While I know the most probable answer is that they were lost to the sea, sometimes I like to imagine they wanted to relocate to a new country and give themselves secret identities, and they’re happily strolling the Paris streets together, eating baguettes and drinking strong coffee.
I stroll through the house, perusing photos and picking up knickknacks that were important to my mom. It makes me feel close to her.
When I reach the spare bedroom where I’ve been staying the last two days since leaving Langley, I change into workout shorts and a T-shirt. I walk across the hallway and brush my teeth. There’s no makeup to take off because there’s been no need to wear it, but I do brush my hair and tie it on top of my head.
Back in the bedroom, I hook up my phone to the charger, pull the covers back, and slide between the cool sheets. I turn off the lamp and roll onto my side, one arm curled under my pillow.
I wish I could fall immediately to sleep, but no such luck. I’ve barely slept since Ladd rescued me in El Salvador. I’ve not only been plagued by his presence back in my life but by my career ending with the CIA.
What stretches my brain the most is trying to figure out where I go from here. I was paid well for my work with the CIA, which included hefty bonuses for hazardous duties. I saved and invested most of it and never spent money on frivolities. I could live comfortably for several years without working.
That’s not my style, though. I have to be busy.
I could absolutely go private sector—security or consulting. I could go to Argentina, as it feels almost as much like home to me as this place does because of my mother’s roots. I could teach English to kids or become a bartender on one of the beaches. There are any number of things I could do, and I most certainly don’t need the CIA. While I might feel a little sad for leaving a job that gave me such satisfaction, I remind myself I was ready to give it up ten years ago when I sought out Ladd. Our breakup made me realize that my career wasn’t as important as personal happiness.
Back then… my happiness was Ladd.
Today, it can be whatever.
It could be a whoever if I open myself up to it.
Maybe I’ll go to Argentina for a while and try to figure things out.
?
I’m not sure what wakes me up, but my instincts tell me something isn’t right. I hold my breath and strain my ears listening intently. There it is… voices. Outside. Low and unintelligible.
Rolling to my side, I open the top drawer to the nightstand and pull out my Glock 17. There’s already a round in the chamber, and because it does not have a manual safety, it’s ready to fire the second I have it in hand.
Even though I’ve had the house maintained and have the lights on a rotational schedule, if someone was casing the neighborhood for a few days, they’d never see occupants coming and going. They might see this as an easy target for burglary.
Still, this is a safe, middle-class neighborhood. All the houses have alarms. Anyone who might try to break in would be stupid and—
Glass breaks at the front of the house, and the alarm starts shrieking. Three long, shrill bursts, followed by four seconds of silence, then another three bursts. That alarm is shocking enough to scare away even the bravest of vandals or burglars.
But in the four-second quiet that comes after the siren screams, I hear feet running through the house, and men shouting in Spanish.
Find her.
I don’t hesitate, rolling over my bed and away from the bedroom door. I hit the floor and scramble into the closet, thankful I left it open. I don’t even have time to close it behind me, merely throwing myself to the side as my bedroom door bursts open. In the shadows created by the moonlight filtering through the blinds, I see two large men in the doorway, and they unleash several rounds of bullets into the bed where I was just lying.
From the darkness of the closet, I take careful aim at the intruders, and the minute their guns go silent, I squeeze off four rounds, two into each man.
They fall wordlessly to the floor, and I don’t need the light on to know I got each one close enough to the heart to kill them nearly instantly.
More shouts in Spanish are drowned out by the alarm, but in the quiet among the bursts, I hear footsteps receding… leaving the house. I’m assuming they understood what they just heard: a heavy barrage of bullets from their cohorts, followed by a short silence, then four shots squeezed off in two short bursts each. No more spraying bullets. Their compadres are dead, and if they come back here, they’re next.