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Whole damned arsenal,” he said with a faint smile, struggling to get each word out.
    “ Any traps?”
    “ All the standard ones,” he said, leaning his head against the cabinets. “You know how to get through ‘em.”
    “ I do,” I said, “because I was your best student.” I stood. “And that’s why you had to be first.”
    He blinked, drowsy, and looked up at me. “I don’t understand.”
    “ You always taught me to take out the hardest target first.” I stared down at him, knowing I couldn’t allow myself to feel anything. I forced it all back, every feeling, every emotion, behind a wall.
    He shook his head. “I’m not gonna be the hardest target. Not by a long shot. Old Man Winter … he’s got the others still looking out for him, at least one of them at all times, plus some of the agents that are left over—”
    “ I know,” I said. “He’s still not the hardest target.” I pulled the pistol up from where it hung at my side and aimed it at him, staring at his face over the sights, the red dots lining up just below the spot between his eyes—exactly as he’d taught me to do it. It wavered a little in my hand as I did it. “This was always going to be the hardest thing I had to do.”
    There was a slow nod of realization from him as he stared back at me, not at the gun in my hand. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m glad it’s going to be you, because another week of this and I would have done it myself.”
    I felt the tug of emotion on my face as I held the pistol level with his eyes, but I held it back. I felt my hand quiver, and the pistol shook. I looked down the sights at him, when I knew he had trained me to look at the front sight, to keep it in focus. At this range it didn’t matter, but it was what I had been trained to do. “Is it supposed to be … “ I heard my voice crack. “Is it supposed to be this hard?”
    I saw his face straighten, and his eyes were warm as he looked back at me, the instructor one last time. “It gets easier. Just—”
    I focused on the front sight and his face blurred. My finger stroked the trigger once, then again in a double tap automatically, just like he’d taught me. Blood spattered my clothes, blending with the mud already caked on me, and I thought idly about how I’d never get either cleaned off, maybe ever again. I fired twice more to be sure he was dead, then felt my hand fall to my side after I re-safetied my pistol and then it automatically went back to the holster before I even realized it. That was a product of all his training, perfectly executed. I left the shotgun by the door as I walked out, each foot carrying me back toward the car; I’d need it to retrieve the weapons in the basement. I had no idea what I’d be heading into next and it always paid to be prepared for any situation. Someone had taught me that, once, a long time ago.
    As I stepped out into the freezing air, I felt the tears I didn’t even know I had shed turn cold on my cheeks.

6.

    The light was bright around me, glaring through windows in spite of a gray sky, and I wondered if I was dreaming again. The world came slowly into focus, details emerging. There was a stone desk that looked like a rock mounted on wooden legs. Behind it sat a massive man who was nearing seven feet tall, his hair grayer than the sky behind him. The smell of leather from the chair I was seated in hung in the air. It felt new where my hands gripped the armrests. I looked around quietly, and saw Zack sitting to my side, his blond hair looking more mussed than ever. Old Man Winter sat across the desk from him.
    “ Ariadne told me you had some difficulty in apprehending the subject,” Old Man Winter said, his voice a low rumble. I looked down and realized that it was as though I wasn’t there, disembodied, a fly on the wall for a conversation between these two men. Winter’s low timbre set my non-existent teeth to grinding, slow emotion rising as I tried