Page 30 of Agency
I let out a sigh, adjusted my hoodie, then my jeans. I wasn’t sure if I was getting sloppy, or my mind had just been occupied with the memory of Morgan, but I’d forgotten a few things when prepping my hit. They weren’t exactly life threatening, or anything, just embarrassing. Things like underwear and a bra… But, hey, at least I’d remembered socks and comfy shoes.
The flames darkened for a moment, the pages and manila folders temporarily smothering the flames, before immediately coming back with a vengeance as their tongues licked the newly smoking pages.
I let out a sigh, hugged myself close, attempted to fight back against the sinking feeling in my stomach. Not of dread, or of existential terror. Not ennui, either. More… More like the feel of being on a road trip, and finally realizing after two hours of driving that you’d taken the wrong turn over a hundred miles back.
Five years of doing this. How many people had I killed while working for the Agency? Twenty? Thirty? I’d stopped counting after the first eighteen months.
Two years before the Agency, though, of no action, and no kills. My just working for the CIA as a sigint analyst in Langley, clocking in and clocking out, and using my extensive knowledge of foreign languages. All that time going through training and spy school, only to be told during final selection that I stood out too much in the crowd to ever become a true spy or operative because of how attractive I was… and tonothave it be a pickup line from my trainer.
He’d been serious. I’d passed my exams, both written and practical, with flying colors, but they’d determined I was too distinctive and good-looking to ever be in the field. No running assets, no performing covert operations, no being a real spy.
To have that dream ripped away… Two years was all I could stand. I wasn’t any happier being in that safe space.
Before that, five kills in the service while I’d been working as a unit-level translator, at least, not counting any air strikes or artillery I’d painted or called in during a pinch. Factor those in, and there was no telling what kind of number I’d reach.
Fuck. Fuck me. Was this my life?
Better not to think too hard about how many deaths in which I might have assisted. Much better.
Besides, that had been war. That had been… different. Back then, I could at least talk about shit with my buddies, the men and women I worked with.
Now, there was just my handler to talk to.
And don’t even get me started onher.
More importantly, though, in the military there was the knowledge that I was at least killing bad guys on behalf of someone else. Now, what was I doing? Killing bad guys on behalf of someone else. But that someone else wasn’t my government. No, there was was just the person who could pay the highest fee to the Agency.
Fuck… Who was I kidding? Someone was going to replace Smolensky. They always did. Hell, the person paying my fee might have even been the one to replace him.
Not that that was much different than the game of whack-a-mole we’d always seemed to play in the military. Kill one terrorist cell’s leader, another popped up. Break one network, get ready for the next to crop up. The war on terrorism and crime had always been a losing game, no matter who I’d worked for.
The fire popped, sent sparks drifting on heated currents of air. Had the burst been from my lipstick? My wig?
Did the cause matter?
I reached down and grabbed my mostly full gasoline canister, went over to the Toyota Corolla I’d stolen from the other side of the river earlier in the day. Liberally splashing gasoline inside the cab, then trunk, then hood and roof, I made sure everything got a bit before pulling a book of matches from my pocket.
The pack was plain. Basic white, without any kind of bar or restaurant advertisement on the cover.
But, for some reason, I wondered for a split second whether or not the Bothersome Beaver had matches. I hadn’t smoked in years, not since before leaving the service, and so I’d stopped looking for them at bars I’d wandered into. And now, here I was, wondering if the last real dive I was in had any.
I folded the book to expose all the matches, then tore one off and dragged the white head over the striking surface. The flame burst into life with that chemical hiss, and I couldn’t help but stare at the dancing tongue for a moment. All the concrete evidence of my crime would be gone once I tossed the single match on this car. There’d only be two eye witnesses I spoke to while in disguise, one security tape without the real me on it, and a young prostitute who’d only seen me in my genuine hair and eyes for a few moments, but to whom I hadn’t uttered a single word.
I could just… not. I could leave the evidence soaked in gasoline, and just walk away. Take my chances and see if they could pull the DNA. I’m sure I was in some database somewhere, even if that one database only cataloged all the black ops operators that the US government had employed over the near century of its clandestine service’s existence.
But what would I do?
Go find Morgan? Like he’d want someone like me. Not only a murderer, but a woman who’d slept with more men than she’d killed?
While that was probably a true statement for most women, with me that boast was a genuine accomplishment.
But, God, I hadn’t even told him my real name. How could I…? How could I come back from that? There was no explaining this, no explaining my life. Even if I walked away right now and never looked back, there was no way to make him understand.
And, even if I could, what good would was leaving the evidence laying around? What good was there in me doing time for killing a piece of shit like Grigori Smolensky? I’d be dead before I even got through booking, either because the Agency got me, or Smolensky’s goons did. And, even if I survived booking, I’d certainly never survive through to trial.
No way in hell.
“Shit!” I shook my hand as the fire, now burned down the match, singed the tips of my fingers. I sucked on them quickly to alleviate the sharp, stinging ache, swore again around the tips of my fingers now filling my mouth.
