“So?”

“So, it’s not our fault. We didn’t make it. We wouldn’t sell it. It’s not our fault.”

“Not our fault?”

“Like you said. We just intercepted it. We weren’t even supposed to be there, but we were, and we ended up with it. But that doesn’t make it our fault.”

“Did you understand what I told you? This stuff, it could kill-”

“Ian, Victor will kill my parents. And your dad, Mitch’s brother, Alex’s daughter.” She knew what she was saying was selfish, but she wasn’t sure that made it wrong. Who didn’t look after their own first?

“That doesn’t make it right to ignore-”

“I didn’t say it does. But that’s the situation. If we don’t give him what he wants, he’ll kill our families. And regardless, it’s not my fault.”

There was a pause. Then Mitch said, “It’s like one of your games, Ian. An impossible situation, no way to win, just ways to lose less. Is it better to lose a few people you love or a lot of people you’ll never meet?”

Ian looked from one to the other of them. “Those are just games. This is real.”

“Yeah. But it’s also true. He’ll kill them.”

“That nerve gas could kill hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. And maybe it won’t be in Iraq or Afghanistan. Maybe it will be in Chicago or New York. Maybe it will be in a subway station at rush hour.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said. “I didn’t agree to it.”

“None of us did.” Mitch stood, walked to the window.

The whole thing was surreal. It reminded her of the kind of talk they used to have on Thursday nights, back when life made sense and everything was casual. When it could all be viewed with ironic detachment, when their problems were jobs and rent and their love interests. Back when everything had been play.

Even their lives.

They had all been treading water. Playing the game of life, but unwilling to actually make a move, put their chips on the table. Staying in dead-end jobs and bullshitting themselves about what mattered. Pretending nothing did.

“Do you remember,” Mitch said, staring out the darkened window, “how we used to talk about the rich guys, the CEOs and politicians? How we used to hate them for acting in their own interests instead of for the good of everyone else?

“We went into this thinking we were going to stick it to guys like that. Like Johnny. People who broke the rules for their own good. And now here we are. Thinking the same way.”

“So what do we do?”

He took a breath. “All I know is what I won’t do.”

“What’s that?”

“Settle for the lesser of two evils.” Mitch spoke with a quiet calm. His back was straight and his voice steady.

“But-”

“There has to be a third way,” he said. “There has to be something better.”

Again, the silence fell.

Then Mitch said, “You know what?” He turned to face them. “There is.”

“What?”

“I take the stuff to the police. I turn it over and tell them everything.”

“But-you-the alley. You…” Even now, she found it hard to say the words.

“I killed someone,” he said. His voice was steady, but she heard the stress beneath it. “I shot someone. And I’ll admit that.”

“They’ll arrest you,” Ian said.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “But it’s the only way. Take responsibility for what I did.”

“That’s crazy. They’ll send you to jail.”

“Maybe that’s where I belong.” His voice cracked a little, but he kept going. “Look, I’ve been hiding from this since it happened. Pretending I can be something else, that I can just go on with life. Maybe there are people who could forget it, but that’s not the way it works for me. I did it to protect you, and I’ll tell them that. Maybe it will help. Maybe not. But I can’t go on pretending, and we cannot let Victor have this.”

“But it’s not our fault,” she repeated, hating that they were making her play this role. “I know that sounds weak, but if we hadn’t come along, Victor would have bought and sold it, and we wouldn’t have known a thing.”

“Sure. But if we give this to him, chances are, one morning we’ll turn on the news and see a story about a terrorist attack with sarin gas. Maybe here, maybe somewhere else, and we won’t even know for sure it was the same stuff. But there will be hundreds of people dead. And we’ll have to stand and watch, and wonder if we could have done something. Can you live with that?”

She looked at him. The streetlight outside cast raindrop shadows across his face. His back was straight, but his hands trembled. She imagined herself making breakfast in her kitchen. The radio on, a bagel in the toaster, hummus on the counter, coffeepot gurgling. Alone in her little world. And on the TV, images of innocent people twisted and broken, their faces locked in eternal screams.

“No,” she said. “No, I can’t.”

“Me either,” Ian said. “But there’s a snag in this plan, right? The DF is in a safe-deposit box. How do we-” He stopped, caught the expression on their faces. “What?”

“It’s not in the bank,” she said. “It’s here.”

“Here here?”

“Down the block, in the trunk of the drug dealer’s car.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to do this, Mitch? You understand-”

“I understand.” He raised his hands above his head in a stretch, then let them drop. “I’m not happy about it. But that choice between the lives of people we love and the lives of a lot of people we don’t know? I won’t make it.”

It was a simple enough statement. But she didn’t know if she would have been strong enough to say it.

“What are you going to tell them?” Ian asked.

“What happened, more or less. I don’t need to mention you guys.”

“Yeah, you do,” Ian said. “Johnny saw me, too, remember?”

“I can just say that I won’t tell them who my partners were.”

“That will make them go harder on you. As it stands, you’re a civilian without a criminal record. The man we robbed is a former drug dealer, and the one you killed was selling chemical weapons. Weapons you brought to them.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Besides. Screw the Prisoner’s Dilemma.” Ian gave that lopsided grin. “I’m not letting you take this on alone.”

Mitch smiled. “If you’re looking for me to convince you otherwise…”

“We’re not,” she said. She stood up. “I’m going too.” Some part of her wanted to do this, she realized. Wanted to admit the wrong and take the punishment, to stand with her friends. “Guess the Thursday Night Club isn’t done yet.” She took a deep breath, the air rasping cool into her lungs. “OK. So when do we go?”

“Now.” Mitch stood. “Right now.”

The rain had been going steady and soft for the last few hours, and the air had that smell that told her it might go all night. It had put a damper on the usual Saturday revelry, and the sidewalks were nearly clear. They walked in silence, all of them lost in their own thoughts.

Abruptly, Mitch spoke. “I’m sorry.” He turned to Jenn. “I can’t believe I-that wasn’t me.”

She turned responses over in her mind, looking for the right one. Finally, she said, “I know.”

“You too.” Mitch turned to Ian. “If you hadn’t figured out what this stuff was, we would have gone through with it. I was wrong to call you a fuck-up, man.”

“No, you weren’t. I am a fuck-up. But I’m working on it.”

“We all are,” she said and meant it. Still, there was a calm replacing the panic of earlier. They had come up against an impossible decision, and they had made the right choice. Whatever sins they’d committed, that had to count for something. And if nothing else, at least this would all be over soon.

They crossed the intersection, passing two women holding hands. Weird to think that just days ago she and Mitch had run this course in reverse, in pain just from smelling the chemicals. How much worse must the actual thing be?

She thought about the police, wondered what the three of them would say. The truth, obviously. But what exactly? Maybe it didn’t matter, she thought. Fast or slow, elegant or graceless, the facts spoke for themselves. Maybe it was just a matter of telling them-