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John and I hugged and laughed. He asked me what I had been doing the last ten years. I told him.
“Holy shit,” he said, clearly impressed.
I told him all about my inglorious exit from MI6 and how I was struggling to find work.
“Well, I’d love you to teach some classes here at the dojo – a former MI6 agent would be a hell of a draw – but I know we can’t pay you the kind of money you deserve.”
I thanked him but confirmed I needed something a lot more lucrative.
He scratched his chin. “Well… when in doubt… do what you’re good at.”
Shit.
That was rough advice when what you’re good at is killing people.
Which led me back to Sean, my old research guy in Operations.
I couldn’t very well call MI6 to ask to talk to him – they would listen in on the call – but I knew the pub where Sean hung out. He used to tell me about it all the time.
So I went there around quitting time and waited.
It took an hour, but he finally showed up.
As soon as he saw me, he groaned. “Oh no…”
“Nice to see you, too,” I said tartly.
“Just associating with you is going to be the death of me.”
“Then let me buy you a drink. Send you off to the afterlife in style.”
A couple of pints later, Sean’s tongue was finally loosened.
“You could be a mercenary,” he suggested. “There’s tons of outfits looking for mercenaries.”
“I don’t want to go into warzones with a bunch of meatheads who just want to fuck shit up.”
“You want to go into warzones by yourself and fuck shit up?” Sean asked.
“No.”
“No to which part? The warzones, by yourself, or fucking shit up?”
“I’m not partial to warzones or fucking shit up.”
“But you’d work solo,” he clarified.
“Yes. But I don’t want to do anything illegal.”
Sean raised one eyebrow.
I tried again. “I don’t want to do anything immoral.”
Now he raised both eyebrows.
“I don’t want to do anything horrible,” I hissed.
Sean burped. “Depends on your definition of ‘horrible,’ doesn’t it?”
