Mark
Chinatown
One Month Later
We take our places around the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen in Columbus Park, everyone spreading out so we have room to move. As usual, I am the only white face, and the only person who doesn’t qualify for an AARP card.
“Your form has been improving, but you’re too much in your own head,” Ms. Nguyen says, stretching her arms in the spot next to me. “Drop into it this time. Let everything else go.”
“Just doing my best to keep up with you, sweetheart,” I tell her.
Ms. Nguyen is wearing athletic pants and an oversize T-shirt, her gray hair tied back in a ponytail. Despite being in her seventies, the outfit makes her look like a kid. I’m in running shorts and a tank, the least modest outfit here. I tend to run hot, and by the time the class ends, the sun will have peaked the line of buildings and roared into the park.
“Remember,” she says, “if you get overheated, you’re welcome to take your shirt off.”
“You’re not worried about the other ladies getting jealous?”
She leans over and smacks the exposed flesh of my thigh. “I bring you here to show you off,” she says.
Master Feng takes his place at the front of the group. He stands for a moment, in his cream-colored cotton uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. The man must be pushing ninety, but his eyes exude a penetrating sense of inner calm and presence, like he could count the droplets in a rainstorm.
He offers us a slight bow, and we all bow deeper as a sign of respect. Then he leads us through the opening movements, placing his arms out in front of him, before bringing them around to the right and toward his hip as he steps, delicately and deliberately, forward.
When Ms. Nguyen first suggested I do tai chi with her, I brushed it off. I know a dozen fighting styles, all of them designed to injure and kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Tai chi looked to me like a bunch of old folks waving their arms around in a park.
And it’s exactly that.
But it’s more, too.
I’ve come to appreciate the gentleness of it. The focus of being in my body. Thinking of it less as a tool designed to inflict pain-which is something I spend every day actively working to forget-and seeing it more for what it is.
A tool in service of myself.
My own little temple, in which I can find peace.
I don’t know the name for the movements we do, but I watch Master Feng, and the men and women around me, as I try to emulate them and get lost in the flow.
The ache in my shoulder whistles in my ear, reminding me of the chunk of deltoid muscle that got torn out by a bullet. The practice has brought back some range of motion, more than physical therapy did. I’m able to move into the pain and then through it-like I’m manipulating something inside me, a little ball of energy I can toss from side to side.
Observing it and experiencing it without fighting it.
The getting out of my head part, that I’m still struggling with.
I called Astrid this morning, like I have every morning since she disappeared. I used to leave voicemails, then I stopped doing that. Today the robotic voice on the other end told me the line had been disconnected.
It was only a matter of time, I suppose.
It sounded like a period on the end of a sentence.
Confirmation she was back in the game, or dead.
For people like us, for me and Ms. Nguyen and the other members of our homegroup, I’m not sure if there are any other options. There’s a reason working as a high-level assassin doesn’t come with a 401(k) match.
Eventually, you cash out.
As we flow through a downward movement, Ms. Nguyen clears her throat. I glance over and she’s tossing me a sharp eyebrow.
She doesn’t need to say it. She can hear the gears grinding in my head.
Okay. Stay in the movement.
I follow Master Feng, try to match his energy, and let the surroundings fall away. For a little bit, it works. The ambulance screaming around the corner turns to a dull buzz. The kids playing in the adjoining park muffle into raindrops on a window.
I breathe deep and follow the peace of that breath.
Breathe in for four, hold for four, exhale for four, empty lungs for four.
Then I think about Astrid and it all goes to shit.
There’s really not much to do at this point. I sit within the acceptance of it and continue the movements, enjoying the feel of my body brushing the dust off my muscles.
Another half hour, and we’re done.
Master Feng bows to us, and we bow in return. The practitioners break into cliques, most of them rounding up expeditions for tea or dumplings.
A hand appears on my shoulder and I turn to find Master Feng. He offers me a serene smile. “Next time, less effort.”
I bow to him again. “Thank you.”
I’m not even sure if he heard it-he’s off mingling with the other students, offering them words of affirmation. Ms. Nguyen appears in front of me, a sheen of sweat on her brow, but before she can say anything, an older woman grasps her arm, leans in to her ear, and says, “Tā hěn shuài.”
He’s handsome.
“Tā shì woˇ de,” Ms. Nguyen responds.
He’s all mine.
The woman scrunches up her face, looks at us both like she’s discovered a conspiracy, and leaves.
“You know,” I tell Ms. Nguyen, “I never said we were exclusive.”
“I’m protecting you,” she says. “That one would eat you for lunch.”
“My hero.” I offer her my arm. “May I escort you home, darling?”
She loops her arm into mine. “Of course.”
The sun is out full blast now, June coming in hard. We wend our way through the streets of Manhattan, toward the West Village, navigating the morning crowds of commuters and tourists.
“I’m assuming Astrid didn’t pick up the phone this morning,” she says.
“Disconnected.”
Ms. Nguyen gives a little shake of her head. “People go out.”
“She was my sponsee. Which means she was my responsibility.”
“The only person responsible for Astrid is Astrid. You can’t take that on.”
We stop at Canal Street, waiting for the light to change, letting the conversation drop as people crowd around us, knowing better than to say something that could be overheard by the wrong person.
Once we’ve crossed and we’re clear of prying ears she says, “The point of sponsoring someone isn’t to save them. It’s to save yourself.”
I respond by being obstinate and not saying anything.
Two blocks later she asks, “How’s the new apartment?”
“It’s fine. I like the East Village a little better than the West. It’s quieter. Fewer drunken college kids.”
“You sure it’s safe to be here?” She nods up toward the glasses on my face. “Those things really work?”
I tilt them down at her. They look so stupid. Which is sort of the point. Thick black frames, wide lenses, the shape of them designed to screw with facial recognition software, by making it hard to take accurate measurements of my features. As an added layer, they project a low level of infrared light onto my face, so on CCTV, I’ll appear slightly washed out and less identifiable.
“Been fully back three months and no one’s killed me yet,” I tell her. “Had a friend set up a new identity to overshadow my lack of an old one. But look, I live in acceptance of the fact that this is a risk. I was bored living up in the mountains. P. Kitty’s not a good conversationalist.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “I missed that cat.”
“And you missed shamelessly hitting on me.”
Ms. Nguyen smiles. “Sooner or later, you’ll come around. Older women know what they want.”
We make it to her building-my old building, too, before my apartment was firebombed in an attempt to draw me out of recovery-and she stops. She looks up at me and smiles. It’s the way you would smile at a child who has just discovered some harsh reality about the world, like Santa isn’t real.
“It’s not your fault,” she says.
“Feels like it is.”
“Then you should talk about it tonight. See you later?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
She winks at me and heads inside. I watch her go, a little wistful for the life I had here. I really did love this building.
But, you know, the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, and all that.
My footsteps echo through the basement of St. Dymphna’s, bouncing off the black-and-white checkerboard floor and the robin’s-egg blue walls. I love the ritual of showing up early and setting up the space. Putting out the donuts, making the coffee. Dragging out the folding chairs and setting them in a circle.
One for Booker, our former Marine turned black ops mercenary. It’s been more than five years since he’s taken a life.
One for Valencia, formerly of the Special Operations Group, the covert paramilitary arm of the CIA. Seven years sober.
One for Ms. Nguyen, former employee of the Agency-a clandestine group of government agencies, and financial and industrial leaders. Retired ten years, sober sixteen.
One for Astrid, a former Agency hitter who operated under the name Azrael. She would have six months, and I put her chair out every week in case she shows up.
One for me. Formerly known as the Pale Horse, who, if you had asked my old bosses at the Agency, or anyone in the game really, was one of the best assassins in the world. Something that used to be a point of pride, and now is just an uncomfortable truth.
Finally, one for Kenji. Former Yakuza hitter, former chair of this group. My sponsor. Dead now, sacrificing both his recovery and his life to save mine a year and a half ago.
My friend.
I miss him so much.
Especially on days like today.
It does comfort me, putting his chair out, feeling his confident, gentle presence.
The same way Astrid’s empty seat screws with my sense of inner peace.
The lights flicker, and Booker and Valencia enter, the two of them dressed for the summer heat: Valencia in yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, Booker in a black tank and camo pants. Valencia is pushing the baby stroller that Booker and I got for her baby shower. It cost what most people would spend on a month’s rent, but that little girl in there only gets the best.
Valencia had wanted to be a mom for a long time. It’s why she stopped killing, why she got into recovery. She didn’t want to be a mom who killed people. And every week she would unpack that.
One day she decided she was ready, she found a donor, and: Lucia.
Born three short weeks ago.
That baby isn’t just a milestone for Valencia. She is a tiny, breathing, sometimes-screaming example that the program works. She bound us tighter, giving us someone to love together. It’s personal, too; I can’t ever see my son, and every day that feeling twists like a blade in my stomach. I will do whatever it takes to make sure this kid grows up safe and loved.
Valencia rolls the stroller up to me. Lucia is swaddled in a blanket, snoozing away. The wisps of black hair on her head are thickening. “She’s looking more like you and less like a potato,” I tell her.
Valencia beams when I say this.
I like her smile. She didn’t used to smile this much.
Booker slaps me on the back, a little too hard, but exactly as hard as I would expect him to. “How are we today, Uncle Mark?”
“Good, Uncle Booker. How about you?”
“I never signed off on her calling either of you ‘uncle,'” Valencia says, adopting her usual look of barely restrained contempt.
“That’s why I’m going to keep on saying it,” Booker says. “She’ll pick it up through osmosis.”
The lights flicker again, and Ms. Nguyen comes in, carrying a plate of shortbread cookies, which she places next to the donuts. I’ve given up on telling her not to do that; no one eats the donuts, then I have to take them home, and I spend the whole week trying to finish them before I have to buy more. It’s too many carbs.
I could always stop buying them, but, habits.
That’s why we’re here. It takes work to break them.
Sometimes the best way to do that is to replace them with other habits.
Valencia and Ms. Nguyen step away to get themselves settled and coo over the baby. Booker glances over at the chairs and asks, “Anything?”
I shake my head. “Number was disconnected.”
“Shit.” He sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Might be time to put away her chair.”
“Not until I know, one way or the other.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Booker says. “Kenji lost sponsees, too. Difference was, he didn’t blame himself.”
“I’m not blaming myself.”
“You’re a shitty liar.”
“Out of practice, I guess.”
Booker surveys our little group. “Maybe it wasn’t for her. Six months, she never shared.”
“You don’t have to share to be here.”
“But did she want to be here?”
When I can’t come up with a good answer, Booker pats me on the chest and points a nonthreatening finger in my face. “Share about it, okay? The only way out is through.”
“The through part sucks,” I tell him.
We make our way to the circle of chairs and sit. I take out the lipstick-sized transmitter from my pocket, switch it on, and place it on the floor next to me. It’ll serve to prevent any other devices from listening or recording the things we say.
And then I start:
“Assassins Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other, that they may solve their common problem and help each other to recover. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop. We are not allied with any sect, denomination, politics, organization, or institution; our primary purpose is to stop killing and help others to achieve the same.
“We do not bring weapons into Assassins Anonymous, nor prior political affiliations. If any of us were known by any particular handle or nickname, we do not use it here. We share our stories, but we obscure details as best we can. If any of us seek to bring in new fellows, we agree to have them properly vetted. This is to protect us, not just from prying ears, but from each other.”
Excerpted from The Medusa Protocol by Rob Hart Copyright © 2025 by Rob Hart. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
