Chapter Text
With a gasping attempt to draw breath, Max Payne woke from yet another nightmare, if one can call a disturbing dream at one in the afternoon, a nightmare. His head was aching because of the offending intrusion of sobriety, and the nightmare’s subject eluded him. However, he was confident it was one of the numerous things he drank every day to forget.
Max rolled out of his lumpy couch bed in his studio apartment in Hoboken. The best accommodations he could afford on an NYPD half pension. Slowly shuffled into the kitchen and grasped a large bottle of prescription painkillers. With learned practice, he opened the bottle and dropped four 600 milligram Interfectum into his mouth. Reaching for a half-full bottle of Kong Whiskey, he guzzled the liquor, letting it release him from his temporary teetotalism while washing down the pills.
"Breakfast of Champions." he quipped to the empty apartment. Ripping off Kurt Vonngent's notable line represented a time-honored tradition for alcoholics. Especially for those who enjoyed starting the day the same way they had concluded the previous one. Glancing at the narcotics bottle, he noticed 2400 milligrams was officially a dose high enough to place a man his size in a coma. But with his tolerance levels, it was just enough to alleviate the pain of the holes punched through him throughout the years, and the lead still lodged inside. The bodily pain, at least. He wryly observed the warning indicating mixing the Interfectum with alcohol could cause death. He hadn't been anywhere near so lucky.
Maintaining his hold on the liquor bottle, he mulled over snatching a glass out of the cabinet. Instead, he took the entire bottle and a couple of stale day-old doughnuts to his loveseat sofa. The one passably decent piece of furniture in his apartment. Fittingly as he spent most of his day there, slowly passing the time until the next black-out. Turning on his tv, he started settling in for a long afternoon of quality entertainment. Cartoons meant more for thirty-year-old stoners than actual children; soap operas still running the same plots from the Reagan Administration, and news programs designed more to incite and terrify people than inform them.
As the whiskey and the painkillers kicked in, his physical pain faded, which allowed the grief to move back to the forefront—leaving Max considering who he was going to spend the day brooding over, until he had enough whiskey to drive off the angst.
Alex Balder. His old partner with the NYPD and later with the DEA. With his gray flannel suits, balding red hair, goatee, and thin horn-rimmed glasses, Alex gave off an accountant's vibe. Rather than the most committed lawman Max ever knew. But he spent years digging into the various drug trades, serving as the brains while Max and his guns served as the brawn. Even now, he was the sole man Max ever fully trusted, his best friend. It had been over nine years since a dirty Fed gunned him down in a double-cross, which should have been visible a mile away.
Vladimir Lem. On the surface, it seemed odd to brood over someone Max had killed with no regrets. But Vlad was once a trustworthy ally if not a friend. A bad guy who was genuine enough, he was almost a good guy. It was more fate and Mona, which had resulted in him and Max being on opposite sides of a conflict Vlad started, and Max still didn't completely understand. Vlad was right; Max would never forgive him for firing the bullet which killed Mona. He had to die for that sin alone. But part of Max wondered if New York wouldn't be in better shape if Vlad won. At least he wasn't an unreasonable sadistic moron like the current head of the underworld.
Valerie Winterson. A single mother and hard ass homicide detective. The cop who set the standard for every detective in the department. She was what Max would have been if he had bothered perusing the book on police work, let alone follow it. Her standard was so impossible to meet; Max didn't even bother trying and murdered her instead. At least in Max's eyes. The DA chalked it off as an incidental gunfire death—a fancy way of reporting an accident. An unbiased observer would say Max acted in self-defense. Despite all the glowing reviews and commendations, Winterson was Lem's lover and was going to kill both Max and Mona on a rain-swept rooftop. She nearly succeeded, putting two bullets in Max's back, despite having one already put in her chest. But Max recognized what was in his heart when he pulled the trigger. Whether or not Winterson was crooked wouldn't have changed a thing. He was going to protect Mona no matter what. Making Max a murderer as far as he was concerned.
Rose. His baby daughter, who Max never got to see grow up. So full of youthful promise and possibility. Only to have it all taken away before she was even seven months old. She would have turned 13 this upcoming February. A fact which seemed impossible to Max as it felt like she died 50 years ago as well as yesterday.
Michelle. Nothing like the old classic standby of Max's murdered wife. Whom he failed when she needed him the most, her screams still echoing through Max's soul twelve years later as he arrived home just a minute too late. Then five years later, he betrayed her by falling for another woman. Max had found out the hard way he couldn't bring her back. Regardless of how many hoodlums, mobsters, and corrupt executives fell before his fury. Nor could all the whiskey and pills in the world make Max miss her any less. Even now, Max suspected the fundamental reason why he hadn't walked in front of a commuter train was the idea of Michelle being furious with him for all eternity.
Mona Sax. The Veronica to Michelle's Betty. The two women possessed one similar trait. They both had terrible enough taste in men to fall in love with him. Well, they had one other thing in common, being dead. Most of Max's conversations with her either started or ended with Mona's Desert Eagle in his face while Max's Beretta was in hers. And yet, she was ultimately a nice girl, a good woman. At least as much as one could be, while also being a contract killer. She had nearly sacrificed her life to save Max's on two separate occasions even though the person she was technically saving Max from was herself.
Max completed another long swing from the scotch bottle, letting himself sink further into the leather couch and his misery.
He had disgraced his marriage vows for her. Michelle had been gone five years, but the 'death do us part' escape clause only applied to far less self-loathing souls. He spat on the badge for Mona, killed for her, murdered for her.
Most importantly, he loved her in a way he didn't think was possible for him anymore. She made him wish he would stay alive. Part of him would always hate her for causing him to give a damn again, even if only for those three days. Max was willing to allow her to kill him if she didn't love him back. But she did love him and spared him—cruel mercy, which ultimately cost them both.
What ate at Max's very core was knowing, given the opportunity, he would do it all over again. If only this time, he would tell her just to kill him. Save both of them trouble down the road. And, Max supposed, warn her to look out for Lem sneaking up from behind.
Max guzzled yet another swing of Kong. "Guess it's Mona's day to shine after all."
That night in Woden's manor, after killing Lem, Max found her unconscious in the hallway. He should have started performing chest compressions, in hindsight. Instead, Max tried reviving her with a kiss, even if it was more of a kiss goodbye than rescue breathing. It seemed to work for a brief glorious moment, with Mona coming to, even briefly standing up and walking around. Like Max was the Prince Charming to her Sleeping Beauty, having revived the maiden with true love's kiss. But his soulmate had died five years earlier, and Max always considered himself to be more of a toad than a prince.
And Mona didn't have a curse placed upon her by an ancient crone via an evil spinning wheel. Instead, she had a forty-four magnum slug lodged in her right lung thanks to a Russian sociopath. And no amount of cliched fairy tale magic could fix that problem. Unfortunately, neither could the paramedics who bore her away in their ambulance. She bled out on the way to Westchester Medical Center; didn't even make it to the operating table. Just had enough life left in her to inflict Max with the cruelest emotion of all. Hope.
Despite everything he had done over the previous three days. All the unbreakable rules he had broken. All the people he had forever silenced. She was gone. Given a choice of the badge or the love of a woman, he had hesitated for so long; he ended up with neither. Of course, killing and running from both the law and the mob wasn’t the foundation for a stable relationship. Still, she didn't kill anyone who Max wouldn't or didn't kill himself and spared some who he wished she hadn't, including one now washed-up former NYPD detective.
"And now we've hit the second incident of suicidal thinking this afternoon. Sadly, Mona isn't going to come through the door and do you the favor of sending you to hell." Max muttered under his breath. With this comment, the whiskey and the painkillers fully kicked in, ending this session of self-loathing, granting him the favor of shutting off his brain. They caused him to stop thinking about those he had failed and just zone out—watching some television judge yelling at miscreants while he half slept sitting up.
While stuck in this impenetrable mental fog, Max heard knocking at his apartment door. Seemingly faint and distinct, with a muffled voice calling his name while wondering aloud if they might have the wrong apartment. Max figured it was time for another one of his lucid nightmares. Or maybe if he were fortunate, it would morph into a pleasant dream—one where Michelle and Rose were still alive. And for a brief, blissful moment, he could forget the last twelve years ever happened. But the voice, now clearly a woman, sounded deeper than Michelle's.
Lifting himself from the couch and ambling over with an unsteady gait, he opens the door and sees a woman who feels familiar, but he can't precisely place, at least until he hears her speak clearly for the first time.
"Hello, Max. Been a long time."
The woman looked different than she did the last time he heard that voice. She was wearing a gray pantsuit with a button-up blue silk blouse. Her chestnut hair was untied and hanging freely down to her shoulders. To someone who didn't know how to observe another person, she gave the impression of a harmless office manager. Or, considering the computer briefcase slung over her shoulder, maybe a junior legal aid attorney. But Max noticed a thin bulge on her left side, betraying a full shoulder holster's hidden menace. What gave her away was her voice. He would recognize it until the day he died, and then Max would swear he would hear it in hell. Her thick sultry voice, like maple syrup oozing out of the bottle.
"Mona?"
"Going to let me in, or did you want me to pull a gun on you for old times sake?"
Max shook his head, more in an attempt to regain his senses than to answer in the negative. "Last, I heard you were a pile of ashes in an urn. Causing me to wonder if this dream is one of the ones in which you sleep with me, or you shoot me."
"We aren't in a dream, Max. I wasn't planning on doing either. Starting to consider the latter." Seeing the reflective scowl on Max's face, Mona grins slightly at him. "I didn't say I was entirely ruling out the former."
While Max stands by the door, Mona leans over and gives him an affectionate but chaste hug. The type a close younger sister would deliver her older brother after spending a year away at college. About as far away from both extremes as possible. The embrace, the sensation of Mona's body against his own, causes the cobwebs to fall away from Max's mind. Realizing she's there and alive.
"Mona? How?"
"Not the first time I've come back from the dead. Granted, it took me a bit longer this time around. I had to spend seven years in Purgatory first. Or Boise. Same difference."
As Mona released her arms from around Max's body, he noticed a golden object clasped to her belt. Initially, it appeared to be a misshapen and misplaced belt buckle. Until he realized it was a golden shield with an eagle, wings outstretched, perched on top. With the badge set within a leather holder. "A shield? Not exactly something I would expect you to be displaying."
Mona reached inside her blazer, instinctively causing Max to shrink back, much to Mona's annoyance. "Max, if I were going to shoot you, I would have done it when doing so might have saved me a slug in the back." Instead of pulling a weapon, she yanked out what appeared to be a leather identification wallet. "You might find this amusing or at least funny."
She flipped the holder open with a practiced motion and held it open towards Max. He noticed Mona's picture with her hair sloppily tied back and an agitated expression on her face. As though she had spent all day standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles. However, the picture was only a minor part of the white and blue identification credentials duplicated in countless movies and tv programs. In contrast, the holder's bottom panel contained a smaller version of the golden shield and eagle badge on Mona's belt.
"Special Agent Mona Sax, FBI."
Mona couldn't help herself but smile like she had been waiting for years to deliver the punchline to a joke Max hadn't heard. Max was less charmed. "You're right, seeing you look tired and aggravated is kinda funny. And those knock-off Chinese FBI badges look more authentic every year."
"It's real" Irritation seeped into Mona's voice. "If you call the FBI branch office in Boise or even the one here in Newark, they'll confirm it."
Max looked at Mona rather blankly before turning around and walking back to his loveseat to sit down. Absentmindedly gesturing for her to sit wherever she'd like, not that there were many options. Max flopped down on the couch and took another long swig of Kong, killing the bottle. As Mona sat down next to him, Max allowed the new information to sink in. The woman who had cost him his badge and his livelihood not only had returned from the dead, again. But this time, she was welding a badge of her own. Mona being a Fed, both made a ton of sense and was absolute nonsense at the same time. Finally, Max summoned the energy to pierce the silence.
"So...you were an undercover Fed the entire time? And didn't tell me?"
Mona broke eye contact. "No...easier as that might make everything. The hiring was retroactive."
Max shook his head. He knew first hand of only one man who had such power. Alfred Woden. His idea of a fresh start, or maybe a cruel joke on Max from beyond the grave. "So, mind telling me how you're both alive and a Fed?"
"It's a long story, but judging by the pile of whiskey bottles everywhere, you've got plenty of free time. And I have some time before having to head back to Newark to check into my hotel." She reestablished firm eye contact and leaned in. "And you deserve my being straight forward after seven years."
Westchester Medical Center, October 2003
Mona felt herself instinctively squinting as the harsh fluorescent light overhead forced her out of her slumber. Noticing the clothes she had on were replaced by a threadbare hospital gown, her mind ran through what happened at the manor. The last thing she could recall was lowering her pistol only to hear a loud gunshot behind her. And then the searing pain as hot lead pierced her back. Afterward, she remembered just bits and pieces. Lem killed Woden. Max killed Lem. Max discovered her still lying in the hallway, then kissed her. Although she wasn't sure how many of these thoughts were real and how many visions were caused by shock and blood loss.
As Mona slowly stirred in her bed, her entire back felt like it had been carved open. Considering where she had been wounded, it wouldn't have surprised her if the emergency surgeon had precisely done that while trying to preserve her life. Despite the potent painkillers, being fed through her IV, her wounds ached deeply. They were causing her to have trouble performing even slight movements in her bed. Nevertheless, she was alive. Whatever surgery they performed must have worked, so she should be appreciative, as long as they hadn't cut off her favorite shirt. Going and spending fifteen bucks on another black t-shirt was going to be a pain in the ass.
As Mona very hesitantly started softly laughing, she observed someone moving around the room. Tilting her head, she saw a South Asian woman in her late 20's. Judging by her white overcoat over her scrubs, the woman was the attending doctor, despite looking like she was just out of medical school. Probably the late shift attending. Hearing Mona laugh, the doctor looked over towards her. She was trying to judge if her patient indeed had spoken.
Taking as deep of a breath as she could manage, Mona delivered a pointed remark. "When I said I would give my right lung for Aaron Boone to hit a home run. I wasn't expecting people to take me literally."
As the doctor looked over again and walked over to the head of her bed, Mona started laughing at her joke, at least until the pain prevented her.
"Suppose cracking jokes is an encouraging sign. Although as a lifelong Red Sox fan. Screw Aaron Boone and screw you."
Both women glared at each other until the doctor broke first and started laughing with Mona swiftly following suit. Only to have a coughing spasm cut off her laughter.
"Guess I shouldn't be talking, or at least laughing, huh?"
The doctor bobbed her head sympathetically while leafing through Mona's chart. "Probably not. Long story short, you were struck by a forty-four caliber magnum round in your back. The round ripped through your right rhomboid major muscle and your right scapula before shattering your third right rib. The bullet entered your lung, causing it to collapse. It continued, nicking your pulmonary artery before lodging itself into the right lung's superior lobe. By the time you reached the OR table, you had already lost over 4 pints of blood. The way the paramedics were talking, we figured you would be DOA. Or die on the table. And that's before factoring in other injuries. Like..."
"The nine-millimeter round sitting in the left temporal lobe of my brain. That one's old."
The doctor's eyes expanded, and she shook her head in disbelief. "Sheesh. Explains why we couldn't find an entry wound, though." She looked up from her chart and directly at Mona." Whatever you do for a living, might want to consider a duller job."
"Bodyguard work mostly." Mona figured it was technically bodyguard work if she defended her boss by hunting down various scumbags and shooting them in the face. Just proactive and aggressive. "So, about how long have I been out?"
"Completely out, like asleep? Only for a few hours. But you were on a ventilator after your surgery, through yesterday. Been in the hospital for nine days overall, although today is the first time you've been able to maintain a coherent conversation since the surgery."
"Nine days?” Mona tried to lift herself and get out of bed, utilizing the sheer force of her will. The combination of her injuries, the drugs in her system, and the various tubes in her body immobilized her. She immediately felt light-headed and collapsed back into her hospital bed. "Okay, Mona, not a brilliant idea."
"No, no, it wasn't. Hope you didn't pull any tubes out."
"Me too. Sorry, a force of habit at this point."
The doctor quickly inspected all the connections and confirmed they looked in place before continuing. "Everything seems to be okay connection wise. But, you'll be fortunate to be up and walking around in a couple of weeks. Even so, I'll have to let your great uncle know you're conscious. He or his secretary has been calling the nurse's desk non-stop, asking for updates."
While she wasn't up on her family tree's details, Mona was confident she didn't have a great uncle. At least not one who could identify her in a police line-up. Unless. "Alfred?"
"You guys are close. I take it?" Mona merely nods. "I should also let the cop who's been sitting outside your door know. I’m somewhat surprised he hasn't barged in here by now.
Mona gets excited at this prospect and tries to sit up, having to settle for just scooting up before lying back down again. "Let me guess, a detective with short dark brown hair and a permanent five o'clock stubble? Reeking of cheap whiskey and wearing a beat-up dark brown leather jacket? Somehow looking like he's been through even more hell than me."
"Sorry, the officer out there is a uniform, not a detective." The doctor taps her pen against the chart, trying to recollect something. "Although someone fitting your description was a patient. He checked himself out against medical advice after three days. I get the impression you're a tough lady, nonchalant references to bullets lodged in your brain and all, but this guy was something else. Friend of yours, I take it?"
Typical Max. Shot at least three times, once in the head. Pistol whipped with a Desert Eagle. After being shot twice, he plummeted six stories. Was blown up with enough C4 to turn the Coney Island funhouse into a ruin. And he still ended up only spending three days in the hospital.
"You could say that. Does my friend know I'm here?"
The doctor gave Mona a sly grin. "Let me see if I can locate his contact information and make certain he knows. Unless you'd rather inform him yourself."
"Thanks, Doctor. And it feels like the IV drip just released some more wonderful Morphine and Interfectum so..."
At this point, Mona drifted off into a drug cocktail abetted deep, dreamless sleep.
Hours, maybe days, passed before the painkillers wore off enough that Mona felt herself again slowly stirring in the hospital bed. She opened her eyes, noticing the two men and one woman in the room. Having them in there staring at her while she was sleeping wasn't disturbing at all. Judging by his dress navy blue uniform and the three stars on his collar, one of the men was a Bureau Chief in the NYPD. The woman was wearing a black pantsuit with a white blouse and a cross expression on her face. When combined with the angry death glare, Mona assumed she was an Assistant District Attorney. Likely thinking of some way to legalize the death penalty in New York just for her.
The third man was thoroughly familiar. An older man who, while the only one sitting, had far more vigor than the last time she had seen him. He wore a full white wire brush mustache. However, the most distinct part of his appearance was his injured left eye and the glasses with one darkened lens to cover his infirmity. Of the three people in the room, he was the only one who seemed happy to see her wake up. Which considering the number of times Mona saved Alfred Woden in the past, seemed reasonable.
With his voice hoarse and raspy, Woden spoke. "Good afternoon, Ms. Sax. Glad to see your recovery has been progressing satisfactorily." He looked up from the chair. "My friends, if you could leave us alone for a moment, we have some business to discuss."
As they exited the room, Mona looked over Woden warily. "I was pretty out of it after Lem shot me, but recall you taking two slugs in the chest."
Woden chuckled lightly. "Considering your stubbornness in staying alive. I shouldn't think you would find mine so surprising. However, you may wish to invest in body armor at some point. Cheaper and less painful than emergency surgery."
"Got shot in the head the first time, a vest wouldn't have helped me there. Still, I'll keep your advice in mind. As filing claims with Blue Cross is almost as bad as getting shot." She scanned over Woden's figure again, more dramatically this time. "Gunshot wounds aside, you're looking grand. Guess your cancer must have entered remission. Conveniently right after Lem died."
Woden smiled and affably turned his palms upwards like Mona had caught him telling a fabrication. "Touché, Ms. Sax. Technically, I'm dying, but so are you and every other person in this building. Some of us are just closer to the end than others. And while I did suffer from prostate cancer, it entered remission four months ago. As for the whole charade? You've figured out by now that The Inner Circle isn't something from which one just up and retires or resigns. It's more of a lifetime membership. But if everyone thinks you're dead..."
Mona scowled at this revelation. "So, the entire power struggle was a ruse, and we were all just pawns moving along the chessboard so you could go retire in Boca Raton?"
"Bermuda." Woden leaned forwards in his seat, his head coming closer to Mona's. "You were under no circumstances a pawn. You were my queen, the most useful and cherished piece on the board. But even the queen must be sacrificed to defend the king if necessary. Fortunately, this time such sacrifice appears to have been unneeded."
Leaning back again, he continued. "The war itself was real. And employing your services was a genuine attempt to win. But regardless of the outcome, either cancer or Lem would 'kill' me. Naturally, I hoped only the leader of the Inner Circle would die. Alfred Woden, the man, would get the rest he deserves. While I hate to admit it, the odds were you would either be killed by Lem and his mercenaries or join with him. It would have been the smart play for you on paper. I appear to have severely underestimated both your skills and your loyalty." He paused, mulling over how to put his following point diplomatically. "To myself and...certain other individuals. For such an impoliteness, I am sincerely sorry."
Mona looked over and made solid eye contact with Woden. "Thank you, Alfred. Sorry about Max, but I told you ordering me to take care of him was a terrible idea."
Woden gently patted Mona on her right forearm, near her IV feed. "Indeed, you did warn me. In hindsight, I was probably overly cautious with my instructions regarding him, as there has always been more than one way to take care of Mr. Payne.
Interpreting this statement as an implied threat upon Max, Mona felt her temperature rising. Gathering up her strength, she moved her forearm and grasped Woden's right arm with her right hand. She snarled. "I don't care what kind of deal we have. If you hurt Max..."
Much to her surprise, Woden broke free of Mona's grip with seemingly a minimal amount of effort, scooting his chair back, and moving out of direct grappling range. As she tried to figure out how much Woden had been faking cancer, he chastised her. "You'll do what? Bleed on me? While I commend your determination, do not forget who holds the cards here. One word from me, and you will spend the rest of your life in Bedford Hills Women's Penitentiary. And all it would take is one nurse with a syringe full of potassium chloride to make sure you don't even get that opportunity."
"Try me, you old bastard."
Initially taken back, Woden starts laughing at this defiant act while readjusting his shirt sleeve, smoothing out where Mona seized him. "No harm will come to Mr. Payne. I meant his reputation is already so shattered no one would believe a word he has to say about the Inner Circle. Additionally, as long as I am believed dead, there is no reason for him to come after me. Therefore, I see no reason to wish him any harm."
Duly mollified by Woden's reassurance, Mona settled back down in her hospital bed. "Sorry, Alfred." She sighed bitterly, "I can't believe I fell for the cantankerous son of a bitch, but I did, and hard. Combine that with my general unwillingness to eliminate anyone who isn't trying to kill me. Or, at least, done plenty to earn a bullet. Suppose I'm not much of a fixer."
Woden shook his head slightly. "I disagree, but your sentiment returns me to the subject at hand. The first part of our deal has been completed. The requested funds have been transferred to the specified accounts in the Caymans. A princely sum, but worth every penny, in my opinion." Mona allowed herself a brief grin at this flattery. "However, I wanted to confirm you still wanted the second part. The clean slate. Which, I remind you, entails leaving New York and cutting all ties here."
"Cutting all ties..." Mona anxiously repeated
"Yes, including with a certain unkillable homicide detective, upon whom you've become so infatuated. If you want your fresh start, Mr. Payne has to continue believing your wound was fatal."
Mona glared at Woden in a manner that likely made him thankful he had moved out of grabbing range. "Wait a second. Max thinks I'm dead?"
"Not by my doing, but yes. You were in critical condition with a dismal overall prognosis when being transported here from the manor. Before Mr. Payne entered surgery, he asked the attending doctor what happened to you, only to be told you were DOA. With the attending doctor misunderstanding the paramedics earlier lack of optimism for an actual outcome." Woden readjusted his glasses. "From our perspective, it's quite fortunate. Mr. Payne knowing you're still alive, would have complicated matters, perhaps even immensely."
Mona gritted her teeth at this revelation. "And what if I decided the second part of the deal; the second part of my payment for services rendered was no longer necessary.”
Woden made a show of stroking his chin, implying he was considering the matter before responding. "My influence wouldn't be able to protect both you and Mr. Payne in New York. Too many witnesses, too many questions without any good answers. As such, I would be forced to withdraw my protection completely. While Mr. Payne would enjoy his badge's protection, even it probably wouldn't spare him several life terms. At the minimum, he would receive one for killing Winterson. As for you, the Manhattan district attorney's office and the NYPD frown upon contract killers committing over 50 homicides in a three-day time frame." He arched his eyebrow. "Even if you were careful enough to make sure they were all proper miscreants who deserved it."
"At this point, we're back to spending the rest of my life at Bedford Hills. It doesn’t sound like you're offering me much choice." Mona sighed gently." What about Max? What happens to him?"
"I'll make certain exculpatory evidence regarding Detective Winterson makes its way to Mr. Payne's legal counsel and the police union, even Mr. Bravura. Once the information leaks she was preparing a hit on Mr. Payne for her Russian mob boss boyfriend, the Manhattan DA will decide to avoid handling the case of a decorated detective slaying his crooked partner. As the scandal in the public eye would cause an outcry for other investigations while the tabloid press slurped up the vulgar details. I'm confident the DA would rather prevent the situation, chalking the whole matter up as an inadvertent gunfire death. As for the others, nobody genuinely cares about Mr. Payne killing Lem or a couple hundred unmemorable mobsters and mercenaries. We recognize that much from previous experience. He wouldn't keep his badge this time, but Mr. Payne would stay a free man. He might even collect a pension."
"Sounds like you've plotted the whole thing out from the beginning. I'd clap if it weren’t for all the tubes in me."
Woden offered the smile of someone who knew he had won. "It's not my fault; one option is more attractive than the other. To be sure, there is a third option. One which you could potentially take alongside Mr. Payne."
Mona shook her head. "I know how long the Inner Circle members' average life expectancy is, especially in recent years. And Max would probably arrest me if I prodded him to join the Inner Circle. Or shoot me. And I've already taken enough lead for a lifetime." She paused for a moment, mentally apologizing to Max, justifying her decision with him thinking she was gone. Her jumping back into his life now would make things worse for everyone. After this moment of reflection, Mona looked up at Woden. "I think retirement, at least from my current job, sounds good."
"Pity, you would have made an excellent addition. But I understand your decision." Woden pulled a manila envelope from inside his briefcase and handed it over, "Take your time looking through everything. Although I've inevitably found the best cover stories are ones grounded in truth."
Mona flipped through the paperwork before coming across one particular passage to read aloud to herself. "Over the last three years, Special Agent Mona Sax has been commended by the associate deputy director on three separate occasions. 1. For her dedicated undercover work aiding in the collapse of the Punchinello crime syndicate. 2. For her collaboration with a DEA investigation, crippling the Valkyr trade in New York City. 3. For her work in undermining the terrorist plots of Russian organized crime elements under the control of prominent underworld figure Vladimir Lem. After being critically wounded on her last assignment, she was recalled from undercover work and reassigned to analytical duties at Boise, Idaho's branch office. Specifically focusing on the growth of militant white nationalist groups in the greater Rocky Mountain region." She looked over to Woden. "Damn, you leaned into everything. Although it was nice of you to allow me to crack some skinheads."
"The whole story would seem preposterous in New York, regardless of the official paperwork. Too many people to compare notes and poke holes. But about 2,500 miles away in Idaho, it should hold up just fine. And I had to provide a potential outlet to you for any remaining aggression."
Woden stood up and, giving Mona a politician's broad smile, outstretched his right hand. As Mona took it, he shook her hand with the practiced vigor of a man who had worked the rope line many times in his life. "Congratulations on joining the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Sax. I'm requesting for Dr. Chaudhary to move you to my private room. I can't have the federal agent who was severely wounded, trying to save my life, amongst the general population. Would be rude of me."
Woden walked towards the door before turning back towards her. "Good luck with the rest of your life, Mona."
Max's Apartment, October 2010
After that reminiscence, Mona looked back over to Max before anticlimactically finishing. "I spent three more weeks in the hospital. And once I had recovered enough to travel, drove out to Boise and started life out there."
The apartment echoed in the silence of an uncomfortable pause as both Max and Mona just sat there, feeling drained. Max was fighting with a variety of emotions running through his head. The relief he could at least cross one name off the list of people he had gotten killed. The happiness someone he once deeply cared about was back from the dead after seven years in the grave. Hurt, she didn't tell him before now, allowing him to carry this guilt when it wasn't necessary. Principally, he felt numb both from all the substances he had ingested throughout the afternoon as well as the story Mona had just told him. Not only was she alive, but Woden was as well. Or at least he was seven years ago. As all these thoughts coursed through Max's head, Mona leaned over and waved her right hand in front of Max's eyes.
As he looked over towards her, she quipped. "Merely checking to make sure you didn't fall asleep or pass out."
"Nice to know you care." For a moment, the numbness crested, and Max's anger caused him to vent some spleen. "Seven years! Seven years you've been alive and didn't bother to let me know. After what we experienced? After watching, you take a bullet? Again? For seven years, I alternated between hating myself for getting you killed and hating you for causing me to give a damn! And then you just waltz into my shit heap of an apartment and act like everything is hunky-dory?!"
"Woden's..."
"Don't give me horseshit about Woden's deal. You are telling me the old man is so almighty; you couldn't have let me know?"
Mona elevated her voice in exasperation. "What was I supposed to do?! Send a postcard?! Hey Max, it's Mona. Just letting you know I'm not dead, but we can never talk again. Bye. Would such a gesture have helped? Stopped the wallowing in self-pity and cheap whiskey? Would you have been relieved or just pissed I was interrupting your non-stop self scourging for having a dead wife?
"YOU KEEP HER OUT OF THIS!"
Max's shouting both took him and Mona aback. She instinctively started reaching under her blazer before catching herself and placing her right hand in her lap. Max took some deep breaths, letting the numbness begin to take back over. "It would have been kinder than thinking you were dead."
Mona turned away from Max again and looked straight ahead. "That's...fairer than I would like. At least, I knew you were alive." After a shallow breath, she turned back towards Max. "Part of the reason why I didn't tell you earlier was I didn't have a good enough explanation. And while I didn't and still don't owe you any information or explanation, I can't criticize you for being upset either. I probably would feel the same way."
"So what's so important it brings you back to New York? And justifies violating your agreement with the one-eyed man?"
Mona reached into her work bag and pulled out a small letter envelope with a Bermudan postmark of September 26, 2010. "I didn't terminate my agreement. He released me." She handed the envelope to Max, who removed the handwritten note and proceeded to recite it aloud.
"Dear Mona. In the next week, you will receive an assignment from your Special Agent in Charge. This assignment will involve traveling to and working in the Greater New York City area. I can not provide any details at this time. However, please feel free to accept this assignment without any hesitation, notwithstanding our previous agreement. Additionally, please feel free to contact Mr. Payne. Your assignment might require any help you can obtain. At a minimum, you can discover if you're still 'mad about this guy' the same way you once were. Give my regards to Lisa. Your friend, as always. Alfred."
Max hands the letter back to Mona and smirks. "You know, I remember listening to your message on his answering machine."
Mona had a slight change in her complexion at this comment, looking down briefly. "I must have misspoken and meant 'mad at this guy.' Probably right before I pistol-whipped you."
"That statement does sound more like you. And it sounds like being FBI hasn't restricted you from being Woden's errand girl."
Mona frowned. "To my knowledge, he doesn't have anything to do with it. Outside of being bored and nosing into my work. We've been surveilling a small, but growing, white nationalist cell called the Circle of European Identity. Mostly just keeping an eye on them if they try doing more serious acts than drunkenly shooting up a closed drive-in concession stand. They've maintained communications with the De Marco crime syndicate here in New Jersey for the last six months. Mostly trafficking narcotics, specifically painkillers. DEA turf more than ours. But three weeks ago, the De Marco’s started hitting them up to find a hired gun, one professional enough to take out a well-protected target. Offering $500,000 for the hit. And according to the Bureau’s sources, they have been beating around the bush everywhere in the underworld trying to find one."
Max figured out the FBI's plan. "Considering your real-world expertise in the field."
"And the fact a certain retired NYPD detective killed pretty much every other well-known contract killer with ties to the New York area. I mean, I did a better job keeping my name out of the papers than...others. But I do still possess a reputation. So coming out of retirement for one last big payday should strike the mob as believable."
Max scowled reflexively at Mona's casual references to her previous line of work. "Come on, Max. Don't give me that look. I'm not shooting anyone. Considering how bad the mob wants them dead, contract killer Mona probably wouldn't have killed them. Let alone federal agent Mona. My boss suspects the target is at present under federal protection. It will be merely sitting in meetings and working in conjunction with the Marshals Service to make sure some witness doesn't get whacked. And yet..."
"The scenario feels way too simple to you, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, plus, why would Alfred suddenly be okay with my coming back to New York. And say I might require all the help I can obtain, including you. Don't feel like a set up per se. Does feel like he knows this situation goes way deeper than the Bureau thinks."
Max leans back on his couch, theatrically placing his arms behind his head. "Well, as much as I would love following you around. Falling deeper and deeper into a Byzantine plot, I barely understand while getting shot many times. I'm retired. Plus, when they took my badge, they took my Beretta as well. So outside of chucking empty bottles of scotch and driving scumbags mad with rambling purple prose, I wouldn't be much help."
Mona grinned and shook her head. "Max Payne, unarmed? Those are three words I never expected to hear. No worries, I can take care of myself."
"I know."
"Admitting I know what I'm doing without a mixture of sexist and paternalistic protectiveness? You have changed. Or you are very drunk."
Max leaned forwards to the point of being nearly hunched over. "Probably the latter, although as you can tell, being drunk is pretty much the status quo nowadays. Speaking of which, I emptied my last bottle. Have to walk to the liquor store and restock. Hit the pharmacy on the way and pick up some more Interfectum as well. If you don't have anything else to do, you're welcome to come with me."
"At least you won't be driving." Mona looked at her watch. "I should be heading back to Newark and check into the hotel. Have a bunch of...equipment I need to unpack and reassemble as well." After getting up and walking to the door, she pauses and turns around towards Max. "Still, I need dinner at some point and have been dying for some real New York-style Neapolitan pizza. And while I was driving over here, I realized you only lived a few blocks away from one of the better places on the Jersey side of the river. So, if you're up for eating rather than drinking your dinner, I figured we could head over there and catch up more."
"Wait, are you asking me out on a date?"
"Well, it isn't as intimate as a walk to the liquor store to pick up booze. And date insinuates the possibility we might have sex afterward, while I was thinking more of two old friends catching up on the last seven years. After the initial shock of my being alive has worn off a little. But if you want to be literalistic...yes."
"Damn, you genuinely do have shitty taste in men."
"Apparently. So yes or no?"
Max affably shrugs and then gets up from the couch and walks over to the door and Mona. "Sure, although you want to walk around this neighborhood at night? Not precisely the dull and quaint streets of Boise. More like the home of the sixty seconds or less mugging. And, as I mentioned earlier, I'm unarmed.
Mona theatrically patted the small bulge on her left side. "Don't worry. I've got protection for both of us. I'm a 21st-century woman, after all."
"We're talking about guns, right. Because seriously, I live in a shitty neighborhood."
Mona smacks her forehead lightly in irritation. "Yes, I'm referring to my FBI standard-issue forty caliber Glock 23.”
"Good to know." As Mona opened the door and was able to leave, Max asked one last question. "Mona. You'll let me know when or if you decide you're still mad about me?"
"By all means. In turn, you'll let me know when or if you decide you would consider my being mad about you to be a good thing or a bad thing. Right?"
Max silently nods as the thought of Michelle enters his head. The old stand by of guilt starting to kick in yet again.
"Then, I'll see you around eight."
As the door closes, Max says to himself more than to Mona. "I'm glad you're still alive."
"I'm glad you're still alive too, Max." he hears through the door. "Incidentally, the soundproofing in your building sucks."
Waiting to hear Mona walking away this time around, he flops back down on the couch. "Well, this sure as hell isn't how I expected to spend my Tuesday."