Taking a life is the most unforgivable act a man can commit upon man. To view something so criminal, immoral, and sinful as being acceptable was impossible. The best I could do was to perceive the elimination of my targets as my duty to the Nation, and those who lived in it.

I realized early in life that I was destined to protect others. In kindergarten, I recall standing up for a girl who was being teased. Her rival was a boy twice my size, three years my senior, and generally angry about everything.

In the end, I stood the victor.

Following the fight with the freckled girl’s antagonist, my classmates realized I had the propensity to oppose anyone who preyed on the weak. That realization kept the school’s bullies constantly checking over their shoulder to see if I was lurking somewhere in the distance.

I joined the Marines to continue my fight against the evil that preys upon those who are defenseless. The defenseless were every man and every woman who were not a protector.

There will always be men who prey on the defenseless, hoping to instill harm or death upon them. These men have a penchant for violence, care not about their fellow man, and have no empathy for those they commit the acts against.

They are the earth’s evil.

There are men who seek the evil-doers, hoping to stop them before they prey on those who are defenseless. These men have a capacity to instill violence if needed, are empathetic toward their fellow man, and resort to whatever means necessary to save the masses from harm. They are the protectors.

I am a protector.

“How are you feeling today?” Doctor Rhoades asked.

I shrugged. “I’m surviving, thank you.”

She smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I didn’t want to simply answer her question. I enjoyed toying with her, giving her bits and pieces of information and leading her along. It forced her to ask more questions, which kept me in her office for longer periods of time than the other men. I enjoyed my sessions with her, and as ridiculous as it seemed to admit, I believed she truly cared about my well-being.

“Vulnerable,” I said. “Afraid.”

She leaned forward. “Fear is natural, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’ve learned to embrace fear,” I said. “If combat taught me nothing else, it taught me that.”

“What is it that you fear, Briggs?”

“That I can’t be saved,” I responded.

“Religiously?”

I shook my head. “From myself, really.”

“Can you explain?”

“I’m still struggling with my last assignment,” I said. “Accepting it isn’t coming easily. That lack of acceptance leaves me to second-guess my actions. I’m beating myself up over this one, Doc.”

“Acceptance is nothing more than allowing an experience to exist in our mind without struggle,” she explained. “As soon as we realize we’re incapable of changing our past experiences, we’re left to accept them.”

Her brown hair was twisted into a tight bun. Dressed in a black pant suit with a belt tied at her waist, she looked more like a business professional than a doctor.

I liked thinking of her as a friend who offered me great advice twice a month, not as a doctor who was assigned to provide mental health for each of the program’s operators. At times, I imagined her being more than a friend, but realized anything more than friendship with her would require both of us to be out of New Dawn’s grasp.

Although my recent thoughts had included leaving the program, I knew doing so would not be an easy task.

“If I can’t change it, I must accept it.” I gave her a nod of appreciation. “That’s a fairly simple solution. I like that.”

“See if you can find a way to set that particular event aside.” She clasped her hands together. “View it as a mistake you’re incapable of changing. Identifying it as a mistake may allow you to accept it much easier.”

Making mistakes was human. Nevertheless, identifying my actions during an assignment as being in error wasn’t an easy thing to do. My ability to plan a mission that took every possible scenario into consideration was the main reason I was selected to be in the position I was in.

“I’ll give that a try,” I said.

Her brows pinched together. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”

“I haven’t convinced myself it’s a good idea to admit I made a mistake during that assignment. It went as planned.”

“Let me explain it a little differently,” she said. “Your assignment went as planned. The portion that was in your control was faultless. A portion of that faultless assignment, however, is causing you grief. One piece of that complex puzzle troubles you. Setting that portion aside and telling yourself it was a mistake that simply happened—not a choice you made—might allow you to compartmentalize it in a manner that allows you to accept it.”

“I like that explanation much better,” I said. “Let me work on it for a day or two.”

She flipped through my file. “You haven’t had an assignment since. Other than the one issue, there’s not much to discuss.”

“It’s been an uneventful two weeks,” I said. “Weapons training and the gym have been about it.”

She closed my file. After fidgeting in her chair for some time, she seemed to find a comfortable position. She let out a playful sigh and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

I grinned. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

“There’s a few things not related to your assignments that I’d like to talk about,” she said.

“What, specifically?”

“Nothing specific. Just…things.”

I’d been seeing her for three years. In that time, I hadn’t allowed our discussions to extend beyond what was necessary for her to do her job.

In short, we talked about work.

I found the thought of expanding our conversations interesting. “What types of things?”

“I’ve got a question or two I’d like to ask. After that, we can have an ‘off the record’ conversation.” Her brows raised in wonder. “If you’re okay with that.”

If I had a talk with anyone about anything, I perceived it as being ‘on the record’. To think otherwise was to put myself at risk.

“Off the record, huh?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“A world exists outside of this one. In it, there are no laws, nor are there any repercussions for your actions,” she explained. “You’re free to do whatever you like without fear of prosecution or persecution. There’s nothing you can do to change the world. You can’t develop law, a court system, or any means of punishment for wrongdoing, because there is no wrongdoing. You’re forced to live there, for the rest of your life, in this world as it exists. My question to you is this: would you kill?”

I tried to imagine life in such a place. Chaos was the first thing that came to mind. “Sounds like I’d have to.”

“Why?”

“Self-defense would be my guess.”

“In the absence of defending yourself, would you be tempted to kill?”

“Tempted?” I looked at her like she was nuts. “Like satisfying an itch?”

“In that world, could you see yourself killing for any reason other than self-defense?”

“There wouldn’t be a reason to.”

“Is that a no?”

“That’s an affirmative on the negative, Doc.” I gave her a serious look. “When this program ends are you concerned that I’m going to traipse the earth slaughtering people for the sake of entertainment?”

“Not at all.”

“Why the chaotic world scenario?”

“I was just curious,” she said.

“About what?”

“How your mind works.”

“I don’t see where that question provided any idea of how my mind works.”

She laughed. “If your answer would have been different, there would have been a lot for me to learn.”

“Are you dissatisfied with my response?”

“Not at all.” She opened my file. “It was what I was hoping for.”

“I’m glad I met your expectations.”

She flipped through the pages in the file, and then stopped. “Since our last meeting have you had any suicidal thoughts? Long-term memory loss? Short-term memory loss?”

“No, no, and no.”

She marked the paper and then closed the file. “Would you like to have an off the record conversation?”

“I suppose that depends.”

“On?”

“What you want to discuss.”

She leaned against the edge of the desk. “I’d like to assure you if we do this that I’d keep the content of the conversation off the record, regardless of the topic of our discussion.”

I had no reason to distrust her. I simply didn’t trust people, period. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. If she crossed me, I’d consider it a lesson learned. If she didn’t, I’d allow her one step closer to the real me.

“If we have an off the record conversation, the only thing I’d be willing to discuss would be me,” I said. “I don’t talk about others. Ever.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she responded. “I’d like to know you better, that’s all. Understand a few things about you that I don’t already know.”

I studied her for a moment. She always seemed content with who she was and satisfied with what she was doing. I liked that about her. It suggested confidence. It was an attractive quality.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Whenever you are.”

“We’re officially off the record.” After removing her jacket, she draped it over the arm of her chair and sat. “You’re my last client. You can stay as long or as short as you like.”

“Be careful with statements like that, Doc,” I said. “I might stay until dark.”

“I’d enjoy that.”

“Why?”

“I find you interesting.”

The thought was flattering. I wondered what about me interested her.

“Ask whatever you’d like,” I said.

She picked up her pen. Seeming more interested in it than she was in me, she cleared her throat. “Using one sentence, explain to me how you justify being an operator.”

It was an easy question to answer. “Protecting those from harm that are incapable of protecting themselves.”

She shifted her gaze from me to the pen. “Have you ever been in a relationship?”

“Not since high school.”

“Do you get lonely?”

“I stay lonely.”

She twirled the pen between her fingers. She was enjoying herself, that much was clear. After a moment, she looked up. “When this program is over, can you see yourself being in a relationship?”

“I’d like to think so. I mean, I’d like to be. When all this is over.”

“What prevents you from being in a relationship now?”

I laughed out loud at the thought. “Really?”

“Really.”

“First, I’d have to lie. I couldn’t tell her about what it is I do. It would jeopardize the security of the program. A relationship now would be one big lie. That’s no way to start a relationship.”

“Are there other reasons?” she asked.

There were, but none that I could discuss. “None that come to mind, no.”

She studied the pen as if it held the answers to her next question. While she did, I admired her. She was tall for a woman, standing about 5’-8” without heels. She was thin, with an athletic build. Her hair, eyebrows, and what little makeup she wore were faultless.

Always.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she wanted the six of us to be as faultless as she was. If the expectations she had of us were never going to be met. If she wanted to cleanse our minds of the atrocities that we were forced to commit, but simply couldn’t.

Because we were broken.

Maybe she did what she did because she was fascinated by our ability to separate our lives from the death that we administered.

“Are you in a relationship, Doc?” I asked.

She tossed the pen on her desk. “I am not.”

“Using one sentence, explain to me why you’re not in a relationship,” I said mockingly.

“The same reason you’re not,” she said. “Being in a relationship with this job would be impossible. Too many questions would be asked, and there’s not a way I could answer any of them. I’d be living a huge lie. I’m not necessarily comfortable with that.”

I gave a sharp nod. “Admirable.”

“Will it bother you to conceal this part of your life once this is over?” she asked. “To never speak of it?”

“I don’t know,” I responded.

She let out a long, slow breath. “It’s crazy when you really stop to think about it.”

“What’s that?”

“All of this,” she said. “Everything. What we do. Well, what you do, primarily. Your work helps keep the Nation secure and safe, but most of the population would look at it as murder.”

“Yet they have an expectation of freedom.” I shook my head. “They have no idea what it costs to maintain that freedom.”

“They don’t want to know,” she said. “They want to tell themselves it comes from securing our borders and fighting wars.”

“Fighting wars.” I scoffed. “That’s a ‘my dick’s bigger than yours’ contest.”

She laughed. “What do you mean?”

“That crazy fucker in North Korea says, ‘I’m going to test nuclear weapons.’ In a sense, he’s whipped out his dick. Our president responds with, ‘If you do, I’m going to come down on you like the wrath of God.’ Now, our president has whipped out his. If the Supreme Leader of North Korea proceeds with his threat, and we don’t react, he’s got the bigger dick. If he proceeds, and we do react, it’s a tie. If we win the war, the bigger dick is in the Oval Office.”

“That’s funny.”

“Funny, but true. Wars are never about what the public thinks they’re about. Weapons of mass destruction, my ass. That war was about oil. And Osama bin Laden? The CIA could have found him and sent a team in to execute him without fighting a war. Hell, in the end, that’s what they did. The war was a little man wanting to prove he had a big dick.”

“I never looked at it that way.”

“It’s the only way to look at it. The last war that accomplished anything was World War II. Korea? What did we accomplish? Vietnam? Same thing. Iraq? Afghanistan? Nothing’s changed in any of those countries.”

“Does it frustrate you?” she asked. “That there’s no measurable improvements made?”

“It frustrates me enough that I do this,” I said. “Because I know this makes a difference. Our targets are immediate threats to the Nation, and the people who live in it. Eliminating them saves lives.”

“Was your first person you killed difficult?” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m sorry.”

Killing in a kill-or-be-killed situation wasn’t difficult at all. It was more a reaction than anything.

“It’s okay,” I said. “The first time? We were clearing buildings in Iraq. One building would have a family eating dinner. The next might be filled with men armed with AK-47s who were shooting at the same men we were. The third may have men armed with AK-47s that wanted to kill us. We had an instant to decide if the occupants were a threat. When your options are to kill or be killed, it isn’t a difficult decision to make.”

“What’s the most difficult part of your job?”

“Convincing myself at the end of the day that I’m normal.”

“What have you concluded?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Normal is a moving target,” she said matter-of-factly. “Considering all things, I think you’re normal, yes.”

“Are you saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

She scowled. “I’m saying it because it’s what I believe.”

“Are you normal, Doc?”

“Normal is a moving target.” She coughed a dry laugh. “Considering all things? Yes, I think I’m normal.”

I didn’t believe her. About me, at least. That night, while we sat in her office talking until midnight, I allowed myself to believe she was right. About both of us.

It felt damned good being normal.

Even if it was only for one night.