Sound’s a cheap weapon, but it’s hard to control.

 

Get the right frequency, hit the right pitch, and you can burst eardrums, rupture hearts, crack bones, leaving only dead bodies and question marks.

 

Jenny’s none the wiser about my job, thinks I’ve just got some cushy science gig. She’s dancing in the kitchen, singing, while cooking bolognese.

 

“Can you turn it down?” I ask.

 

“Too loud, Joe?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“I’ll get my headphones.”

 

I should be checking emails, but instead, my eyes keep drifting to her. She’s humming, swinging her full hips while burning dinner. For her, sound brings pleasure. She doesn’t see its dark side.

 

Yesterday, my team took down Senator Crane. The wife, kids, even the family dog were collateral damage.

 

Jenny and I eat our bolognese while watching the news. “Shame about that senator,” she says. “They’re saying his whole family had the sickness.”

 

“That right?” The sickness is the latest theory for the raft of unexplained deaths. A new mystery illness released by the Chinese is what our press guys are spinning, and the public is lapping it up like the good dogs they are. The truth is, we’re targeting unsavoury individuals, but the sound gets carried away. Don’t worry about it. It’s for the good of our country, we’re told. Sometimes it’s only one or two extras that go down, but it can be up to twenty. Eyes and noses bleeding, hearts popping — a nasty way to die.

 

Later, Jenny cuddles with me while we watch a movie. I like to have the volume really low with subtitles on.

“How was work?” she asks.

 

I killed today, just like yesterday, and the day before. I turned a dial all the way up, and I heard them screaming from the van. If I hadn’t turned that dial, I’m pretty sure there’d be a van outside our house with some dumb schmuck ready to send some sound my way.

“Okay,” I say instead.

 

* * *

The next day, I’m outside a hospital with my team.

 

“The target will just need a little sound to get him going. But he’s on the fourth floor of a busy hospital—”

 

“Well, that’s the collateral damage, ain’t it?”

 

Collateral damage: nurses, doctors, patients. Maybe fifty people.

 

“We can’t.”

 

The others look at me, confused.

 

“But, if we don’t—”

 

“We… just can’t. We’re not using it. Not today. Drive away.”

 

“But Boss—”

 

“You heard what I said.”

 

I can’t do this shit anymore. I’ve been on mute too long, just watching subtitles.

 

* * *

 

“How was your day?” Jenny asks later, curled on the couch next to me.

 

I didn’t kill, but today my life, your life, could be over. A van could be pulling up outside our house at any moment to personally deliver some sound.

 

“Okay,” I say instead.

 

I click send on an email I’ve typed to the New York Times.

 

It’s about to get loud.

 

I hold Jenny a little tighter and, for once, turn up the volume.