Status: Active
Untitled
III
I approached school the next day as I would have normally with few exceptions. I woke up from my deep sleep before the sun was up, ran three miles with my dog. Finished my math homework. Ate three eggs and chicken. Packed a protein shake and a meal fit for three of me. I was back on the regimen.
Signed up for weight room during lunches for the next three weeks as soon as I walked in. Sat down in the history classroom, shot a few emails to kick-boxing and martial arts studios: inquiries about private sessions. Lived harmoniously internally and externally, shaken and strong. Had more energy and attention than I had all month— didn’t apply it in class.
I was occupied drawing maps of old missions I’d served in—the first three, anyways, before I started working only with him… Istanbul— they were gibberish placed in matrices, nonsense to anyone that could even read Cyrillic. Every other letter of a name, and every third of a location. Lines that dragged from each matrix (mission) to mission. Words that didn't make sense. But in my mind, I was able to process it, to remember the steps, the extrapolation, the logic, the code. It calmed me, geared my mind up for what was ahead.
I’d done more dangerous missions before that involved trades, too, just like the impending mission. There were a few done fair and square, trades that would have happened anyway but they just needed extra bodies as facilitators to make sure everyone was keen on the idea of justice. No eye for an eye nonsense.
This time, though, Istanbul and I would be the distraction, not the traders. Moscow would be on surveillance, and Bristol would make the trade—an unknown specific (probably cash) for intell. We would all leave together. No shots need be fired. Externally, I would make it out unscathed, easy. It was just internally, I would never be the same. I was being dragged back into a past life, and I knew that wouldn’t come without consequences. It couldn’t. Because, as I recalled on the beaches of Lagos Island and Corsica and the Hamptons where I’d served before in dangerous missions— nothing was ever a fair trade.
Signed up for weight room during lunches for the next three weeks as soon as I walked in. Sat down in the history classroom, shot a few emails to kick-boxing and martial arts studios: inquiries about private sessions. Lived harmoniously internally and externally, shaken and strong. Had more energy and attention than I had all month— didn’t apply it in class.
I was occupied drawing maps of old missions I’d served in—the first three, anyways, before I started working only with him… Istanbul— they were gibberish placed in matrices, nonsense to anyone that could even read Cyrillic. Every other letter of a name, and every third of a location. Lines that dragged from each matrix (mission) to mission. Words that didn't make sense. But in my mind, I was able to process it, to remember the steps, the extrapolation, the logic, the code. It calmed me, geared my mind up for what was ahead.
I’d done more dangerous missions before that involved trades, too, just like the impending mission. There were a few done fair and square, trades that would have happened anyway but they just needed extra bodies as facilitators to make sure everyone was keen on the idea of justice. No eye for an eye nonsense.
This time, though, Istanbul and I would be the distraction, not the traders. Moscow would be on surveillance, and Bristol would make the trade—an unknown specific (probably cash) for intell. We would all leave together. No shots need be fired. Externally, I would make it out unscathed, easy. It was just internally, I would never be the same. I was being dragged back into a past life, and I knew that wouldn’t come without consequences. It couldn’t. Because, as I recalled on the beaches of Lagos Island and Corsica and the Hamptons where I’d served before in dangerous missions— nothing was ever a fair trade.