Wallbanger by Sable Jordan Page B

Phil ended
the recording by sliding the glasses down his nose a hair. He’d
process the info and get it to Xander before they went to the party
later that evening.
    “You not hellllpiiiing,” the woman sung
sweetly.
    He smirked, checked his watch—plenty of time.
Better to stick around and be sure no more unexpected visitors
showed up between now and then. Plus, just in case that
understanding wasn’t clear, he could use a couple brownie points
with the Man Upstairs.
    Adding more polish, he pushed the cloth
against the wooden frame, rubbing in small circles.

5
    McLean, Virginia
    Daniel Gilbert held the door for the exiting
couple, and then stepped into the loud establishment. The Pub was
exactly what a small dive bar should be—lively atmosphere, cheap
drinks and a quirky mix of locals and first-timers all out enjoying
one of the few places in McLean open until the wee hours of the
morning. The air was so filled with smoke it barely passed for
breathable, and since he’d decided to quit smoking just a few weeks
before, it was always a welcome balm to his nicotine-starved
lungs.
    He took a breath deep into his body— Damn,
that feels good —and pulled a square of original flavor
Nicorette from the pack in his pocket, popped the gum into his
mouth. The taste was horrendous, but he figured it increased his
odds of never wanting to go through the cessation process again,
ergo he wouldn’t go back to the smokes. Smoking was risky. He
shrugged out of his wrinkled suit jacket and shifted onto a
barstool.
    “Hey, Danny.” Shirley raised her voice to be
heard over the bustle of the jukebox and the crowd. She slid a club
soda across the lacquered bar and wiped up the trailing water with
a cloth.
    Nodding in both greeting and thanks, he
lifted the clear liquid to his lips. Club soda wasn’t his favorite,
but since he’d given up drinking as well, it was all he allowed
himself to have. Vices weren’t a thing a man of his newly appointed
importance needed.
    Daniel Gilbert’s life was risk management,
and up until a few months ago, he’d lived his life “look before you
leap”. Every decision he made went through a rigorous five-step
process of threat identification, assessment, risk determination,
reduction strategies and implementation of those strategies to
maximize the outcome. He often joked that selecting toothpaste was
a bitch, but at least his teeth were white. Even when playing the
odds, there was no such thing as luck—only the meticulous five
steps could bring about success.
    That orderliness was something he picked up
before the military, and was how Daniel came to take a position as
a company clerk. He still found himself in dangerous situations,
but it was, by his calculations, the least risky of the available
options. Truth be told, his heart pumped Kool-Aid, but his family
expected him to serve, so serve he did.
    His obsession—and it was an obsession—with
risk reduction was simply the way he operated. It was also the
reason why he made far less money than his contemporaries working
in the financial field. Daniel could have gone to Wall Street and
made a fortune; would have been living in some posh Manhattan loft
with a nice car and a gorgeous blonde arm-piece he’d bang steady
every night. But according to his diligent computations, he’d have
burned out by 36, the probability of a breakdown due to stress was
in the 98 th percentile, and he imagined his blonde
fucking the doorman since Daniel was spending all his time at
work.
    So instead, he’d chosen the path of least
resistance while continuing to serve his country as a risks manager
with the CIA. 36-years of age, burned out, same title, tiny
apartment in the quiet town of McLean, not so flashy car. Gorgeous
arm-piece also absent, as was the sex. For once in his life he’d
miscalculated, and the grievous error then drove his ambitions
now.
    Daniel had been on the safe side of risk for
too long. Now he wanted to see the view from a slightly