Before every mission, he makes a list. I am loved. I leave three good sons behind. I have a true friend who knows what I do and does not care. I have slept with many women much more beautiful than me, and I have travelled the world and seen rare, precious things. It ends with him pounding his own chest, staring himself down in the mirror, and thinking: I can die today. But when you are about to die – when you’ve seen three others sliced up in seconds and know you’re next – your list is somewhat different. Not yet, it says. Just those words in smeared, desperate handwriting that fills a thousand pages, all falling to the floor and lying there unread. Not yet.