need his money, and
he had no siblings. He had a small apartment back in Virginia, and a modest
car, paid off. Ostentatiousness was frowned upon at the Agency. At least
locally.
But out
of country? Look out. Nothing but the finest for him. Whether that was the five
star hotel he was in now, or the five star escorts. Or the fine bottle of
imported Budweiser sitting in a bucket of melting ice.
God I
need that beer!
When he
began drinking, it usually was to drown out the memories of whatever mission he
was just finished with. But a night like last night. That was something more.
That was a bender worthy of yet another futile attempt to kill off the brain
cells storing the memories that haunted him every moment of every day.
His
chest tightened, and he decided the beer must be had. He gently extricated
himself from the two ladies by lifting his arms straight over his head, then
sitting up. Moans of protest greeted him, but they quickly waned as the ladies
returned to sleep. He scooted to the end of the bed and dropped his feet on the
floor, only to be greeted with something soft that yelped. He leaned over and
looked.
Three?
Definitely
worthy of remembrance.
He
carefully planted his feet and stood, rounding the bed only to find a fourth
girl curled up on a blanket, her pillow appearing to be his tuxedo jacket
rolled into a ball.
What
the hell happened last night?
He freed
the beer from the chilled waters and ran the still dripping bottle over his
forehead then the back of his neck. Twisting the cap off, he snapped it to the
other side of the room and heard a cry of protest from the dark.
Five?
He
looked down his naked form and at the little guy.
A
little over ambitious, weren’t we?
He
chugged the ice cold brew, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, the cool
water dripping off the bottle and down his chin then chiseled chest, the water
snaking its way down a set of abs any athlete would be proud to have. It was a
body any man would take pride in, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he had any
negative opinion of his physique, but to him it was a tool. A tool necessary
for his work, and if he were to let himself “go”, he’d most likely die.
The spy
business didn’t have portly operatives.
Not at
least in his type of work. Yes, there were spies of all types. Men. Women.
Twenty somethings and sixty somethings. Short, tall, fat, ridiculously skinny.
Whatever the job called for, there were spies to fit the bill. But those were
mostly for the undercover jobs where a portly gentleman assigned to an embassy
was sent to a dinner party to eavesdrop. If he was caught he was deported, not
tortured then held until a prisoner exchange could be organized.
But not Dylan
Kane.
Kane was
a Special Activities Division operator, part of the Central Intelligence Agency’s
Special Operations Group. He was one of those sent in with little or no support
to every hellhole the world had to offer to follow out orders given by suits in
dark rooms whose code names were a lot cooler sounding than a letter chosen for
a purpose sometimes forgotten years later. He had committed sabotage,
assassinations, interrogations, covert influence missions—you name it, he had
done it.
In other
words he was trained in how to kill, and how to avoid being killed.
And one
of the best ways to avoid being killed was being in shape.
His body
was a tool.
Somebody
came out of the bathroom.
“Good
morning,” the man mumbled, then dropped into a chair and curled up.
God,
I hope I didn’t sleep with everyone here.
The
phone vibrated, again eliciting a sigh. He picked it up from the nightstand and
looked at the call display.
Odd.
He
answered.
“Kane.”
“Hi, Dylan,
it’s me, Chris. Chris Leroux.”
He had
known Leroux since high school. Kane had been a senior on the football team,
and needed to keep his grades up to keep his privileged position. Which meant
tutoring. And that had ended up being Leroux, a pimply faced grade ten genius,
who
he had no siblings. He had a small apartment back in Virginia, and a modest
car, paid off. Ostentatiousness was frowned upon at the Agency. At least
locally.
But out
of country? Look out. Nothing but the finest for him. Whether that was the five
star hotel he was in now, or the five star escorts. Or the fine bottle of
imported Budweiser sitting in a bucket of melting ice.
God I
need that beer!
When he
began drinking, it usually was to drown out the memories of whatever mission he
was just finished with. But a night like last night. That was something more.
That was a bender worthy of yet another futile attempt to kill off the brain
cells storing the memories that haunted him every moment of every day.
His
chest tightened, and he decided the beer must be had. He gently extricated
himself from the two ladies by lifting his arms straight over his head, then
sitting up. Moans of protest greeted him, but they quickly waned as the ladies
returned to sleep. He scooted to the end of the bed and dropped his feet on the
floor, only to be greeted with something soft that yelped. He leaned over and
looked.
Three?
Definitely
worthy of remembrance.
He
carefully planted his feet and stood, rounding the bed only to find a fourth
girl curled up on a blanket, her pillow appearing to be his tuxedo jacket
rolled into a ball.
What
the hell happened last night?
He freed
the beer from the chilled waters and ran the still dripping bottle over his
forehead then the back of his neck. Twisting the cap off, he snapped it to the
other side of the room and heard a cry of protest from the dark.
Five?
He
looked down his naked form and at the little guy.
A
little over ambitious, weren’t we?
He
chugged the ice cold brew, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, the cool
water dripping off the bottle and down his chin then chiseled chest, the water
snaking its way down a set of abs any athlete would be proud to have. It was a
body any man would take pride in, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he had any
negative opinion of his physique, but to him it was a tool. A tool necessary
for his work, and if he were to let himself “go”, he’d most likely die.
The spy
business didn’t have portly operatives.
Not at
least in his type of work. Yes, there were spies of all types. Men. Women.
Twenty somethings and sixty somethings. Short, tall, fat, ridiculously skinny.
Whatever the job called for, there were spies to fit the bill. But those were
mostly for the undercover jobs where a portly gentleman assigned to an embassy
was sent to a dinner party to eavesdrop. If he was caught he was deported, not
tortured then held until a prisoner exchange could be organized.
But not Dylan
Kane.
Kane was
a Special Activities Division operator, part of the Central Intelligence Agency’s
Special Operations Group. He was one of those sent in with little or no support
to every hellhole the world had to offer to follow out orders given by suits in
dark rooms whose code names were a lot cooler sounding than a letter chosen for
a purpose sometimes forgotten years later. He had committed sabotage,
assassinations, interrogations, covert influence missions—you name it, he had
done it.
In other
words he was trained in how to kill, and how to avoid being killed.
And one
of the best ways to avoid being killed was being in shape.
His body
was a tool.
Somebody
came out of the bathroom.
“Good
morning,” the man mumbled, then dropped into a chair and curled up.
God,
I hope I didn’t sleep with everyone here.
The
phone vibrated, again eliciting a sigh. He picked it up from the nightstand and
looked at the call display.
Odd.
He
answered.
“Kane.”
“Hi, Dylan,
it’s me, Chris. Chris Leroux.”
He had
known Leroux since high school. Kane had been a senior on the football team,
and needed to keep his grades up to keep his privileged position. Which meant
tutoring. And that had ended up being Leroux, a pimply faced grade ten genius,
who
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