For the time being, I lay the three bodies out on the roof, feet-toward-park so they don’t roll down the slight incline. Morning showed up an hour ago, shaping up to be one of those opaque cloud-covered migraine-type days that slow cook you like a boiled egg.

I’m just too freaking tired to do anything else with these folks, and I have yet to deal with my ear, beyond duct-taping a ball of polo shirt to my head. I am stripped to the waist, and I chew off a chunk of yak jerky, which is the consistency of tar but does the job of keeping me standing.

The Empire State Building is looking majestic as ever—despite the 2/14 massacre on the observation deck, it appears exactly the same as it did prior. Why shouldn’t it? Likewise the Chrysler Building. What happened there? I don’t remember.

From this vantage, I’ll be able to toss the corpses into the garbage pits in Bryant Park, whereupon they will be burned, hopefully unnoticed. It seemed like a good plan earlier, but by the time I dragged the third man up here I was close to passing out from the exertion. Maybe I’ve lost blood as well.

Thankfully for those of us who need to wrap up dead bodies and suchlike, painters had been working on the main hall at the time of the building’s evacuation, so there’s plenty of burlap tarps with which to swaddle bodies, like babies, should the need arise.

I leave them there, three bundles of joy.

Anyhoo, I didn’t get much out of the main man. But what little I did get seems pretty promising: his name, his ID, and a photograph.

I shuffle down the stairwell, and as I reach my floor, I pull the smudged scrap of paper out of my back pocket. As he was dying, I asked if I could do anything for him. The man said yes, tell his family he’s sorry. Hence the occasion to obtain a written name. I never got to ask where his family is, not that I have time for tangents like that.

The ID card has him down as Goran Milankovich, in the employ of Do Rite Construction, with an address on Little West 12th. Likewise, his two buddies carry cards reflecting the same employer.

I peer at the scrap again. The lettering in Goran’s hand is a form of Cyrillic that I assume is Serbian, but apparently my reading comprehension isn’t up to the same level as my command of the spoken language. This happens sometimes.

The biggest surprise, however, is the photo. It’s a crappy print on regular paper, but it’s clearly Iveta Shapsko. She’s quite a bit younger, and is smiling for the camera. She wears a sundress or a strappy loose top (it’s torso up), and a body of water is visible behind her. There’s a low wall as well, painted blue and white, vibing Mediterranean. On the flip side are more of these Cyrillic scribbles. I get goose bumps as I clock the English characters, 42nd/5th Ave.

My address. On the back of a photo of Iveta.

So, despite my exhaustion, the last thing I do before giving my ear some attention is to pull out the Library of Congress Russian Transliteration Table and check this text against the chart of all known Cyrillic alphabets. Just to be positive. In about five minutes I’m sure the writing is of Serbian origin, describing the library’s entrances.

What’s with all the Serbs all of a sudden?

Close the book, thinking goddamnit. Yakiv spoke of a Serbian man, the father of Iveta’s kids. Was it Branko Jokanovic? I think I have that correct. A “war criminal,” no less. Sounds like a joke, dubious at best. But no more so than any other detail of this assignment, about which I’ve gotten lots of information but essentially know nothing. I don’t even know what the assignment is anymore.

As I lope toward the bathroom (the water is still running somehow, tainted, it’s a sort of amber; hell no, I wouldn’t even allow it to touch my clothes), I wonder why these Eastern European people can’t keep their local drama confined to the fucked-up region from whence they came. Always some kind of static or shadiness going down in their circles, it always boils over, poisoning other citizens’ business …

Stop. I need to check this mind-set. I realize that it’s exactly this kind of xenophobic thinking that was exhibited by villains like J. Edgar Hoover, certain members of the LAPD in the mid-twentieth century, Bush II, the KKK. Slippery slope.

I peel off the latex gloves and drop them in the trash. Tap my key. Assess my ear. Call it barely grazed. Little tiny bit of cartilage is missing, that’s it. Lucky stuff. Not much blood either.

Applying some rubbing alcohol I consider whether it’s wise to stay here and sleep. The answer to that is of course not. I douse some paper towels in the alcohol, take down my pants, and scrub my entire body. It hurts but it makes me want to sleep less.

Viewing myself in the mirror, it’s a fact that I look like a bit of an undead train wreck. Ribs protrude, I can see the top of my pelvis. My neck looks like a suede rope. I need to be taking better care of myself, finding more consistent food sources.

Meanwhile, I have to figure out what the fuck to do.

The System has a basic tenet, which is really just the same kind of logic they beat into us in the military. When you’re lost, make an inventory of what you know.

Item one: the district attorney has hired me to kill Yakiv Shapsko, which he assumes will occur today. He is monitoring me electronically.

Item two: Yakiv Shapsko has hired me to kill his wife Iveta. If I fail to do this he will kill me. Likewise, Shapsko is monitoring me electronically.

Item three: some Serbian entity, who may or may not be Iveta Shapsko’s ex-flame/captor Branko Jokanovic, is looking for Iveta and myself, and has somehow connected her to either me or this address or both.

Item four: Iveta Shapsko’s location is not known.

Pulling my pants back on, I wonder where my shoes are and remember setting them down in the stairwell. With the briefcase.

In about three minutes I’m dressed again, and I’ve swapped out shirts. I had blood on my collar, maybe it’s salvageable but it won’t do to walk around looking all nasty.

I crack open the manila folder Yakiv gave me.

Iveta Shapsko (née Balodis), aged thirty-nine, Latvian national, height five foot six inches, weight 127 pounds, brown hair, green eyes … Hold on.

My gear is strewn everywhere but I locate the file the DA gave me. Plop it next to Yakiv’s. They’re identical, down to the photo of her in the aisle of a grocery store. It’s the same information, the same font, the same format. Must have come from the same source. Identical.

Not totally identical. In addition to the location in Queens, I see Yakiv’s file on Iveta contains an additional address.

Okay, that’s odd.

It’s an eyesore of a high-rise at Columbus Circle: 1 Central Park West, the Trump Tower. I can’t come up with a connection there.

Time to get organized. I locate my shoulder holster, within which I house both my Beretta and the new Sig Sauer. The Serb’s gun is one of those CZ-99s. I’ve heard good things about them but I appreciate how that Sig performed, and of course my Beretta is like family. I stash the CZ-99 with the rest of my shit.

As an afterthought I get out my Kevlar vest, despite the heat outside, which only serves to make me look like I have a normal-sized torso.

Otherwise: I repack the briefcase with a six-pack of Purell^TM, a green box cutter, extra surgical gloves, plenty of ammo, the goggles, flashlight, camera, my files, toothbrush, a ziplock bag of pistachios, jerky, and two pairs of underwear and socks. Confirm I have the key, front pants pocket. Both of Iveta’s files in hand.

I repack my kit bag and place it back in its nook.

It’s 7:45 a.m. Don’t know what I’m going to do when that wall clock, which is probably as old as the building, dies. And I still don’t know my next move. Fuck it; if I sit still I’m gonna sleep, and if I sleep I’ll likely get myself dead.

Press my hat back on, wince as it touches my bad ear, pop a pill, and point myself at the rear exit.

Outside, that smell. The Big Stench.

As I pass the burning garbage pits, I chuck Iveta’s files into the flames.