From Rodent With Love

Fun fact- stubbing your toe hurts more than stabbing yourself in the leg. But only if you do both at the same time.

I was going to need stitches.

I muttered a curse, making a quick sweep to see if anyone had noticed. The Manhattan commuters were too caught up in the bustle of day to day life to fully process the world around them, and if anyone had noticed, they didn't care enough to comment.

That worked for me.

Normally, I’m remarkably careful with blades, especially switchblades, since they have a habit of popping out at inconvenient times- case and point, trying not to track blood through the 23rd street station- but by some twist of fate (and a poorly timed rat), my caution had backfired.

I’d been descending the stairs into the subway, triple-checking my coat pocket to ensure my knife was still there (since it would be remarkably difficult to carry out an assassination without it). I had been careful to avoid triggering the switch with my thumb, but that meant feeling for it with an open palm.

Now, I can handle a lot. I have seen a lot. I have done a lot. But I can’t do rats. And unfortunately for me, right as my hand brushed the hilt, the aforementioned poorly-timed rat decided to make his happy way across the toe of my shoe.

In that moment, my brain had to choose how to react; fight, flight, freeze, or fawn?

It chose fight.

The normal, civilian side of my brain did the obvious thing- wildly swing my leg around to get the rat off. The other side- the highly-trained-international-spy side- chose a less conventional approach.

It decided we had to stab the rat.

My hand instinctively squeezed the hilt of the knife, and at the same moment my flailing foot collided with the brick wall beside me, the blade, conveniently pointed directly at the meat of my thigh, popped open.

This was not the first time I had been stabbed. First time I’d stabbed myself, for sure, but as for general having-been-stabbed-ness, I want to say this was the fifth time? Maybe six if you count the grazing in Lisbon. And my toe throbbed more than my leg, so I didn’t notice I had stabbed myself right away. When your rat-fueled adrenaline is high, it's hard to keep tabs on where physical sensations, like pain, are coming from. But then my leg felt damp.

The damp spot was too far to the side to be a failing of the bladder, and after a quick glance, I confirmed that it was, in fact, blood. I popped the knife out of my leg, thanking whatever god was out there that I hadn't just been scared into peeing myself. If I had to choose between piss and blood. I’d choose not piss every time.

There is very little you can control in life, and the same is true for espionage. You can keep track of people’s daily schedules, you can plan to be where they are, but there is always a chance they may not show, or they spot you and get spooked, or a rat runs across your shoe and makes you stub your toe an stab yourself in the fucking leg right before you’re supposed to kill them. All you can do is roll with the punches.

Or stabs, in my case.

At least I had the foresight to wear black pants.

As I limped onto the subway platform, I took stock of the situation- My jacket had a hole in it (disappointing); my leg had a hole in it (uncomfortable); my stubbed toe was throbbing (more uncomfortable); my target had not arrived yet (concerning); and the poorly-timed rat had fully vanished (very concerning).

I tucked myself flat against the wall next to the bottom of the stairs and tried to put the rat from my mind. Thinking about the assignment helped.

Mission: Take out Jason Jang (Hangul: 장선재 [Jang Seon-Jae]). Get in, make the hit, sight unseen, and get out.

The World Association of Infiltration and Tracking had not given me much to work with. I knew he was 5’8”, Korean-American, 33 years old, black hair, and seemingly living an uneventful life in Rose Hill. No spouse. No partner. No kids. Currently working as a part-time docent at the National Museum of Mathematics. How he lived in Manhattan on a part-time salary was really the only mysterious thing about him. According to my intel, he often took the subway from 23rd to 28th to get to work.

I wasn't given a reason why W.A.I.T. wanted him gone.

Eleven years in the program taught me not to ask.

My toe had mercifully stopped throbbing, but the absence of that pain allowed my brain to catch up on some other, slightly more pressing injuries. I ripped a strip of my coat’s lining (again, disappointing; I really loved this coat) and wrapped a makeshift bandage around my thigh, grateful that the bleeding seemed to be minimal. The wound couldn’t be deeper than a half-inch, but I could feel the skin around it starting to bruise and pulse. And it burned.

That's something they don't tell you about getting stabbed. It burns.

At 29, I was getting too old for this.

I bit my tongue and tried to maintain focus. If Jang hadn’t arrived yet, he would soon. There was a ten minute window where he could ride the train, walk the two blocks to the museum, and not be obscenely early to work.

Unless he was sick. Or taking a personal day. Or eaten by rats. God, I could not stop thinking about rats.

Three trains came and went, and hundreds of people passed. Jang did not..

Isn’t that just like men? On the one day you need them to show up, they have the audacity to be late.

As I was stewing in my frustration at having been stood up for an assassination attempt, my ears perked up. There was some kind of commotion happening in the stairwell. I couldn't make out what was happening at first- scuffling feet, a series of yelps, a brief apology, the sound of running?

And then the rat came back.

I managed to suppress my scream as it darted around the corner and over my shoes again. Mercifully, my brain decided that only one fight reaction was needed to deal with the rat this time.

Less mercifully, my flailing leg was still remarkably uncoordinated, and my heel smashed into the wall.

I barely had time to process the pain before someone sprinted around the corner of the stairwell and slammed into me, full force. I toppled sideways, grabbing onto the nearest thing within reach- his coat- but instead of righting my balance, I managed to pull him directly on top of me. Nothing says “international woman of mystery” like lying spread eagle on the floor of the subway.

The stranger shifted above me and I hissed in pain- he’d landed with his full weight on my bad leg.

“I am so, so sorry,” he said, prying himself off of me. From what I could see, the stranger was well dressed, in all black business casual- slacks, sneakers, a knit polo, and a wool coat to keep the wind out. “I’m running late, and there was a rat on the stairs, and it would not leave me alone. I’m normally a pretty steady guy but,” he lifted his gaze to meet mine, “I can’t do rats.”

Black hair. 5 foot 8. Korean American. Name tag that read Jason Jang.

Shit.

“Are you okay?” He pushed himself upright, untangling his coat from mine.

“I’m fine,” I grunted, hauling myself up. “You just knocked the wind out of me.”

So much for sight unseen. I leaned myself against the wall, leg and heel throbbing, ego and ass bruised. I waited for him to stand and leave, making a mental list of all of the paperwork I was going to have to file when I got back to my apartment in Bed-Stuy. Compromised cover report, check. On-the-field injury report, check. Rabies exposure report- I would have to check.

I wondered if rats could carry rabies.

Before I had the chance to wallow too deep in my self pity, Jason sat himself against the wall next to me. What was he still doing here?

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I asked, hoping he’d take the hint.

He blinked, oblivious.

“You said you were running late?”

I could see the understanding on his face, and yet he remained rooted next to me. He pulled his legs under him, sitting criss cross like a school kid on the platform floor. “Ah. Well, I hate to be late, but I only have one thing scheduled this morning.” He leaned over and bumped my shoulder with his, offering a teasing smile. “I don’t think work will miss me too much.” Jang ran his hand through a flop of hair that had fallen over his brow. He had nice hair. Well kept. Silky. I wondered how it felt.

Wait. What?

“I’m really fine, promise,” I said, trying to shake that unwelcome thought from my brain. I might have to do a concussion report, too. “You don’t need to stay.”

“And what if I said that I’m not fine?” He flashed another smile that made me seriously doubt his not-fine-ness. I offered a light smile back.

Without teeth, of course. That would be unprofessional.

The train that had arrived during our little fiasco hissed and pulled out of the station. The platform was fairly empty now, save us, two stragglers, and a busker performing a mediocre rendition of Take On Me. A thought occurred to me- I could just kill him now, quietly stab him and be home in time for lunch. Maybe I could even get a jumpstart on my paperwork. My hand made its way to the switchblade-

Which had fallen out through the hole in my coat.

Amazing.

I added another document to the to-be-filed tab in my brain. Misplaced weapon report- check.

Still completely oblivious, he held out a hand for me to shake. I ignored it.

“My name is Jason,” he persisted.

“I know.”

He cocked his head. “What?”

Shit. Cover, cover, COVER. “It says it on the name tag.”

“Oh.” He laughed, a rich, loud laugh that I could tell he was quick to share. I wondered if I could make him laugh again.

Oh. My God. Even planted firmly on the ground, I was feeling seriously off balance. It took me a moment to realize Jason was looking at me expectantly.

Right. My turn to share.

“I’m Remy.”

He laughed again, and I felt a warmth grow in my chest. “Like the rat?”

“It’s my greatest shame.”

That, of course, was a lie. My true greatest shame was that I had just given my target, who I now had no way to kill, my REAL, LEGAL NAME instead of making something up. Jesus, I had a lot of paperwork to do.

“We probably should go,” he said, pushing himself off the dirty subway floor. “The next train will be here in a few minutes.”

I really didn’t want to stand. It’s difficult to hide a limp, and I didn’t need Jason fawning all over me trying to make sure I was okay. But maybe, if I timed it right, I could trip him onto the tracks. I’d hate to cause a stall for the MTA, but I’d hate to fill out that paperwork more.

“Right. Let’s go.” I pushed myself up using the wall, and bit back a groan as weight hit my leg again. I looked over to see if Jason noticed.

He hadn't. He was staring down at his own leg, where the hilt of a switchblade stuck out of his thigh.

And it wasn’t mine.

Unthinking, I blurted out, “Why do you have a switchblade?”

He huffed in frustration. “A normal person would say ‘are you okay?’ or ‘Oh my God, you've been stabbed!’ or ‘ahhhh!’”

I felt slightly embarrassed, until I remembered that he hadn’t actually answered my question. My mind spun trying to think of any possible reason why this funny, sweet museum tour guide would own an illegal out-the-front switchblade. Unfortunately, my only frame of reference was my own experience, and I immediately assumed he was also an assassin, sent to kill me before I killed him.

“Oh my God, you've been stabbed,” I deadpanned. “Why do you have a switchblade?”

“Self defense? I don’t know, Remy, we live in Manhattan!”

“I live in Brooklyn,” I corrected. Stupidly. Why did I keep offering this man, who I was trying to kill and who may or may not be trying to kill me, information about myself? Time to switch back to questioning.

“Those are illegal in New York. Where did you get it?”

“Work,” he bit back, seemingly annoyed at my lack of empathy.

A brief flicker of something like panic crossed his face, before he schooled it back into irritation. I realized he had been remarkably calm for someone who had a knife sticking out of them. Almost like someone who had been stabbed before.

“The Museum of Math gave you an illegal switchblade?” A second flicker: panic again, then confusion.

“How did you know I worked at the Museum of Math?”

“Name tag.”

Both our eyes went to the name tag on his chest.

It only said his name.

Oops.

“Have you been following me?”

Screw it. I was probably gonna resign after this anyways.

“Jason, I’m gonna level with you. I got hired to kill you, but I messed this up so bad.”

A laugh exploded out of him. Odd reaction to being told you had a hit out on you. “I refuse to let you take credit for something that rat was clearly the mastermind of.”

I snorted. “Can I tell you, I’ve been doing this for so long, and I’ve never, ever screwed up a mission this much.”

Jason’s brow furrowed, considering. “Since we seem to be practicing radical honesty,” he leaned in and lowered his voice, “I got hired to kill you too.”

His confession was so blunt, I nearly screamed with laughter. “I KNEW it! No one can afford a Manhattan apartment on a part time salary!”

“I was gonna try to push you on the tracks just now,” he said through his own chuckles.

“Great minds think alike!”

He shook his head, still smiling. “God, I cannot believe how royally we fucked this up.”

A question made its way to the front of my head.

“How did you stab yourself?”

He shrugged. “The knife must’ve popped open when I was avoiding the rat.”

I pulled back my coat to reveal the makeshift bandage on my leg. “He got me, too.”

Jason fully doubled over with laughter. He didn't manage to right himself for a full minute. “Well, since we're clearly incapable of taking eachother out today, could I maybe take you for coffee? There’s a place around the corner that I love.”

“I’m in.”

I was definitely quitting my job today.

We dislodged the blade from Jason's leg and slowly began to hobble up the stairs, still chuckling at our mutual misfortune. It was odd, finding kinship in someone who just minutes ago had been planning to murder me, but it brought happiness nonetheless. And nothing on this earth could take that away.

Except a rat.

As we ascended the final step, a tiny black body and a long, grungy tail skittered in front of us. I jumped back, grabbing the hand rail to steady myself, and watched as Jason did the same. But instead of firmly grasping the rail, his hand slipped, and he went tumbling head over foot, all the way back to the bottom of the stairs. A heavy crack echoed up to the top.

“Are you okay?” I yelled down.

No answer.

Jason lay motionless, dead at the bottom of the stairs. I sighed, sad to miss out on coffee. At least I wouldn’t have to fill out paperwork when I got home.

I hated that rat.