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Mark
No one has fucking died yet. I grow pissier and more frustrated by the day. I’ve tried every back-channel comms method to get Robbie or any of the guys to reach out.Nada.
It’s not just the explosion.
Why was Melody in play? Did she set the explosion? What is her angle?
And.
My work on the border wall and all the tech. I don’t know if it’s been successful. Fausto is pleased so far, I guess that’s something.
Something, but not enough.
My wife is hurt. My friends are AWOL. My mind is reeling and I hate it. I hate this powerlessness.
Which is why I’m running harder and longer than I ever have. It’s late and the streets of DC are dark and quiet. But I can’t sleep. Can’t work. Can’t do anything else, so I might as well move.
I keep pounding on my usual route. I notice a group of guys loitering outside of a club that’s about to close. At this hour, they’re probably wasted, but I’m half looking for a fight right now, if I’m being honest. So I run straight for them. Sure enough, one guy stumbles right into my path. I jump back and brace myself, ready for him to take a swing at me. Instead, he starts apologizing.
“My bad, bro, my bad,” he collapses into me. I catch him, and when I do, I feel the note he slips into my palm.YES! It’s about fucking time.
“No problem, man,” I grumble before continuing on. Once I’m a few blocks away, I stop under a streetlight. I open the folded paper.
Bill’s Barber Shop
09:00 tomorrow
Ask for Owen.
He wears glasses.
Owen! O. As in Command. He’s here in person. And we’re meeting face-to-face, I guess, since they want me to leave my contacts out. Fuck, I wonder if I screwed up. Or more specifically how and when I screwed up.Shit, shit, shit.
Still, some contact. Finally.
I continue my run. I run until it hurts and then I head to my apartment to lay down. I don’t sleep. Soon it’s time to shower and eat. And make my way toward some answers.
I walk into the barber shop at 8:58. A guy I don’t recognize nods and takes me past all the hair stations to a break room at the back. I don’t say anything, because I know better. I just wait. The guy leaves and less than twenty seconds later, there he is. My chest is exploding. When was the last time I saw him in person?
“Mark.” He gives me a small, warm smile. “You’re looking well.”
“And you’re looking old, O,” I say, stepping toward him. He grips my hand in a handshake and claps me on the back at the same time. His embrace is stiff but familiar. I missed it.
He laughs. “If I am, it’s your fault. You and the rest,” he sits at the tiny break room table and gestures for me to join him. “Bunch of little fuck-ups.”
I sit. “Am I? Did I?”
He leans back and rubs his rough index finger across his bearded chin. “Wellll…”
“It’s the marriage. We should’ve gone in a different direction. I told her we’re getting divorced, soon. Then I won’t be so distracted and—“ He holds up a hand to stop me.
“Son, we don’t have much time. We need to initiate Operation Dent, I’m afraid.”
Fuck.
“Seriously? There’s got to be another way.”
His eyes are serious, unwavering. “You want to stay in play, you need to do what’s required of you.”
