new body – bloody and destroyed.

The Executioner had taken the medical precautions after every execution. The cocktail of anti-PTSD medications had worked well. At an emotional level the killings were fuzzy and not entirely real. They were like a violent movie that he had watched long ago, the memory of which was continually deteriorating. But on the rational intellectual level there was truth that he could not escape: he was a murderer. He had killed dozens of people who did nothing to deserve such an end. This was a feeling that he could not push aside. There was no emotional trauma, but there was a steady corrosion of his soul. He felt it. He knew it.

For reasons unknown to him, The Executioner decided that he needed to look at what he had done. And he had to do it now. Taking out his phone, he quickly searched online for a video of his work. He immediately found the fan video with the highest view count. Stretching out his screen, he pressed play on a remix of all of his executions, created by somebody who thought that it would make an entertaining and profitable video.

The video began in silence. A man in a dirty t-shirt with a small potbelly and skinny arms sat tied to a chair and cried through the bag over his head. It sounded like he was asking over and over again to call his mother. He was begging. Then, suddenly, The Executioner stepped into the video frame and swung a short section of iron reinforcement bar into his head. The sound of the iron bar hitting the man's head struck The Executioner as alien. It was as if he had never heard that sound before.

As the man's body fell onto the floor and started to convulse violently, the music started. The rest of the video was accompanied by a classic heavy metal track, in some parts edited to match the blows inflicted on the debtors' heads. At the end of the video the music stopped and each victim was shown – blood silently flowing out of bags or uncovered heads.

The Executioner had never seen himself on video before. Not like this.

Almost immediately, as the light continued to fade, he began to feel a slow dread come over him. The Executioner could not recognize this feeling. It matched no previous trauma. He could not tell where it was coming from, and he had no defense. It was the worst feeling that he could recall having, even worse than the moment of his arrest over a decade-and-a-half ago. It was worse than any experience he had in prison. The Executioner started to panic. He asked himself if this is the exact moment at which he goes mad.

He fought back against it. He negotiated with it. He swore that he would atone for what he had done, and then just as soon took back his words. The alcohol was not helping. He slowly started to speak out loud the words in his head. Finally, he looked straight down into the dirt and spoke in a faltering voice.

"I can't live like this anymore..."

These words did nothing. They changed nothing.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry," he said as his voice cracked. He spoke the words to no one, not even to himself.

Then a solution came to him. To escape his immediate predicament, he needed to start walking. He needed to start walking and to not stop until the feeling subsided.

The Executioner headed out farther into the Badlands. He had no intention of stopping until he collapsed of exhaustion.

*****

The Executioner sat on his mother's porch with the silence of Cairo, Illinois, flowing around him. His mother had welcomed him back warmly, as she does every two or three years. She had become accustomed to not asking him questions upon his returns, and this time was no exception – even though she sensed something was wrong. But asking a man about something he doesn't want to talk about was not a thing that was done in this part of America.

The Executioner had long ago paid off the mortgage on his mother's modest house, and the car he arrived with was now the second car that he had given her. His savings accounts were all set to transfer to her if he went longer than three months without logging in to check his balance. The Executioner no longer had any worries about his mother being alone and broke. For her part, she accepted his claim of having found work in the private security industry overseas, a believable story in a nation that exported only two things worth mentioning: shale oil and mercenaries. But his time in prison and his total lack of military or law enforcement experience made that claim not entirely believable.

The house he had paid off was, like every other in Cairo, a short walk away from the Ohio River. As the temperature dropped off in the late afternoon, his mother suggested they head downriver towards the Mississippi. As they walked, he surveyed the remains of his hometown. While Cairo was once a prosperous transport center that serviced a thriving ferry and railroad hub, the town had long ago entered into a terminal decline. The opening of competing railway lines had devastated the rail trade, while the building of bridges over the Ohio River destroyed the ferry business. These two blows were later compounded when the new interstate highway skipped around the city. Finally, recurring race riots fitted the coffin of Cairo with its nails.

The Executioner marveled at his hometown. It had been in a death spiral since the 1890s. The sad empty fields and forests of Detroit were relative newcomers to decline. But like that once great city, Cairo clung to life like an animated corpse. On the river the occasional barge floated downstream – a brief sign of life. He wondered how his ancestors had ended up in Cairo, and why they didn't leave. Turning his attention to the unchanging river on his left, he avoided looking at Cairo on his right.

His mother decided that they would walk to the state park at the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio. His mother, in her early seventies, was a steady but not very fast walker. It was going to take some time. But The Executioner didn't have any plans. He wasn't going to leave for a few more days. And here in Cairo he had nothing but time.

The reason for the long walk was soon revealed by his mother.

"We need to talk about your sister," she said.

The Executioner did not say anything in response.

"I've accepted that she is no longer with us. I gave up hope long ago," she added. "And, now, you may think that hearing what I'm about to say is a burden that I should keep to myself. But I have my reasons."

To their left, a towboat struggled to pull an empty barge upstream against the current.

"Right after you went to prison, your sister moved to Chicago to look for work. She wasn't in community college like she told you. She worked as a waitress for a while, but after six months I lost contact with her. Nobody disappears like that. She could contact me in a second if she had wanted to. But she didn't."

The Executioner knew that she was dead. There was no body. No story. No confirmation. But he knew.

He wasn't sure why his mother was telling him this.

"You know, when you were in prison, I had Helen next door watch over the house and I moved to Chicago to find her...or rather to find out what happened to her. I never told you that. I thought I would last, at most, a week in the city. But there I was, with a paper bus route map, a city directory printed out, and a list of doors I was going to knock on."

"And the only people who helped me were these women who volunteered for a community organization that helped women in trouble," said his mother, now emphasizing her words. "Some were church-goers, some were feminists or something like that, and some were mothers who had gone through what I was going through at the time. And these women at the community organization were the only ones who would help me."

"And do you know what they told me, what I came to learn?" she asked rhetorically. "It was that the police in Chicago only work to solve crimes that they can make money from in the process. I didn't understand it at first. But as I was told, the police can take a cut from a drug dealer, they can extort a businessman, they can take a bribe from a politician, they can take a share of whatever stolen goods are recovered, but a missing girl who is probably dead is not something you can make money off of or get recognition for. Certainly not a girl who doesn't have any important family."

The Executioner's mother was telling him the story of the new America. It was a story that he recognized. It was not a surprise. But it still hurt.

"This is something that I can not make peace with. I pray to God, I ask Jesus for help, I do what I can, but...your sister did not deserve this. She was...she was garbage. To everybody, she was garbage. To the men who used her, to those who bought her, to those who sold her. To the police who didn't care. To the government people only worried about their own kind. To the people in this country who live comfortably and just figure that if something bad has happened to someone then they must have done something to deserve it."

She paused for while to contain her anger.

"You know," she continued, accustomed to her son's silence, "our family was originally from northern Illinois, since before the civil war. But for some reason, every generation of men in the family would move farther south. I'm not sure why, following jobs and opportunities and marriages I suppose. But finally we got here, to Cairo. We've bottomed out on the state map, there's nowhere lower to go. It's just this river. And I knew...I knew that you and your sister would look beyond this town and get away from this river. I knew it would happen. But I didn't think _this_ would happen."

The Executioner's mother sighed.

"What I'm saying to you is this: I want you to never come back here. Visit, yes. But don't return here to raise a family or to make a life. The men in this family should have pulled up stakes and moved long ago. This land is for the dead, and for the dying. For those that are done with life. And I'm not just talking about Cairo."

They finally reached their destination, the confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi. A run-down state park still functioned, serving mainly as a picnic and barbeque spot for the Illinois National Guard soldiers who ran the patrol boats and manned the checkpoint on the bridge that connected them to Missouri. The Executioner and his mother looked out over the water, now silent with no barges in sight.

"The Ohio is usually dark green, and occasionally it's almost blue," she noted. "Sometimes I like to imagine that the water is clean and pure, even if I know that's not the case with this river. But the Mississippi is always muddy. Always. And that dirty little river takes the Ohio's name away. It just...goes away. The Ohio is larger than the Mississippi, but its name disappears here, at the confluence. It's not fair, if you really think about it..."

The Executioner hadn't said a single word in over an hour.

Now, standing on the southernmost tip of land in Illinois, he stood silently next to his mother. He looked to the left, over the Ohio River and towards the forests of Kentucky as they slowly swallowed the remaining farms of Ballard County. He then turned to his right, towards Missouri. He couldn't see past the line of trees on the bank of the Mississippi. Nobody talked anymore about what was happening on the other side. The Executioner, like everybody else, had grown used to the stories, slowly accepting them into their idea of what their country was. Things change; people adapt.

Slowly, another barge moved down the Ohio River and entered the Mississippi. He still loved the river, but he knew that he could never come back.

Chapter Sixteen

The Executioner should have been particularly unhappy about being back in Los Angeles, and even more displeased about being in Marv's house in the additional company of the Europe regional manager Tim and the still slimy-looking Rich from Washington. But, if anything, The Executioner felt only clarity as he stepped into Marv's living room. The Executioner tossed two pre-paid courier bags down on the couch and sat down beside them. No one took much notice, and the conversation began.

"Well, this is your first day as regional manager for southeast Asia. Congrats. Time for you to start meeting nice, young American women in Jakarta and Manila," said Marv.

"Yeah. I need a beer," replied The Executioner.

"Rebecca's in Vietnam visiting her mother. So help yourself."

A feeling of numbness came over The Executioner. He glanced at the three men and thought silently: 'I can do this.' He knew exactly where Rebecca was.

Walking into the kitchen, The Executioner concentrated on his breathing. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge – with little intention of actually drinking it all. But his mouth was dry. He needed just one quick drink. Fumbling through the drawers he couldn't find the bottle opener. Then he spotted a rough substitute.

As The Executioner walked into the living room, he pried off the bottle cap with the corner of the meat cleaver he had grabbed from the kitchen drawer.

Bemused, Marv said "Hey champ, the bottle opener is on the table if you want to be a bit more civilized."

"I'm not civilized," stated The Executioner.

The cap flipped off the bottle and onto the floor. He took one short drink. He took one deep breath. And then he swung the meat cleaver down onto Tim as hard as he could. The blade sank deep into his head. The Executioner immediately switched the beer bottle to his right hand and hurled it at Marv. The bottle grazed Marv's raised hand and stunned him as it bounced unbroken off of his jaw. The Executioner pulled the meat cleaver from Tim's head and threw it at Marv. The blunt side of the cleaver struck him on the side of his face and he slumped over, making a strange whimpering noise.

Rich was frozen. Barely able to speak, he could only say "I...please. I don't..."

The Executioner reached down onto the couch and grabbed one of his courier bags. Walking calmly over to Rich he pulled his weapon of choice from the bag: a short piece of iron reinforcement bar – seven-eighths of an inch diameter.

The first blow came down on Rich's arms, raised in defense. The bones in his arm left arm took most of the force and shattered. The remaining momentum carried the bar down onto the top of his head – though not enough to knock him unconscious. The Executioner was quick with the next swing of the bar. It came down hard on the side of Rich's head, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor. The Executioner moved over quickly and stood above him. Generating as much force as he could, he stamped his foot down repeatedly on the back of Rich's neck. The Executioner could feel a snap vibrate from Rich's neck, through his shoe and into his foot. The sound reached his ears a fraction of a second later.

Marv was next. The Executioner carefully moved over to the dazed and injured Marv, who was still making a soft whimpering cry. He swung his bar onto Marv's right hand, which was grasping a couch cushion in a desperate attempt to regain equilibrium. The strike crushed Marv's hand, rendering him helpless. The Executioner then added a few randomly placed hits on Marv's back.

The Executioner grabbed the stunned Marv by one of his feet and pulled him into an open area in the living room and thoroughly frisked him for a weapon.

"I'm not big on guns Marv. But with the caliber of guests you have over, you should probably have had one on you," said The Executioner, if only to break the brief silence.

"Marv, can you answer me? You understand what I'm saying?"

"Uh huh," blurted Marv desperately.

"OK, Marv, you do anything stupid and I kill you."

The Executioner again maneuvered Marv by the foot and dragged him across the room. With his spare hand he grabbed his two courier bags and tucked them under his arm. He pulled Marv past the kitchen, down the hall and into his office.

Marv leaned back on his elbows and asked "What.... What do you....?"

"I want you to open your safe Marv. This is an old school safe, so don't try to tell me it's on a time lock. It's a simple combo safe. Open it."

"The numbers. I'm....it's just..."

"Marv, I'll give you a couple of minutes to get your brain back in working order. But if you can't get that safe open within two minutes, I will kill you."

Marv nodded quickly and, leaning over towards the safe, struggled to his knees.

"The big bag is for your documents. All of them, Marv. And the smaller bag is for however much cash you are dumb enough to keep in there."

*****

Ally took one last look at the satellite image of Marv's house. The veranda around the back of the house looked like the best option. Or rather, it looked like the least worst of several choices. As a dozen competing thoughts raced through Ally's head, she had one large instinct organizing it all: 'I am probably going to die.'

Ally had no idea whose house this was, nor did she know how many people were inside. But she knew that The Executioner was there. And that was all the motivation that she needed.

Walking casually with her 9mm held loosely in her hands and with four extra fully-loaded magazines in her back pockets, Ally stepped on to the veranda. Immediately she saw the wide-open sliding glass door.

"Keep moving forward, keep moving forward," she told herself under her breath.

Stepping into the living room with her gun held up, she surveyed the scene, unable to comprehend what she was looking at. Tim was slumped over sideways on the couch, blood still slowly flowing out of the deep wound on his head. Rich was face down next to the coffee table, completely motionless with no sign of life.

Positive that neither of these men were The Executioner, Ally again told herself 'keep moving forward,' this time completely silently.

Then she spotted the iron bar, sitting on the couch. She recognized The Executioner's weapon of choice immediately. Ally knew she was close.

Ally moved on quietly past the kitchen. As she walked down the hallway she heard sounds coming from Marv's office. Ally formulated her game plan for entering the room: they immediately surrender or they die.

Ally stepped into the doorframe, neither quickly nor slowly. She looked down at The Executioner as he was about to shove the final file folder into his courier bag.

The Executioner should have been more surprised, more frightened. But, looking up at Ally's gun, he felt oddly tranquil as he lifted his hands slowly in defeat.

"How many more? How many others in the house?" asked Ally quietly.

"The two I killed in the living room, me, plus the boss Marv," answered The Executioner, surprising himself with the calmness of his answer.

"Where?"

"Marv?" The Executioner nodded in the direction of the large safe and added nonchalantly "I put him in the safe. He's not dead yet."

As if on cue, a metallic scraping sound came from the safe as Marv, sitting on the roll-out tray on the bottom of the safe, shifted his position.

Ally was having problems sorting out the surreal situation.

"There's a person in there? How did you fit a person in that safe?"

"I knocked him out, and then I jammed him in there. There's space. He's not that big," said The Executioner, matter-of-factly.

"Why did you kill the two men I saw in the other room? Who are they? And why is your boss inside a safe?"

The Executioner, kneeling with his hands in the air, figured that he was basically now begging for his life, and he needed to answer questions in a way that would change Ally's perceptions of him as swiftly as possible.

"I killed them, basically, because they wanted to start kidnapping and trafficking women. And I'm..."

"That's a lie. You want me to believe that you have a conscience now?"

"I don't...," said The Executioner, stumbling over his words. "...I mean, have you ever heard of me targeting female runners? Even just once? And look...I'm now killing my boss for the same reason I killed the others. I don't think he's getting any air in there. And these bags...one of these bags is going to Blue Team, the other is going to a woman in Vietnam, and...."

"Stop. Just stop. What do you mean, 'Blue Team'?"

"I'm working with Blue Team," said The Executioner.

Ally couldn't speak. She felt a numb shock slowly spread over her body. She tried to process what was happening.

"You are not Blue Team. You are a murderer. You prey on the people that Blue Team tries to help," said Ally. In her head, this belief was 100%. But her words, as they came out of her mouth, were not entirely confident.

"I'm not Blue Team, but I work for them. This bag..." stammered The Executioner, "this bag is going to Blue Team. This guy, my boss...he keeps his records for his entire operation on paper. It's all here: names, payments, arrangements, contracts, I mean....whatever. He's insane. He doesn't trust computers, so he writes down everything by hand – whatever you are looking for. If you are looking for the guys who hunt runners overseas, if you want to know who helps them over there, and who in the government protects the overseas debt collectors here at home, it's all in this bag. You can't see the address; it's a secured privacy shipment. I don't even know where it's going. It's the shipping tag that Blue Team sent me. I don't know..."

"Shut up. Shut up!" Ally snapped, cutting off The Executioner before he started to ramble any further. "You are not on Blue Team. I know because I am Blue Team," said Ally, lying confidently. "I've been on Blue Team for years. You _are not_ one of us."

"I have been since a few days ago. I'm not a member or whatever, but I'm helping. I contacted them. They list ways to message them on their website if you have information. I told them what I could get for them. I don't know if they believed me, but they emailed me a code for a secure mailing address. I... I need to...or you, you need to contact them, you need to call them and ask."

Ally's hand did not waver at all. The gun remained pointed directly at The Executioner's face. He was now positive that he was begging for his life.

"If you move your hands, I shoot you," said Ally as bluntly as possible.

"Please, the bag is going to Blue Team. I swear. Call them. They'll sort it out."

"I _am_ Blue Team, I would know about this immediately. You're..."

"I don't know why you don't know," said The Executioner, interrupting Ally. "I don't know how your organization works. But before coming here, I sent a long message to the address on the Blue Team website. It's about 20,000 words. It explains how the system works. All the tactics we use. I name as many names and give as many locations as possible. You all probably know a lot of it already. But there is something else you and Blue Team need to know. You don't know it, but you need to..."

"Then summarize it. As quickly as possible," shot back Ally.

"OK. The boss, Marvin, the guy in the safe, he's not making money off of runners anymore. The expenses overseas are huge. But we have been working anyways. Marv has been subsidizing me and other debt collectors. And Marv in turn has been compensated by the big domestic debt collectors who are basically paying us to kill debt runners to intimidate the rest. I got suspicious after I looked at the numbers – what they were spending on my expenses and what I delivered to them. It wasn't profitable. We created such an environment of fear that people mostly quit running, and the runners already overseas decided to come home. We create the fear, the debtors – these students – they stay in America out of fear, and the loan and collection industry keeps their prisoners. But Marv wants to also traffic in women overseas on the side. When he told me that was when I started to change my mind about this line of work..."

This made far too much sense to Ally. She almost believed him.

Ally tried to think through this information as she fumbled to open a secure line on her phone to her operations contact at Blue Team. They answered immediately and she started to quickly describe what was happening as The Executioner did his best to hear what was being said at the other end of the line. He knew that his life depended on it.

Ally sat down in Marv's chair as the conversation turned more into a battle in which each side tried to interrogate the other. Hearing only one side, The Executioner had no better idea what his fate was, but it was clear that Ally was being told a lot about something that had been kept from her. And it seemed to The Executioner as if Ally and Blue Team had a very bad relationship.

Ally ended the call unceremoniously and sat silently, staring blankly into the distance.

After a short silence that seemed far longer than it actually was, Ally asked "What's in the smaller bag?"

"Cash. A lot. The bundles are all 1000 Euro banknotes. Marv said probably about eight million Euros total."

"So you're here to rob this guy and the paperwork you're sending Blue Team is just, what, an afterthought?"

"Scan the address label with my phone. The bag with the money is going to an old lady in Vietnam."

"Right. Your overseas money launderer?" asked Ally accusingly.

"No. The mother of this guy's girlfriend – or his wife, whatever. Marv's girlfriend, she has nothing without him – and she has no idea about what sort of operation goes on here. She has an old mother and two little kids in Vietnam. This money is going to them. I doubt this guy has life insurance, and if he does it doesn't cover him in LA. And knowing him, he sure as hell didn't make his girlfriend a beneficiary."

The Executioner was now really worried, as it seemed like the conversation she had with Blue Team didn't do much to placate her.

"So you're a humanitarian now?" she inquired sarcastically.

"No. I just want out. And I've been collecting as much info as I could on how this all works."

"I've heard enough," said Ally. "Quit talking. I need to think."

Ally continued to sit silently. She was having a problem with such a huge change in her perception of The Executioner. He was basically a whistle blower who was burning down the building on his way out. She accepted this. But she still didn't know what she was going to do, despite what Blue Team had asked her to do.

"How long have you been planning on doing this?" asked Ally.

"I don't know. It was sort of a gradual decision... I'm not sure."

Ally did not react. She continued to think.

"Can I ask a question?" inquired The Executioner.

Ally nodded.

"How did you track me here? Was it through Marv or one of these guys? Did you even know that I was here? Not that it matters now, but I'm curious... It's always been the other way around, with me tracking down people."

"Do you tell all the runners how you caught them?" asked Ally in reply.

"I tell them if they ask. But they almost never ask. I don't know why."

Ally thought about the answer. And she knew that delivering it would be satisfying.

"OK. It was quite simple. Mick gave you to us," said Ally.

"Mick told you?"

"Yes. My friend Mick told me. Not your friend; mine. He told us you were going to Canada. And he even sent us a nice close-up picture of your face, as we didn't have one. We sent it to the Canadian Border Services Agency. They give the Insurrectionary Anarchists info occasionally in return for us never stepping foot in Canada. You tripped the facial recognition system on the way in and out of Canada. And then there were some stalkers waiting for your flight to arrive here in Los Angeles. The service is not cheap when you arrange it with such short notice, but they are obviously good at following people. However, we didn't know that it would take so long for you to get from Vancouver to Los Angeles. We were about to give up on your arrival, especially considering the fact that you made a land border crossing. If you had driven to LA, we would have had no way to follow you. But then there you were tripping a notification as you went through security at the airport in Chicago. You have no idea how angry Blue Team is going to be when they see one final bill from an unnecessary operation."

"Yeah, I also pay people to do all my tracking these days," said The Executioner. "I should have gotten into the tracking business..."

Somehow, The Executioner was not surprised. He was never a good judge of people. And Mick could now be added to the list of people that he had thought could be trusted.

"So that's the story of how you got caught," stated Ally bluntly. "But now back to business. How long will it take for the drone to come for the money bag if you call for it now?" asked Ally.

"I need to use my phone to check."

"OK, go for it. Slowly. Do anything quickly and I shoot you in the face."

The Executioner fumbled to open the courier app on his phone and apologized, "Sorry, I almost never use this service."

Finding what he needed, The Executioner scanned the label on the courier bag and was given an estimated pick-up time.

"Twenty-three minutes."

"OK, send for it," said Ally. "Will it come to the back veranda? The pick-up drone?"

"Yes, they say that it just needs open sky above the pick-up spot. No trees or electrical lines. That's it. That's all the instructions say."

"OK, we're going out to the veranda. Again, you move too quickly in any way whatsoever, I shoot you in the back."

"One final thing: can I put a note in the bag? I need to tell Marv's girlfriend that he's dead and to not return to Los Angeles. It would be dangerous for her. I don't know what the fallout for this will be."

Looking at Marv's desk, Ally noticed pens, pencils and paper everywhere.

"What's with the pens and paper? It looks like a museum for a 20th century office supplies hoarder," said Ally.

"Like I said, he's old-fashioned. He does everything on paper. He has no files or data."

"Well, that was a good tactic until it wasn't," observed Ally.

The Executioner said nothing. He waited for Ally to speak again.

"OK, write a quick note," said Ally. "But I'm going to read it before you throw it into the bag."

The Executioner, back in the living room, was feeling unsettled as he kneeled next to the two dead men with his hands held behind his head. After nearly twenty minutes of kneeling in the living room while waiting for the drone, he asked Ally "What did the guys at Blue Team say to you about me? What did they tell you to do?"

"Well," said Ally, "Blue Team and I have..."

Ally was about to finish her thought when she was interrupted by the arrival of the drone. Buzzing quietly, the quadcopter smoothly swooped down and stopped to hover as a clip swung down and attached to the metal loop on the courier bag. And with that, an unknown amount of cash rose into the sky and flew towards Los Angeles international airport. Neither Ally nor The Executioner were too worried about it. International courier bags filled with cash were guaranteed to reach their destination without being checked. The couriers just figured that it is drug trafficker money and were, as a result, too scared to touch it.

"No, wait," said Ally, "First, I have a question for you: what about Elizabeth?"

"I'm sorry? Who?" asked The Executioner. He genuinely didn't know who Ally was talking about.

"My friend Liz. The woman you had murdered in Mexico. My partner. My best friend."

"I'm sorry about your friend. The guys I paid said they would be unarmed and that they wouldn't hurt anybody too badly," he said, his desperation showing in his voice. "They were supposed to nab Mick and leave behind any friends without hurting them. I'm sorry... I figured he would just be hanging out with some harmless pot heads who could be shoved out of the way. I didn't know you and your friend would be there. I didn't know that you all would be armed. I didn't know these idiots I hired would be indiscriminately firing a Kalashnikov."

Ally didn't reply. She stared to the side away from The Executioner as she thought through what she was going to do.

"What did Blue Team tell you to do?" asked The Executioner again as he looked over his shoulder, not quite able to see Ally.

"They said...to let you send the money, or to let you keep it if that's what you wanted. They said for me to let the drone take the bag with the documents as well, but I'm going to have a look at the documents for myself first."

"And what about me? I made a deal with Blue Team."

"Yeah," said Ally, "you have a deal with them. They said to say thank you and to let you go."

"Alright...so? Are we done?" asked The Executioner.

"Yes, we're done," said Ally as she grabbed a couch cushion, pushing it against the back of The Executioner's head and firing her gun into it.

The sound was louder than Ally had expected.

The Executioner fell forward. But to Ally's surprise, he put out his arms to break his fall, still conscious with a bullet hole in his upper neck. Quickly dropping the makeshift silencer pillow, she put her knee into The Executioner's back and forced him down onto the ground. Pressing his face firmly into the floor, Ally pushed the barrel of her gun against the side of The Executioner's head and fired two shots into his brain.

Chapter Seventeen

Walking down the street to no place in particular, Mick felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

Only two people had his number.

He looked down at the message from the unknown number on the screen: 'He's dead. His partners and his boss are dead. Nobody else is coming for you. It's over. You won't hear from me again. Goodbye, and good luck.'

Ally's message felt more than slightly impersonal. But Mick pushed that thought aside as he ran through the steps required to wipe his phone clean. After clearing the data, he decided he should destroy his phone. He then felt the strange but familiar sense of paranoia arriving, from an unclear direction. As if on cue, the solution presented itself: a nice restaurant with a zapping booth at the entrance. The sign promised that their state-of-the-art equipment offered a shock far more tolerable than that found in the older booths. Mick was sold.

Sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant, with his back to the wall, Mick looked at his completely dead phone. He didn't know what he was expecting. The phone was now a useless piece of plastic and metal with the internal electronics now destroyed. But he felt reassured that if someone had stuck a tracking device in his clothes or his flip-flops, it too was dead. And he had no intention to return to his hostel dormitory. His spare clothing, shoes and small collection of toiletries – all of them possible locations for trackers – could be easily replaced.

Mick had cash in a money belt strapped to his thigh, a clean passport with a new name, the clothes on his back, and a head full of account numbers and passwords. He had everything that he needed. And he was free.

But as he waited for his dinner, he felt far less cheerful than usual. Why, he asked himself, did Ally just disappear on him? Why did she not at least pretend that they would meet up sometime, and hang out for a few days? Why did she not set up any system whereby they could get in touch with each other in the future? It's not as if Mick never had any friends that he had eventually lost contact with before, but Ally was far more fun and engaging than any he could remember.

Now Mick didn't feel particularly good about anything. He was thinking too much again.

But then, as the waiter placed the seafood platter on the table, he remembered: that stupid appetite suppressor was also destroyed in the zapping booth. He was now quite hungry.

As the food settled in his stomach, Mick began a quick mood shift. Now it seemed that today was going to be a good day. It was to be one of many good days ahead of him.

Mick tried to trace the reason for his sudden mood shift. Then, suddenly, Mick realized that he had not eaten the night before, and that he had also neglected to eat breakfast.

'Silly me. All I need was some food,' thought Mick to himself.

Mick was now positive. He felt it strongly and he knew it: everything was going to be alright.

Chapter Eighteen

Ally walked quickly down the dirt path towards the river. She didn't know how much daylight was left, but it wasn't likely very much. The ten hours straight of driving from Los Angeles had given her ample time to think about what was bothering her. And now, as she descended the trail, her thoughts started to converge into a feeling. This feeling was somewhat like an instinct. Ally sensed that this wasn't something that would change along with her mood. It was time to make a decision. All of the things that had happened to her in the previous months were outside of her control, or they were unintended consequences of her actions. But the decision that she was going to now make now would be entirely hers.

Ally gave herself an ultimatum: when she turns her back on the Colorado River to return to her car, she will make a final decision. But the river was to be for Liz and for Liz only.

As she got closer she could see the rim of the canyon opening up, revealing an ever deeper chasm. Ally kept expecting to see the river, but the canyon only went farther and farther down. Finally, the Horseshoe Bend of the Colorado River came into sight. It was exactly as she expected: the water looked cold and blue. The enormous bend in the river was so much more dramatic than she had expected. The river flowed towards her in a giant sweep and then wrapped around the canyon, away and out of view. There was not a single other person there.

There were many overviews of the canyon, but Ally was looking only for one. She opened the photo of Liz's parents spreading her ashes. Pointing the phone towards the canyon, she quickly found the exact spot.

Sitting on the flat rock ledge, Ally looked down at the river far below. She imagined Liz's ashes slowly mixing with the red earth at the bottom of the canyon, on a long and slow journey to join the river. Ally sat quietly and thought about nothing. Her mind was, for the first time that she could remember, clear.

Ally looked at the sun in the distance as it was about to go below the horizon. She decided to leave before the sun set. And, as she turned around, she knew exactly what she was going to do. Ally was destined for something so much bigger than being merely a feared member of a fringe social force. She was going to leave that all behind her. There was no doubt about this. Ally knew it.

She was now free, and bound to no person and to no organization. But the next step was not so clear. Ally promised herself that she would not get into her car until she made that decision.

It was going to be a long night.

###
