Three a.m. in the Belfast Hills.
We crept silently along the path, two shadowy figures fading in and out of the surrounding darkness as clouds scudded across the harsh sliver of moon above. Occasionally the soft wind would deliver a brief snatch of muttered conversation, too low to be intelligible, from our quarry ahead.
We had been tracking them for half an hour, hoping they would lead us to any allies they had in the area. Intel pegged them as dead-enders, wannabes looking to make a splash by disrupting the delicate peace negotiations. We were here to make sure that didn’t happen.
Another murmur of conversation from ahead, sharper this time. I snapped a closed fist up, heard a faint rustle of grass behind me as my companion froze. I reached down, began to slide my trusty ka-bar from -
Strong hands gripped my arms from behind, pinning them in place. I knew instantly that it wasn't Bono; he had slim, girlish singer's hands, and I had felt their touch often enough to recognize the difference.
Ambush.
Hot, moist breath fouled the back of my neck, a miasma of beer and stale tobacco. I exhaled and relaxed my shoulders, forcing my unseen captor to lean in to maintain his balance. As he did, I locked my left leg, pivoted slightly, and slammed my right foot down like a sensible-but-stylish-shod piston onto his arch.
I was rewarded with a wounded howl and a gratifying crunch of bone. I jerked my foot, popping the heel of the shoe off and leaving the enemy’s skewered foot pinned to the ground. As his hands dropped away from my arms I was already in motion, drawing the ka-bar with my left hand, spinning, extending the arm, the deadly pirouette ending with a hot jet of carotid blood as the knife traced a wet, mirthful smile across his throat.
He hadn't been alone, of course. There were four more, one of them holding Bono, and I could hear the others, the ones we had been tracking, crashing back down the path to our position.
No time for finesse, then. Move.
I moved. A jumbled kaleidoscope of images, grunts and flashing steel, curses and screams, my blade drinking deep, one to the next, so many of them, but not enough, never enough to slake that dark thirst -
"Enough!"
Ten feet away, the sole remaining enemy held a pistol to Bono's temple, the barrel quivering almost as much as his voice. "I - I’ll blow his fucking head off! I mean it! Drop the knife, now!"
I locked eyes with Bono, saw his almost imperceptible answering nod.
I raised my free hand slowly, projecting calm. "OK," I said, using a careful, exaggerated motion to extend the knife, holding it palm down with the blade parallel to my body. "Just take it easy."
The terrorist's wide, panicky eyes tracked the blade. I was only going to get one shot at this, I knew; better make it count.
I dropped my free hand. It was carefully calibrated, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to distract the enemy's attention for the split-second I needed. As his gaze involuntarily shifted, I flicked my other wrist in a quick, contemptuous motion.
Bono stumbled forward; the terrorist, his forehead sprouting a knife handle, fell bonelessly into the heather lining the path.
I went and retrieved my weapon, wiping it off absent-mindedly on the dead man’s shirt. Bono was stooped over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
"Thanks," he panted. "Sorry. Don't know how they got the drop on me."
I grunted noncommittally.
After a few moments the Irishman straightened and began surveying the aftermath of the battle, a slightly ill expression stealing over his face. For all his considerable talents, the singer had never had the stomach for wetwork.
"Does it ever bother you?" he said softly. Catching my tight expression, he hurriedly corrected himself.
"Not this - " he said, waving a hand to indicate the bloody scene. "I just mean - you’ve saved the Northern Ireland peace process, again, and no one will ever know."
I fixed him with a steady stare. "Someday people will know. When the time is right. Until then, I’m content to operate in the shadows."
The singer looked at me curiously, studying my face. "You seem – different, somehow. That thing in Tuzla, now this . . . it’s done something to you. Almost like you’ve - "
"Crossed a threshold," I murmured, the phrase springing to mind unbidden. The words felt powerful somehow, totemic, pregnant with future possibilities.
But that was the future. This was now.
I tugged my shoulderpads back into place under the pantsuit jacket and sheathed the ka-bar.
"Let’s go. I’ve got a peace park to dedicate."
We walked into the cool Irish night, the darkness swallowing us up as if we had never been there at all.
The War Journals of Hillary Clinton: Vol. 1 | Vol. 2 | Vol 3