First Three Chapters

By: Matthew Allen Gulick 

           

 

Chapter one

Broken Pieces

Denzel awakes cocooned in a peculiar sense of sorrow. Expressing his emotions never comes easily, even to those closest to him. His impassive face makes it nearly impossible for others to discern his moods. But his feelings are definitely not a mystery to him.

Throwing aside the light duvet, his eyes squint at a Bose radio alarm clock. It's a Tuesday, the second day of the new month. The weekday doesn't matter, though. What's significant is that yet another 30 days have passed since he last saw his family.

A sorrowful sigh tries to escape but he smooths the exhalation, like a sniper readying a shot. He surfs the swell of hurt, the breath ends -- but the gnawing gut ache of his family's absence does not.

Swinging out of bed, he silently pads across the apartment, on automatic. He shoves the bathroom door harder than intended, the door rebounds towards him, and he's suddenly alert. He smiles humorlessly, and steps inside.

Denzel looks upwards before confronting his reflection. He doesn't believe there is a God, but he needs to gather strength from somewhere. His eyes snap down and he leans forward and forces himself to scan his features intently. He notes the hardened look in his eyes, the stern lines around his mouth, and the stubborn set of his jaw.

The few who know his face well would also spot the discreet sorrow lines engraved there. But which sorrows made which lines is anyone's guess - the eyes in this face have seen too much of the darker side of humanity.

Cupping his hands, he nudges the tap handle and splashes cold water onto his face. The brisk sensation shocks him further awake, and water runs down the same lines.

I used to kiss my wife and son with this face.

His gut roils, his expression becomes grim. Looks down, marshals his focus.

Okay, you had your pity party—time to work.

He flips on the shower, sheds his t-shirt and boxers. He doesn't glance again at the scars that pit his muscular chest and back. Some days they act as inspiration reminding him he is a survivor.

Other days, he recalls the brutal interactions that daubed them onto him, as if sadistic street artists had gone to work: blades, bullets, even acid painted this skin-canvas and he soberly reflects that even the next five minutes are not guaranteed. Then he grins darkly.

At least my five minutes are more guaranteed than most.

Stepping under the R-shaped shower head, the near-scalding water produces stinging dots and slashes of discomfort. He blots them out, and as they fade into the background, he turns his mind to the day ahead.

Today, he'll take the next step in his mission, a very personal one. He closes his eyes and lets the billowing steam and needle splashes of water waft him away from this moment.

----

Back in his room, wearing boxers and a vest, Denzel stops at what looks like a traditional wooden bookshelf. However, this West Elm Otto design is a custom-made fusion of mango wood -- and bank-vault technology.

Reaching out, he tilts a hefty 'War and Peace' hard-cover thirty-eight degrees to the right, tugs 'The Old Man and the Sea' until an almost imperceptible click is heard, and pushes the well-worn 'Da Vinci Code' novel inwards.

Behind the case, a perfect seam in the wallpaper becomes visible as gears turn silently and a metal arm swings the bookcase - now a door - back and to the right. A pitch-black entrance. Denzel steps forward.

A moment later he's being scanned; facial recognition double-clicks to acknowledge him. At the same time, a floor plate measures his weight and compares it with recent records. A sound of air being sucked up near his face signals a pheromone detector. He'd installed that last device on a whim after watching Tom Cruise access a facility using a manufactured face mask in Mission Impossible…

Overhead, powerful daylight bulbs switch on to reveal a windowless rectangular room. A cool blue material covers the ceiling, the rest is clinical-grade white.

Designer suits line a rack along one long wall. At the room's far end, a bench with a well-organized array of surveillance equipment: earpieces, cameras, microphones, and other cutting-edge gadgets not commonly found in regular Tech shops.

Along the other long wall, racks and shelves brim with firearms of various makes and calibers, all expertly maintained and ready for action. An ammunition tray hangs under each shelf. Denzel casts an appreciative and yet sober eye over them. Yes, he's familiar with these weapons but he doesn't take their power to kill for granted. Each one can end a life.

A silent acknowledgment, and he turns to what he came in for. Tomorrow, lunch at Jean Luc's his favorite downtown New York restaurant. High rollers patronize this joint. Gotta dress for the part.

Who do I want to be? Who do I need to be?

He stands next to the bespoke designer suits, regarding them. A purveyor of expertly crafted goods, he takes simple pleasure running his fingers across the luxurious materials wielded into shape by world-renowned tailors at Senza Macchina, Italy; Dormeuil, France; and Kilgour - the brand favored by Frank Sinatra and Bond's Daniel Craig.

However, he stops at the tailored gray Gieves and Hawkes three-piece: what the

London Saville Row tailor snootily referred to throughout the fitting as "the garment" - and he runs his fingers over its familiar texture. Ah, London. Memories. With a little smile, he takes the suit off the rack and slips it on.

Looking in the mirror, he resembles a soul from another era, perhaps a mobster from the 1920s. This makes him chuckle.

He straps on his wristwatch: his favorite $84,000 ultra-thin black-and-gold Vacheron Constantin, and a gleaming matte-black Colt 1911 handgun. The walnut grip feels familiar and reassuring; it's seen a lot of action and ended a lot of lives.

So this is what a rogue CIA agent looks like.

Armed and ready, Denzel exits his secret refuge with the bookshelf door closing behind him. Just as he seals the entrance to his concealed armory, the brown teddy bear sitting at the corner of his bed catches his eye.

As if a holographic projection of his memory has appeared he sees his six-year-old son walk across the floor clutching the teddy bear… then, he's gone…

Denzel gazes at the bear.

He hears Veronica laughing in the kitchen, and Enzo giggling back.

Then… cruel, hollow silence.

I swear to you both. I'll make this right. There will be no hiding from me.

The moment seems to freeze as Denzel thinks back to the mission that changed everything…

---

He'd been tasked with a top-secret off-the-books mission: eliminate Bolatkhan Karim, a highly- connected terrorist operating in the Republic of Kazakstan, Central Asia. The country, bordered by China and Russia is the world's second-largest miner and exporter of Uranium.

It wasn't just that Uranium was being sold: the radioactive substance is often enriched to make fuel for nuclear power stations around the world. It wasn't even that Plutonium, a by-product of the nuclear fuel processing could be made by several rogue states to create a nuclear weapon. The CIA kept tabs on the major players who might try and transport such deadly cargo.

What mattered was that this time there was a new player - a terrorist group calling themselves The Messengers of Heaven. That the group was formed of radical Southern Kazak-speaking Qutb Muslims was not unexpected. But their black fist-like insignia sported the Islamic Crescent Moon and also… 50 stars, matching those on the American flag.

What was truly alarming was that this group also contained disillusioned ex-special forces Christian-fundamentalist Americans. Somehow their leader Peyton Smith had managed to pull together violent far-leftists opposing imperialism, religious fanatics, and 'ethnonationalists' who believed America was no longer being ruled by its founding values.

The enemy of my enemy truly IS my friend.

Both groups wanted to overthrow their Governments and install a new order based on their visions for the future of the world.

And both groups utterly hated each other.

But they had made a diabolical pact which seemed unbelievable - whichever group succeeded in taking down their Government would be granted the 'God-given right' to annihilate the other - because they had proved their 'God' is the strongest.

If the Muslims took down the Russian Government with a dirty plutonium bomb in the Kremlin, then Allah had given them victory.

Death to the infidels.

If the Americans were victorious and destroyed the White House in a Plutonium-fired mushroom cloud then -- just like the 4th Century Emperor Constantine had successfully carried the Chi-Rho symbol of Christ into battle - the God of the Christians would given them victory too.

Death to the pagans.

But until then this dark faith-based apocalypse would be played out - unless the CIA stopped it.

The Chief had called Denzel into the office. He was sitting on the edge of his desk.

He knew this mission would be personal for me.

And he was right. But in more ways than one.

I hate traitors.

The Chief picked up a clicker and pressed it. A projector set into the front underside of his desk emerged, and a bright light shone a map onto the far wall.

"The nuclear plant is in Ulken in the Zhambyl district of Almaty region, Kazakhstan. The meeting is at 2 am, local time. Timing is everything, Brickwall. You'll need to be embedded near the facility and take out Bolatkhan before he escapes with the plutonium. Don't be late.

He looked somber. "I know you're the best Denzel. But I can't guarantee you'll escape with your life on this one. You're facing a combination of US and Russian-trained special forces. But we need you to get in close. As American Sniper Chris Kyle said, "The closer the better."

I'm not Chris Kyle boss.

"No," said the Chief. He looked at me sideways. "Word from the range is that you might be better. Didn't you clock a hit at 1612 feet?"

I smiled.

Just rumors boss, I will never be better than Chris Kyle, just a Lucky shot.

---

Lake Balkhash, East-Central Khazakstan

Denzel cautiously picked his way along the jagged frosty Western shores of Lake Balkhash. It was late November, and the lake was frozen over but even if it wasn't, he couldn't have drunk from it. The water was too saline and the leaking of badly maintained fuel depots and run-off from un-monitored copper mining meant even the fish caught there had to be quarantined before eating.

Kazakhstan, which bordered Russia, was well known as a sea of corruption. Everyone without the power to overcome it suffered the consequences, even the fish.

His destination - the Korean-designed Hydro and Nuclear Power's APR1400 reactor being built near Ulken village. The rocky desert-like shores around the lake had previously been the site of the never-completed South Kazakhstan Hydroelectric Power Plant.

The prosperity that the workers dreamed of sharing in never came, and once construction on the first plant ceased, economic and social deprivation followed behind.

But now, just as the ancients built new temples on the site of old ones, a new reactor would be built on top of the ruins of the old. Not that the locals were happy about it, a fact he used to his advantage.

Who would have thought I could locate a local informant via a complaint on Google Maps?

He grinned darkly.

Across his back, he'd slung a Barrett M82A1 Sniper Rifle with a modified scope. The weapon's master had tried to insist he take the MacMillan Tac 50, used to lethal effect by Canadian snipers in Iraq and Afghanistan. But Denzel wanted the 'swiss-armyknife' extras from the Barrett which, under the right circumstances could take out radar stations, vehicles, and even aircraft.

His mouth was covered with a Dissipation Mask - a clever device that ]took in cold air, heated it for breathing, and then chilled his exhalations so they wouldn't give his position away. On his head, a slim prototype headset combining infra-red, night vision, and RF-capture ability … something new from the boys at MIT.

After meeting his 'Google contact' he'd stolen an ambulance from the aptly named Ambulance Hospital of Ulpan and dumped it deep in a forest of poplars. As he walked away from the vehicle, a random factoid from his study of military history popped into his head.

Soldiers in Ancient Greece used to carry shields made of poplar.

He put his hand on the Barrett.

Not that they'd be much use against my guns.

He heard a twig break and pressed up against a tree. His jacket sensed the pressure, micro-cameras analyzed the color of the bark, and tiny nano-screens worked together to simulate the warp and woof of the wood as the other side of Denzel's jacket and trousers re-patterned themselves. In a moment his clothing looked like tree-bark, an artificial chameleon combination of greens, browns, and light shades. It wouldn't fool someone up close but a casual observer could easily walk past.

He listened intently but nothing revealed itself.

I really hope I don't run into any military patrols. Or disgruntled locals.

In a matter of spectacularly bad timing for a mission like this, violent civilian protests were erupting in the nearest city of Almaty about the price of liquid petroleum gas, an everyday staple used to heat and cook in many Khazak homes. Not unexpectedly for the Eastern Bloc, President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev had authorized troops to use lethal force against "bandits and terrorists"…because the old woman protesting with her saucepan was obviously a manifestation of 'foreign interference in internal affairs." Right.

He heard some distant shouting in Kazak but it moved off. So did he. Once he spotted the treeline and the shores beyond it, he pressed a button on the jacket and now the outer side became the greyish-white color of the bleak sky while the trousers simulated the grain of the dusty rocks.

Under this, he wore the gray standard uniform of a plant worker. His primary plan didn't include infiltration but if he had to make an unplanned escape the locals might look less closely at him. Especially, now he'd dyed his dark hair and eyebrows blond. There were plenty of Russians in Kazakhstan.

Peyton Smith, I must break you.

Damn man: You're in enemy territory, and quoting Rocky IV?

Denzel grinned again and hoisted the weapons up higher. Another hour of traipsing along the shore and he heard the distant sound of water rushing over churning turbines. Climbing up a limestone promontory that jutted over the water he lay on his front, rested his rifle on a semi-circular lip of rock, and pulled out his M22 Field Binoculars.

He checked his watch:

1.55 pm

The reactor complex sprawled over several acres. Looking through the binoculars, he mentally matched what he saw to the reconnaissance drone photos the Chief had provided. Two 'upright bullet' shaped reactors and square buildings which sat around it like ugly concrete Minecraft blocks.

2.15 pm

A few workers walked between minor buildings. But there was no activity at the main entrance. No cars were parked. Nothing on the road leading down to the plant. Denzel spent a few minutes prepping the Barrett, noting the wind and visibility. He also logged into the plant's WiFi.

His pocket vibrated: Denzel pulled out his Iridium 957A satellite phone. A red news alert report was flashing. He selected it, read quickly then grimaced.

What a day for the Government to remove fuel subsidies.

The fuel riots had gotten a lot worse. It was entirely possible that Bolatkhan Karim's vehicle was delayed by a bunch of locals burning tires on a through road.

No plan survives contact with the enemy.

He frowned.

What is it with pithy war quotes today?

2.13 pm

His attention switched back to the entry road at the distant sound of tires crunching gravel. Three black cars sped towards the entry gate of the plant. Denzel zoomed in on them. Interesting.

While each was technically a popular Khazar LD production model, there were some notable differences. The top half of each wheel was hidden by an Ultra-High Hardness steel plate and Denzel guessed the thick tires were filled with slo-gel rather than air.

The tinted side windows seemed thicker than normal glass; they were almost certainly bullet-proof laminated polycarbonate glass. He wouldn't be surprised if the engine block sported additional armor around it as well.

The irony: A religious savior who needs the best earthly protection.

Denzel could see the first driver through his front windscreen - he was huge and long-bearded which immediately signified his defiance of the 'state-approved' expression of Islam. The guard house barrier was raised, and the cars drove through, and parked in a triangle configuration.

2:16 pm

A few minutes later three more Khazar vehicles came down the road.

Before the new arrivals reached the plant, the doors opened on the parked cars. Soldiers, special forces by the way they moved, quickly spread out and took key positions.

A man with a Russian 6S8 Sniper Rifle ran across the main area and disappeared into a building opposite the reactor. Or does he head for the rockfaces?

Sniper. Damn. Gotta keep an eye out for that one.

Finally, a tall slim white male got out. Dark hair. Soldier's cap. Denzel increased magnification. Black wiry moustache. The man took off his sunglasses. Intense, almost maniacal green eyes. This wasn't Bolatkhan. This was…

Peyton Smith.

The leader of the Messengers of Heaven was wearing dark clothing with… two blood-red crosses emblazoned on his tunic's right shoulder and the letters MH further right. The first cross was larger.

Religious terrorists -- sitting at the right hand of God and Jesus. Right.

Peyton exchanged words with one of the soldiers and walked over to what looked like a walk-in bin store. He turned towards the approaching vehicles.

The second set of Khazar's pulled in and turned around to face the exit road. A pause, and multiple American special forces rolled out… followed by a tall man with bushy eyebrows. Denzel felt an electric shock run through him.

What the hell is the Chief doing here?

The Chief looked around, brushing down his suit, and briefly looked up to where Denzel was lying down.

Damn Chief, don't look here!

He couldn't have seen Denzel from his position but it was a careless move around someone so dangerous and paranoid as Smith. The Chief looked back at Peyton and walked towards him. The protection detail from both sides subtly turned towards the two men.

The two men stopped opposite each other, and exchanged words. The Chief took out a phone, dialed, and said something. A minute later, a thick steel exit door on the reactor building opened and an industrial trolley was wheeled out with a thick military-style carrying case on it. There was a nuclear symbol on the casing.

Plutonium 239. Nuclear weapon's grade.

One of the Quds with Peyton opened the trunk of his Khazar. Inside, sat an assortment of tubes, a car battery, and what looked like the copper drum of a small washing machine. Tucked to the side was an elongated white 'baton with a cable joining it to a black detection unit with TRISS printed on it. (Trusted Radiation Detection Unit.)

A TRISS unit. If only they knew…

The Qud hefted the rectangular detection unit out, then the 'baton.' Switching it on, he waved it slowly over the case observing the illuminatedlevels rising and falling on the unit. He paused, nodded, and then nodded to Peyton who spoke briefly. A second Qud opened the car's back doors and pulled two hefty leather suitcases, setting them down before the Chief. He opened one, and the Chief nodded.

Denzel frowned.

What are you doing Chief? Is this some part of the mission I wasn't privy to?

He shook his head briefly.

But I still have a job to do.

Below, a bulky special forces hillbilly-type was taking the suitcases to the Chief's car. Denzel set his eye to the Barrett's scope and zoomed in on Peyton. The man's expression was blank but his eyes flicked towards something -- or someone -unseen, and he was… inching backward towards the concrete bin store.

On a hunch, Denzel switched on the RF-Capture module; a small screen that worked in concert with his scope. This device brute-force logged into local Wifi and then used signals like sonar, analyzing and building images of people's bodies simply from the wave interference reflected back to it. The RF-Capture was Geo-calibrated in real time so he could always see what the device was picking up from his current position.

A luminescent yellow static had superimposed itself over Peyton's form. Denzel steadied himself and aimed the cross-hairs at the terrorist's head. He breathed in, then smoothly breathed out…

…and Peyton swiftly slid behind the bin store wall. But -- his yellow outline was still visible through the wall, just more muted. This was precisely why Denzel had brought the Barrett as it could shoot through concrete.

But it didn't matter.

Just as Denzel shifted to adjust to Peyton's movement -- the top-left shoulder of his uniform blew open as a 12.7mm bullet ripped through it front to back. The lancing pain flared bright behind his eyes as a bloody groove gouged across his shoulder.

A moment earlier the shot would have passed right through his throat.

Squashing the compulsive urge to scream, roll on his back, and squeeze his eyes together with the pain, he dropped himself flat on his front,  face down on the floor behind the 'lip'.

The Sniper I saw. But how did he know where I was? No shot's been fired.

A coldness came over him, momentarily dulling the pain with an electric realization.

Unless the Chief set me up…

I was supposed to kill Peyton and then I'd get taken out! But I was late!

An ugly ache flared in his gut. One American betraying another was something only the worst kind of scum did in his books.

What the hell did I do to the Chief?

But he couldn't think like that. He squashed the feeling, vowing to deal with it later. As the Chief had said, there was no guarantee he'd leave this situation alive. How ironic.

What kind of fix has this a-hole got on me?

He lay there on the rocky outcrop, thinking swiftly. The roof of the building the sniper had entered wasn't high enough to get a bead on him. But there were other buildings, further away with comm-towers, and rooftop sheds. Still not high enough though…

That's why he took the throat shot. He's looking up.

He grimaced.

I can't let the Chief know I'm here. But that sniper…

Wincing, he lifted his head, still keeping it low.

Time to use the modified scope.

Pressing a button under the scope, it split in two, swinging left and right to make a three-part screen. He lifted the back of the rifle, pointing the nozzle to where he deduced the shot had come from. Sure enough, the expanded scope let him see more: a hundred meters to his right was a fuzzy yellow figure looking through a scope, and hiding behind some rooftop generators.

I can't lift my head, he'll get me. But I can lift my gun…

He turned the Barrett upside down and rested it on the lip of the rock face being careful not to slide the nozzle into view. He knew the sniper could remain motionless for hours, just waiting for him to move even a fraction into view. But the Rf-Capture technology was cutting-edge and he gambled the sniper would just think he was trying for a desperate 'hail Mary' type of shot.

Lifting the rifle, he used the expanded scope to center the man's head in the cross hairs. Stilling himself, he breathed out and depressed the trigger.

There was a sound like someone hitting a large bucket with a wrench as the bullet punctured the generator and ended the Sniper. He fell sideways.

The mercenaries in the main area didn't notice; the plant was a noisy place.

Denzel popped his head up; suppressed rage spilling out. He turned the gun right-side up and swung it towards the Chief's car.

Forget Peyton, I want YOU, you filthy traitor.

The Rf showed three men in the back of a car, the outline of the tall wiry Chief was in the middle. Denzel's lip peeled back, his finger ached, he wanted so badly to take the shot.

But even if the Barrett had been able to puncture the armor proofing he was now out here alone. If he took the shot and failed, he'd never get back to civilization before the Chief. In all likelihood, the private runway that was his exit was compromised as well.

Unless…

I was never here.

He reverse-crawled off the ledge and found a cleft to shelter in. Painfully shedding his jacket, he examined his shoulder. The blood had clotted in the gouge; he applied a pressure patch from the small field kit supplies sewn into his jacket.

He pulled out the satellite phone and dialed Breaker, a virtuoso hacker he'd busted -and let go -- when he found he was stealing to pay for his sister's chemotherapy treatment. When the phone was answered all he could hear was music and gunfire from Call of Duty Modern Warfare III.

"Breaker, it's Denzel. I need you to scrub any record of this conversation as soon as we're done - do you hear?"

The sound was quickly turned down. "Yeah man, what's up -- I mean, what do you need?"

"I need you to erase all satellite location data from when I stopped in the forest. No, give me twelve minutes worth, about a kilometer. And simulate a fault."

Breaker sounded concerned. "Sure thing Denz. You're in trouble, right?"

"Big trouble. I might need to disappear. But start with this."

"Give me five minutes. Consider it done. Be safe."

Denzel pressed the off-switch. He waited ten minutes and, gritting his teeth, camo crawled onto the ledge again. All the cars were gone in the main plant area were gone. He took a deep breath.

Time to call the Chief.

He speed-dialed an encrypted number. The Chief answered, trying to hide his surprise. "Brickwall, where are you?"

"Chief, I didn't make the rendezvous. Are you okay?"

The Chief sounded suspicious. "What happened?"

"I ran into a group of Khazi National Guards, probably looking for dissidents. They caught wind of me and I had to evade. I'm sorry Chief."

There was a pause.

"Are you okay?"

Denzel glanced at the ragged hole in his jacket. "They tagged my shoulder Chief but I'll live."

Another pause. "Satellite data stops after the vehicle dump site."

I don't know Chief. Maybe a satellite fault. The Iridium's working fine."

The Chief sighed. "Well, the exchange happened. They took the hoax object without a fuss. Peyton's gonna lose it when he finds we cheated him.

Denzel said nothing.

"Can you make your way to the rendezvous point?" asked the Chief.

And give you another chance to take me out?

"No Chief, the woods are swarming with personnel. I've got contacts. I'll make my way out and contact you when I'm safe on American soil. Over and out."

---

When the American Airlines A320-100 from Qatar touched down on American soil, Denzel could have kissed the floor. Instead, he just wanted to kiss Veronica and Enzo. I gotta get them away from here. Who knows what the hell the Chief will do?

He'd been traveling on a fake passport for over 24 hours. It would have flagged up to the FBI as 'Jonathan Turnball' but Denzel wasn't worried. The Chief wouldn't try to down international airliners -- but the fact that the head of the FBI wanted him dead meant he was on borrowed time.

After purchasing a topped-up burner phone before flying out of Doha Hamed International Airport, he used the travel time to think carefully.

If I move my family, he'll know. They'll be a target.

In the end, there was only one decision.

I need to find out what he knows. Play this like nothing happened.

Exiting JFK International, he took a yellow cab home and dialed the Chief on the way.

I'm back Chief. What's next?

The Chief sounded almost normal. "Report in tomorrow morning. I've got a mission for you in Mexico. Leaving in five days."

---

Denzel used the thumb ID to open the front door, trying to be quiet so he could sneak up to Enzo's bedroom and surprise him. But the boy had hearing like those deer… Impala's, that's it.

Enzo's bedroom door flew open and a small figure ran out. Legs pumping like little pistons the boy accelerated down the stairs and body-slammed into his father's legs.

" Daddeeeee!"

Denzel felt a rush of love. He reached down and grabbed Enzo's ankles, lifting him upside down so the boy faced away from him. He put his face in the hair on the back of Enzo's head.

"What's this, you've grown a beard?"

"No Daddy!" Enzo laughed and squirmed and tried to twist around.

Denzel turned the upside-down boy to face him. "There. I see my son. But something looks funny. Isn't your mouth supposed to be here?"

He kisses the boy's forehead again and again while Enzo wiggles. "Stop it, daddy!"

A hand comes around from behind him and caresses his face. "I think it's you who has the beard, husband."

Denzel smiles. He puts Enzo down and lays his hand briefly on his head.

"Hello, my wife." He turned and stares into the green eyes of his wife of nine years.

Veronica. He caresses her cheek. Veronica smiles at him, and he kisses her deeply. Enzo is watching.

"Ewww, daddy." He tugs on his father's trousers.

Denzel broke the kiss, noticing the slight flush on his wife's cheeks "Was that worth waiting for?"

"That'll do… till later." She held his gaze, then softly turned away. "I've got a drink waiting for you in the sitting room."

Denzel reached down and hoisted Enzo into his arms. "Some day you'll find a nice girl and you'll want to kiss her too."

Enzo shook his head. "No WAY Daddy. Kissing is bleurgh!"

Denzel smiled, and followed his wife, holding Enzo tightly.

---

Chief Roberts was unsettled. He stood in front of the large FBI seal that adorned his wall staring at it, feeling bitter.

The 'seal' was perfect. The 'seal' was an unwavering commitment to justice, and to protecting the American people. It hung there, pompously pronouncing itself 'righteous'. The Chief snorted sardonically.

The Seal didn't have to live in the real world. A world where light sometimes had to trade with darkness to eliminate an ever-greater evil.

A fragment of memory: his boyhood Methodist Sunday school teacher pontificating at the front of the class. "Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness…" Yeah, right.

He had been tracking Bolatkhan Karim, a southern Kazakhstani religious terrorist for years but he and the FBI had thoroughly failed to apprehend him. With each successful terrorist attack (London, Frankfurt, even a bomb at Vatican City) Bolatkhan became more convinced that he was Allah's divine instrument of retribution on the degenerate West.

Even if the FBI could have pierced the veil of corruption that was Khazastani politics, Bolatkhan's fanatical Qud followers encircled him in a swirling shield of silence; none could be turned even after capture and extended interrogation time at Gitmo. The tortured men knew two things: their silence bought Bolatkhan freedom of movement. And it bought them an even greater reward in paradise as martyrs.

When the Chief got word that Bolatkhan's ambitions were now nuclear -- in every sense of the word -- he was more than alarmed. He wasn't a man who easily despaired but there were moments when he wondered what the hell he could do against such reckless evil. How could he protect America and keep his head held high? He had long stopped thinking of himself as a good man - he had operated in the gray for far too long. "But I do good for America," he told himself. "I do what is necessary."

And then Denzel took out Aubrey Smith; Peyton Smith's brother. He'd been tracking a group of 'Christian Survivalists' in Southeast Pennsylvania; about thirty men and women who lived off the grid away from the corruption of American society. One of their group, a woman named Alma had escaped the inner circle. In exchange for witness protection, she'd warned the Feds about an impending Waco at their ranch deep in Wharton State Forest.

Denzel spent three days in the wilderness patiently observing until he could take the shot. Aubrey died from a single high-velocity round that exploded his head like a blood-melon. Job done. The shepherd was struck and the sheep scattered. No one in civilization knew any better.

But the Chief knew.

As the chilling announcements of the Messenger's apocalyptic intentions echoed around the dark web, the Chief realized that Denzel's actions offered him an opportunity to take Peyton and Bolatkhan out. But the cost of saving the world would be his soul.

The Chief had dealt with fanatics before. Few were as highly intelligent as Peyton but, as a breed, their self-righteousness was often their undoing. Their hatred for those who opposed their cause could be leveraged to trick them into making mistakes.

It was very necessary that Peyton made a mistake. If a dirty bomb was detonated in Washington DC that would mean the start of WW3 and the end of life as we know it.

The Chief strongly suspected that the chance to kill his brother's murderer would be a suitable carrot to dangle. But Peyton was too smart to show himself, even for the chance to take revenge.

How to make him believe that the FBI would willingly give up one of their own?

The answer left a very bitter taste in his mouth.

Peyton needed to believe the Chief supported the cause. Of course, the head of the FBI was the last person any terrorist would count as a supporter. To Peyton, the Chief was the puppet instrument of the current corrupt regime.

But… if the Chief sent an unmistakable signal that he was on the Messenger's side and offered up Denzel as a token of good faith - he might actually come to be seen as the ultimate Patriot. A man who had truly seen the inner workings of the corridors of power and who had decided they needed to be… cleansed.

It was a risky play with a horrible cost.

The only way the Chief could even hope to convince Peyton he too was a 'believer' was to privately betray everything he publicly stood for. He would need to brutally sacrifice American lives to show he was only focused on 'the greater good'.

Local intelligence indicated that Bolatkhan was holed up in Baikonur, a city in Southern Khazakstan near the Baikonur Cosmodrome. In its Soviet heyday, the facility was Russia's primary spaceport. Yuri Gagarin had launched from there in Vostok 1, and so had the first Sputnik.

But now… "God knows why they'd want to make camp there," he thought. The area suffered corrosive acid rain showers not to mention the scattershot distribution of eleven thousand tons of dropped spacecraft parts, many coated with toxic UDMH rocket fuel. Malignant cancers were commonplace among the local population.

Perhaps the sheer awfulness of the place made it a good place to hide.

A US Black ops team was sent in via radar-invisible stealth plane; their orders were to take out Bolatkhan. The mission was top-secret. The soldiers dropped in from 1000 feet via special flying squirrel-like Wingsuits. No one knew they were there.

Unfortunately, no one could have anticipated the ten-strong Sunkar Special Purpose Detachment (Сұңқар - Сокол) who were near the drop area. Their BPM-97 armoured personnel carrier had broken down after a wilderness exercise; they were hungry and itching for a fight.

It wasn't much of a fight.

The night lit up with muzzle flashes as Beretta ARX160 fire cut down the US team, even before they landed; the American Government denied they had ever been there. Everyone involved privately agreed it was the worst luck. Things like this just …happened.

And the Chief let it be known via the dark web: This wasn't luck. It was a gift. Use it well.

The message came back: "What do you suggest I do with it?"

The Chief smiled. Peyton was taking the bait. He replied "Tell Bolatkhan your victory will come from God, not man. Divine judgment will decide the victor. Some part of him will acknowledge you are a man of honor and be in your debt."

Peyton was now curious. Could the Chief be for real? It only took a few more months of diverted arms shipments and the sharing of classified information until the question of access to Plutonium came up. Once the Chief mentioned that he could broker a deal and offer up Denzel… the trap was set.

At this point, the Chief sincerely hoped there wasn't a hell. He knew for sure he would burn - he just didn't want to be there with a couple of terrorists.

---

Denzel clicked off the Counter Surveillance Unit. He'd swept the house for listening devices. A Thermal Imaging scan hadn't revealed any unexpected heat sources within walls or furniture nor had an Audio Spectrum Analysis detected any high or low frequency bugs.

Good.

He turned, Veronica had been following him anxiously. He nodded. "We can talk now."

She took a visible deep breath. "Denzel, what the hell is going on? You're scaring me."

He motioned to her to sit down on the sofa. "The Chief tried to have me killed."

Veronica trembled and sat down. Two small glasses, a bottle of Southern Comfort, and a can of Arizona Lemonade sat on the small table nearby. She steeled herself, popped the tab, and poured a third of it into a glass. Then she tipped the Southern Comfort in until the clear ran brown.

She handed it to Denzel.

"What! Why would he do that?"

He took the glass and with his other hand, took hers. It was cold. He caressed it for a moment.

"What I'm about to tell you cannot go beyond these walls. And no matter what you feel, you have to pretend that everything is okay until I can figure out what to do."

Veronica stood up, trembling. "Get to the point!"

"A few months ago, when I was away in April, I took out a fundamentalist leader called Aubrey Smith. He was planning another Waco."

Veronica nodded. "What does this have to do with us?"

"I'm getting to that. He has a brother called Peyton who is part of an organization that is trying to detonate a nuke in Washington DC. I was tasked to take him out."

Veronica looked agitated. "Did you fail? I don't understand - why would the Chief want you dead for doing your job? Surely things like this happen."

Denzel stood up and faced her. He looked directly into her usually radiant hazel eyes. "The Chief used me as bait, Ronnie. I was supposed to take Peyton out -- and then his sniper would have taken me out. Only everyone was late because the local population decided to rebel against the Government."

He rubbed his eyes, bitterness roiling up from the pit of his stomach. "Bastard sold me down the river. And now Peyton has the plutonium and I'm still alive. "

A heavy tiredness seeped down from his shoulders like spring water through mountain rock. Only Denzel didn't feel fresh and pure. Far from it. He rubbed his eyes.

Veronica collapsed back onto the sofa. "Denz, what do we do? Do we leave? How do I protect my son?"

Denzel looked grim. "I'll protect us all but we need to show normality. I'll be working on a plan to get us out of here but I'm off to Mexico in a few days."

Veronica looked terrified for a moment. "What about the Chief?"

Denzel needed to help her change her state of mind. So gave a wan smile. "Have you ever found my secret stash of Twinkies?"

He almost grinned at her confused expression. But at least she wasn't scared at this moment.

"I covered my tracks and assured him I never got to the kill site. But I doubt he'll take my word for it and if he tries hard enough he will find out."

Veronica got up and took his arm. "I don't want you to go. I need you here."

He put his hand on the back of her neck. "My darling, if I don't go, he'll know something is up. Just a few more days, and I'll be back.

He leaned forward, put his cheek against hers, and whispered in her ear. "You are my Hope. Now I need you to have hope; have faith in me. I'll get us out of this." She nodded, but he felt a hot tear drip on his cheek where their faces met.

She held his face painfully close. "Be safe in Mexico. Come back to me."

It was the last time he heard her speak.

---

Denzel blinks. Blinks again. Reorients himself back to the now; and takes a short breath.

Yes, I'm going out.

He walks over to the full-length mirror hanging near the apartment's door and smoothly rakes his fingers through his dark brown hair, pushing it back. He takes a pair of $45000 Bentley Platinum sunglasses from a small wall-shelf and checks his reflection in the mirror.

Hmm. Something still feels off.

He squints at himself, thinking.

Got it!

He plucks a $7000 white Panama Montecristi Fedora off a hatstand laden with expensive hats, admires its black cotton-twill sweatband, and trick-loops it onto his head like Michael Jackson in Moon Walker.

Now you look like a modern gangster.

Down in his garage, his choice of car was definitely not gangster. It wasn't even what you'd expect from a banker.

A midnight blue Hyundai Accent SE. At first glance, the car seems ordinary. Certainly not the extravagant sports cars and luxury sedans one might expect from someone of his status.

However it looks, the vehicle is more 'sleeper agent' than a family runaround and it's anything but ordinary… or innocent.

Beneath its hood lurks the Koenigsegg Dark Matter electric engine, silent, and three times more powerful than the 2021 Tesla Model S Plaid with a top speed of 248mph.

Acceleration? 0 to 60 in 1.9 seconds, a feature that has saved Denzel's life multiple times. And while the car sports a fairly nondescript exterior; its technologically advanced interior boasts an array of cutting-edge gadgets that makes Bond's rides look like children's pedal-cars.

As Denzel navigates the familiar route out of his neighborhood, the early morning light bathing the streets casts long, indistinct shadows. The quiet hum of the car's engine contrasts sharply with the noise of his thoughts. He switches on the radio, the melody of "See You Again" by Wiz Khalifa and Charlie Puth plays. Its gentle, almost haunting notes evoke deep emotions within him. Both his mind and his driving are on autopilot as…

---

…the funeral unfolded as a somber affair, brimming with heartbreak and sorrow. In his role as an assassin and infiltrator, Denzel has played many roles. But he didn't have to reach deeply to manifest the keening distress he felt at the thought of his wife and son dead before him.

He stood by the graveside, eyes fixed on the gravestone inscriptions - "Omnes una manet nox" - a Latin phrase roughly translating to "One night awaits us all." Those words echoed repeatedly like a death knell in his mind.

He looked back at the church building, finding no comfort, and wondered if he'd ever be reunited with them; he wasn't a believer.

No.

Any peace he'd eventually feel would come from knowing they were avenged.

That wasn't driven by anything supernatural. It was what he needed to finish this episode. What would happen after that?

Only the gods know.

His lip curled at the irony of this thought. He couldn't think such philosophical thoughts. For now, he was alone in his grief and fury.

He pursed his lips, breathed in hard through his nose. Right now, he needed to feel nothing.

Southern Comfort.

No lemonade.

---

To those who thought they knew him, Denzel appeared to be disintegrating from the inside. After just ten days of compassionate leave, he suddenly appeared one morning at the bureau. His appearance had always been professional, immaculate but this day he'd let it slip: crinkled shirt, unshaven, and an odor built up from several days without a shower.

His colleagues let it slide. A loss of this magnitude - anyone would need time to process. But along with the loss of style and hygiene came a rancid belligerence they could not forgive. By the time Denzel had told a fifth analyst to go 'reproduce' with himself it was clear he was trying NOT to process - and hurting others in the process.

The Section Chief Chad Dante had him in for 'a little chat'. Denzel listened, even seemed to understand… although it was oddly coincidental that soon after someone stamped all Chief Dante's Dunkin' Donuts K-cup coffee pods into the carpet of the senior lounge, and ripped the wires out of the coffee machine's plug.

The Chief meanwhile, was hunting for the truth of what happened in Kazakhstan. He needed to know for sure that Denzel never made it to the designated sniper nest. He tasked Yusef, his top analyst to examine all communications, geodata, and even voice recordings to detect anything out of the ordinary.

But even he was surprised at Denzel's rapid descent into despair. As an active field agent, Brickwall had seemed immune - or at least inured - to the horrors of his job. "You can never really tell what will break a man," the Chief mused. "It's not hard to work out what will hurt him. But make him destroy himself?"

"Maybe he'll give me the ideal circumstance to take him out. Make it look like suicide."

Then the call came from Yusef. "Chief, you'd better come down to Intelligence. The data specialists have uncovered something you need to see."

Once in the conference room, Yusef, a small Jewish man with rimmed glasses, activated the projector. A square pie chart appeared on the far wall. "Okay… so Agent Brickwall has been accessing a large amount of intelligence on the Albanian mob."

He turned and looked at the Chief, and spoke quietly. "Pretty much what you'd expect after an…incident like this." He waited for a reaction, got none, and moved on. "But! You asked about his movements in Almaty region, Kazakhstan."

He pressed a button on his laptop. A map of the region replaced the pie chart, and a ragged red line dotted its way across the region and into an area marked with tree symbols.

"The satellite data clearly shows he stopped in the forest for some time." He paused. "However…"

The Chief felt a chill down his arms. "What? Spit it out."

Yusef pushed his glasses up his forehead. "Okay, listen. Whenever someone moves a certain distance the tracking satellite receives an updated location, and, as a result, uses slightly more power in transmitting that data. That's because it's" -- he moved one fist on top of his other -- "adding the data for the new location to the previous one.

Here's the important point. If Agent Brickwall just remained in the same vicinity, the satellite would mostly send the old data again with minimal extra power usage."

The Chief stared at him. "Damn it. I know what's coming", he thought.

Yusef took the stare as a sign to hurry up. "On a whim, I checked the power readout data. Power updates indicating movement were sent continually for the next X hour.

If Brickwall were moving at 4-5 miles an hour -- he absolutely could have made it to the sniper's nest. Unless there is a logical reason for him to travel in a different direction, he was there. Despite what the tracking data says."

The Chief's stomach churned. "Is that it?"

Yusef rubbed his eyes. This was the bit he was dreading telling the Chief.

"Someone inserted a subroutine into the power output report program. The moment this particular piece of data was accessed, it sent an alert out to someone."

The Chief took hold of the back of the chair in front of him and banged it violently into the table in front of him.

"Who?" he shouted. But he knew.

Yusef made himself smaller, clenching in his shoulders. "I took the liberty of checking the logins for today. Agent Brickwall didn't report for work."

The Chief was out the meeting room door and almost running down the corridor. The string of expletives and swear words could be heard after he was out of sight.

Denzel was gone.

He was now classified as an agent gone rogue.

But he was gone. And the Chief would have to watch his back.

 

Chapter Two

Max's Grand Pursuit

"Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

And let me see what spring is like on

A-Jupiter and Mars."

Sinatra croons from the vintage radio; I sway gently in front of my bathroom mirror. That man's rich melodies make my body and soul dance. I close my eyes, letting the melodies wash through me, elevating what's otherwise just another Monday morning.

This is my 'new month' ritual. Yes, I've got reasons to feel sad but the song's timeless energy captivates my entire focus. When I open my eyes again this morning's lingering shadows are gone…

I examine myself in the mirror. Sharp lines on my well-ironed gray shirt, sleek black pants, DAMN RIGHT: I dance with snapping fingers. But the black tie - damn thing feels more like a choker than an accessory. Irritated, I adjust it a few times.

Hope it stays put.

I pin a badge that reads "Max, Jean Luc: Valet," and my eyes flick down to my gleaming black Oxfords. What? You think they're just shoes? Oxfords man - modern convenience and vintage charm all in one.

Gotta love the classics.

A sense of pride washes over me.

M

As the next song plays, I adjust my tricky tie again and reach for my cherished watch: a replica Sea Master Aqua Terra Omega. My lips curl into a grin as I admire the $350 Omega replica in my hand. No…It wouldn't stand up to an expert's close scrutiny, but for me, it's emblematic of the future I aspire to have.

Gotta believe it before you see it, right?

The morning rays struggle through the frosted bathroom window — I have a philosophical moment looking towards the sun - then the alarm clock in my room blares. It's 7.00. With a critical briefing at 7:30 and my shift beginning at 7:45, I need to start my walk to work. Soon.

Grabbing a cologne shaped like a rock, the expensive-smelling mist envelops me. Anything else? I squeeze another small dollop of gel into my palm: gotta tame the wild rebellion of my hair.

I step back - and regard myself.

You look great. Now -- feel it.

But I feel the contradiction in my bones. Because she's waiting to tell me where I lack… whatever she decides I lack.

I emerge from our room, dressed and ready. The dim light of the early morning filters through the curtains, casting a muted glow over our small living room. There's a distant hum of traffic. My ears hear the sound of no hot coffee being made.

And she's there: my slim, elegant girlfriend Myra; one long leg bent beneath her as she sits on the couch like one of those posh cats that just knows it's beautiful. She exudes an almost French chic, curly dark-brown hair framing her sculptured jaw, those expressive green eyes capable of flashing from approval and anger without words, and a sensuous very kissable mouth.

How I ended up with someone so classy is something I constantly wonder. I think she wonders it too but for reasons I don't try and find out. After all, she's still here.

Her I breakfast at Tiffany's coffee mug sits on the table, steaming hot. Along with No Cup for Me. "Morning, Myra," I call out, trying for a light tone in my voice as I head to the coffee pot.

Her eyes, watching her coffee, don't lift immediately. When they do there's a mischievous glint. She shakes her hair out of her face, and looks at me.

"Off to work for the mega-rich again?" I don't answer. My attire is answer enough. She smiles mockingly as her gaze drops to my wrist. "Still wearing that Omega, huh?"

Keep it together. Think about the good stuff.

I flash a half-smile. "It keeps time."

A playful scoff escapes her. "It's cute how you wear it, thinking it's real. But we both know the truth, don't we?"

Drawing a deep breath, I counter, "Not all of us have everything handed to us on a

silver platter."

Her smile is sugar-coated venom. "Maybe one day you'll quit playing pretend and face reality."

I can feel my patience wearing thin, but I need to head to work. "You know," I say, glancing at the empty coffee pot, "it wouldn't kill you to leave some for me once in a while."

She gives a nonchalant shrug. "Early bird gets the coffee."

Holding back a retort, I shake my head, defeated. "I've got to head out."

She throws me a mock salute, her grin wide. "Have fun. And oh, try not to scratch any of those fancy cars today, Mr. Clumsy."

I am deliberately careful as I pull the apartment door behind me, fighting the knot of anger and shame that would have me slam it shut and kick it, cussing her and the world.

Dammit. Why do I do this to myself?

But I don't. The latch clicking into place, echoes in the empty hallway.

I rest my forehead against the cold door.

Get it together.

Yeah, I've read the self-help books. So I look up and envision my future where I'm more, where her judgments do not define me. Where she watches me with admiration.

Stand up straight. Smile, it makes your brain feel happy, your body will follow.

There.

My mood lifts a bit. I head downstairs. Time to soak in my city.

Stepping onto the busy city street, my eyes lock with Jimmy, an Irish American, our neighborhood traffic cop. He's surrounded by the usual motorized chaos - everyone wants to get somewhere now and screw anyone who disagrees.

I almost wonder if New York babies are born resenting the fact they can't crawl yet. But that's New York, constant movement. Beeps, honks, shouts, cars lurching forward like dogs straining on the leash.

The moment makes me chuckle. "Good luck," I shout."

He nods to me, and quickly thrusts his hand out to stop an over-eager Chevy Silverado from butting him with its giant grill. Sheesh.

Moving faster now, I put in my earbuds. As the loud noise of the city tunes out, the tune of "New York, New York" tunes in. My neck moves a bit as the introductory trumpets sound.

The streets are busier now, people walk purposefully. Men in sharp suits hold coffee cups, women gracefully avoid the uneven pavement in their high heels, and children with backpacks almost as big as themselves rush ahead.

Viewed from above, these interactions would be like watching an urban Jackson Pollock painting itself in real-time. Different lives weaving in and out of each other, vibrant, each life pulsating with energy and vitality.

I press on. Soho. Here I can feel the artistic vibe; even the cobblestone streets suggest this place is different.

Green Street and Prince Street intersection. Art galleries proudly display their canvases; Fashion boutiques beckon passersby with their designer creations, promising a chic transformation. The tantalizing aromas of trendy cafes fill the air, tempting my senses with their delicious gourmet offerings.

This is where Myra and I belong. One day soon.

Taking another moment, I look up. The Haughwout building catches my eye. First cast iron internal structure, first passenger elevator in New York, and first ever skyscraper. Yes, to many these are irrelevant details but they speak to the will of the men who made them happen. Innovations like this don't happen without a mind of steel pushing back against the mundane sucking demands of everyday people.

I admire these men. I just wish I was… stronger.

I look around to distract myself and see something unusual - a sleek black car parked across the street. That's not unusual in New York.

The passenger, a man, appears to be using binoculars, he's observing me closely. A hint of unease stirs, but I swiftly push it aside, persuading myself that it's likely just a tourist appreciating Soho's historic architecture. This area attracts all kinds of people, after all. I take advantage of the traffic slowing down and cross the street to continue my journey to work.

As I navigate through Prince Street, I see a street vendor selling hot dogs from his cart. I try and make sure he doesn't see me because I'm not his favorite person. Not after 'Hot Dog Havoc' took place that one sunny afternoon.

You see, I have this problem with clumsiness. I don't want to label myself so I don't say 'I am clumsy' but sure as eggs are eggs, you would think that if you watched me for a week.

That day I was walking, the cart ahead of me when my foot caught on the only raised paver on the sidewalk. I flew forward, stumbling downwards, and rammed the cart sideways, full force. The sausages on the edge of the grill skidded off like cars caught on motorway black ice, the cargo container buns tumbling with them. The grill hissed as a ketchup bottle hit the deck and poured onto it, and the cart went up on two wheels.

The chubby owner grabbed for it, shouting in panic as his livelihood ungracefully committed suicide on the concrete. As he wrestled with the cart's weight, I got up from my fall. He steadied it, and turned to me, his face reddening.

"You stupid bum. Look what you did!"

He glared, picked up a pair of greasy tongs, then advanced on me, shucking his shoulders like he wanted to beef.

"I'm really sorry man," I stuttered. "We'll work something out."

But he wasn't interested in 'working' anything out.    From the look in his eyes I could tell all he wanted was a justifiable reason to smack me around. Maybe he was bitter about life and this was his chance to give life some payback. But I wasn't going to stay around to be punchbag therapy.

So I scrambled backward, pulled myself up on a nearby fire hydrant, and spin-ran into the street.

Bad move in New York.

Cars skidded, horns blared. Drivers leaned out their windows to kindly update me on what an - replace with epithet - I was. I was used to swearing in New York but I wasn't sure why I needed to 'Burn in hell!'

The large, increasingly angry cart owner chased me to South of Houston Street - Soho. Every time I thought he'd given up he was there: waddling, sprinting, shouting "Come back!" at me.

No-one intervened. Passers-by looked at me - red-faced and out of breath myself and him huffing along in his grease-stained apron - and they wisely stayed uninvolved. Trust me, there are enough weirdos in New York - and this small drama wasn't serious (or woke-baiting) enough to pass muster. Eventually, I lost him in IF on Grand Street, a designer clothing store where I hid behind one of the mannequins. It had a nice Kingfisher green waistcoat. But I digress… back to today.

Walking briskly, I arrive outside Balthazar, the romantic (and Michelin-recommended) brasserie specializing in French Cuisine. Drawing closer, I look at the menu in the window. I've gazed at it often, pretending to everyone -and myself- that I'm just about to go in to dine.

As I read each item, written in "Le language de l'amour"; I daydream about bringing Myra here. She'll laugh as I hold open the door; we'll get the best table and then we'll smile at each other, hold hands and I'll pretend not to see her admiring me as we wait for our gourmet food.

My reveries abruptly dispersed as the door opens and as a fashionable couple exit. The heady smell of freshly seared steak drifts out. On impulse, I dart forward, grab the closing door and slip in, taking out my earbuds as I do. The smell of cheesy onion soup is my oxygen and I'm transported to that moment I crave.

Now in my mind I'm at the table. Our fingers interlace naturally, perfectly fitting our shared laughter dances with the restaurant's ambiance of cultured conversational hums and the gentle clinking of dishes. Her eyes gleam with excitement, which spurs me on.

Surrounded by the comforting, intoxicating sounds of a life of luxury, I promise her. I promise to craft a life of elegance and luxury, ensuring every one of her wishes is fulfilled and surpasses expectations. Her wide smile reflects the size of my promise. This is what she wants.

This elegant sexy woman wants to be mine. And she represents a key piece of my life vision - to be at the top of success with a beautiful woman by my side.

Then… a sour note pangs in my gut. But what…exactly… is she promising me? What guarantees do I have that she will be as dedicated as I am? A part of me is living in denial, I know it.

In fact, I strongly suspect she has been unfaithful to me while we've been together. Heck, I'd be unfaithful to me some days.

But I want her so badly… so, as usual, I shove the thought away that my success won't be enough. When it comes it'll be enough and anchor her to me for eternity.

The man at the table I standing near obviously feels I've been cramping his vibe for long enough.

"Hey buddy, did you forget where you parked someone's car?"

I look around confused…

How does he know my name?

…then looking down I see my badge. "Oh."

His jibe makes a surge of heat inflame my face; the chuckles of nearby patrons amplify in my ears, vaporizing my pleasant thoughts. Suddenly, anxiety and coldness wash over me as though a wave just crashed through my body. My heart pounds wildly.

I can't breathe, gotta get out of here.

I stumble out and along the streets. But the sounds of the city replaced the beating of my heart in my ears, and I begin to feel better. The energy of the streets revitalizes me and I hold my head up high again until I finally reach my destination: Bleecker Street.

Now my badge identifies me as being in the right place - Jean Luc's, a prestigious French restaurant occupying an entire city block. It's reminiscent of Le Grands Buffet, the largest restaurant in France. Both have chandeliers, paneled walls, gold fixtures.

But… Jean Luc's large floor space is divided up with pillars of gleaming black steel: clients sit next to adjustable windows that offer "One Way" or "Dark" features for privacy; and even booth walls that rise from the floor to make you part of the room extra-private.

After all, Al Pacino might not want anyone to hear about his latest film projects or investments.

No, this place is a culinary haven where wealthy individuals gather to indulge and enjoy the indulgence. I - a simple valet - are a tiny part of this grand spectacle. For now.

I slip through one of the side doors for the staff. It's currently 7:10 a.m. and I'm always punctual, glancing at my wristwatch while attempting to tame my stubborn tie. After a brief struggle, I finally succeeded and headed through reception and toward my valet station.

John's familiar voice cuts through the morning air as I approach the entrance. "Morning, Max."

I look over to see him leaning against the wraparound valet podium, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hey, John."

I rub my eyes. John chuckles "You could use some caffeine, huh?"

"You have no idea," I admit, stretching my arms.

He hands over a folded paper. "Check your schedule. Especially Wednesday."

I quickly scan it, frowning. "The gala event?"

He nods, scribbling something down. "Just a heads up. And speaking of heads up," John leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper, "You remember that high-roller from last month? The one with the classic Porsche 911 Turbo?

I nod slowly, intrigued. John glances around to ensure no one is within earshot. "He's here today. Word around here is he sued another high-end restaurant. Claims the valet scratched his door while locking it….

He drew closer to me and looked serious, lowering his voice: "The guy's got eyes like a hawk, so be extra careful if you're parking his car."

My eyes widen. "Thanks for the warning."

John straightens up, slipping into his formal, assistant manager-like tone. He taps both hands on the podium twice.

"Remember the rules, Max.

Always be courteous.

Speed is of the essence, but precision over haste.

And always, always double-check for personal belongings before handing over the keys."

I nod. I've heard it all before but you've gotta give respect to the old timers. They know how to survive because our diners can get us fired with a word. They could even sneeze on us and we'd just have to take it. We asked for one of those perspex window sneeze guards to be introduced during the COVID-19 pandemic. We were told 'no' because the diners might think we had Covid… sheesh.

I approach the valet podium, check the tickets are there and a few other sundry items I'll need: an umbrella for the guests if it rains, to open the key box, and of course, the tip drawer.

While looking down, my ears pick up the refined growl of a Mercedes Benz S680 Sedan Maybach approaching. I know the sound of these V12 engines well, as I've had the honor of parking a couple. I look up with admiration but … what the hell?

Is this the one that was watching me this morning? I didn't think to get the license plate but the chill down my back says 'yes'; this is the one.

Tendrils of unease creep across my arms and chest… a churning gut feeling urges me to run now. I don't because my shift has started; this is my station -- and I need this job. I watch the car intently and it slows down for a moment. I just know someone is observing me from behind the tinted glass.

Normally, I would walk inquisitively up to the car, waiting for a window to wind down and to greet a client. But right now I feel somewhat like prey being watched by a black Panther. The glossy black exterior gives off an eerie vibe which seeps into the pavement and then creeps up my legs.

Goosebumps cover my skin. I look down again, pretending to be busy. But curious dread gets the best of me, and I glance back up the car. Like a diabolical reverse game of red light green light, it springs to life and drives off slowly as I look up.

Damn. What is this about?

I try to shake off the feeling and head back into the restaurant, grabbing a refreshing iced coffee from the staffroom to change my mental state.

Just stay alert.

I circle back outside and, as I step outside, I see my colleagues gathered around John, who loves to share exciting news. "Hold on to your hats, folks," John begins with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Remember the gorgeous blonde with the red Bentley?

Well, rumor is that she's been getting cozy with our head chef here at Jean Luc!" We all nod in recognition of the flashy car. John lowers his voice for dramatic effect and adds, "Apparently, she's not just here for the wine and steak. She's also taking some private cooking lessons with him."

His revelation elicits laughter from our group, but I can sense their curiosity piquing. John leans back confidently against the valet stand, pleased with the attention he's getting. "She's getting a lot l'amour from him!"

We burst into laughter once more. It's good to set up the day like this as - dealing with the rich and 'think they're famous' can be taxing.

However, John can't resist 'reminding' us of his own achievement before we start. "And let's not forget about the wealthy women constantly throwing themselves at me," he boasts, puffing out his chest and gesturing towards himself. "Watch them today, you'll see it. It's all in the secret hand signals to meet them privately later." This is hilarious because John's stories about his romantic escapades are as fake as a three-dollar bill.

"Okay, guys 'n' girls, let's huddle." It's Mr Jacobs, our floor manager. All my fellow valet attendants are arriving now, we cluster together around him and go quiet.

Mr. Jacobs (or 'Crackers' as we call him in secret) details the day's plan. It's fairly routine stuff, but given the potential for upset clients to cause trouble, he has to go through it.

Be alert to the emotional state of the client when you take their car. Use that to judge how to interact with them, and how to drive off.

Be alert, scan each car for scratches before taking it from the client. Repairs can cost hundreds plus generate badwill so "Mr Ford, I don't know if you noticed but there's a scratch on the back panel…" can save our bacon….

As he goes through his list, I can feel eyes boring into me but I'm used to it now. It's Chad Richards, half-Greek, walks with a knock-kneed limp -- and utterly convinced that I mock him about it behind his back. I don't… for that. Disliking someone for a disability is a jerk move not worthy of me.

From the first day I worked at Jean Luc, Chad tried to outclass, outserve and outsmart me. I can't say why but I think he felt threatened. At first, I let him 'pull rank' because I was new… but I soon discovered that when he stepped in front of me to serve certain customers, it wasn't because he knew their requirements better than I did. He just wanted to set me up as inferior to him in their eyes.

Sometimes, he'd open the car door and once the driver was out he would tell them "Our newest valet will park for you. Him over there." Then he'd point to me meaningfully to insinuate that something could happen to their car; and if it did take a mental photograph of the man who'll be responsible. What a turd.

But as Mr Jacobs assigns him to a different team of three - I can't I can't help but feel a sense of relief. It's no secret we don't get along so he's probably relieved too. The only person who looks disappointed is John, whose chance of fresh Chad vs Max drama for his gossip collection is now lower. Oh well sport, there's always tomorrow.

"Are you okay Max?" Mr Jacobs is in front of me, head-cocked, looking inquisitively at me like a middle-aged pigeon. I nod, and he looks down.

I look down. A piece of gum wrapper has stuck to the side of my shoe. Shoot. I pull it off.

"Attention to detail Max. Come on, you know this. "

I nod again. "Sorry Mr Jacobs."

I hope this isn't an omen. I grab the surface spray and polish the valet station top until I can see my face in it.

Chapter Three

Tripping Over Life

Damn, it's hot.

If the valet station were a giant beach umbrella then the forecourt is the fully exposed beach in the sun - and the cars pull in like intermittent waves. When I was a kid, I'd mentally mark a pebble just ahead of where the last wave came in, and then run like a maniac to beat the next breaker to get to it.

Today, there's no cooling breeze (just petrol fumes) and the scorching pavement causes my shoes to heat up mercilessly. I'm still running but this time to the car doors of clients, and the only roar isn't the sound of tides but that of engines.

The sun beats down, beads of sweat form on my forehead, and as I wipe them away with my hand, I then feel the sticking press of my damp and uncomfortable shirt on my back.

God, there must be something better for me than this.

I started this morning with a lot of energy but right now, in a lull moment, I'm standing at the podium, almost trancelike only intermittently aware of hot moments.

Memories from the past call out to me, even though I have tried to forget them. The noise of the activities around me fades away and it's like I'm standing on the edge of a deep, dark hole; a world of echoes and shadows.

My memory takes me to my father's final moments, he had gathered us around his bedside. My mother, older brother Diego, little sister Mia, and I were all present to hear his last wishes. He entrusted Diego with the family business and the responsibility to look after us all. However, receiving the "keys to the kingdom" did not guarantee a successful reign.

My mother, Lucia, would often observe me intently with her small, brown eyes as if trying to decipher my thoughts. She would then sigh and remark, "You're so much like your father." While this comparison may have comforted her, it left me feeling uncertain. I yearned for a grander and more fulfilling life than the simple, labor-intensive one my father had settled for.

My older brother Diego, who was three years my senior, had barely begun his college journey before he took on my father's business. While I loved every aspect of my father's garage, Diego did not share the same passion. Therefore, when the business began to decline, no one blamed him. I'm sure my father had envisioned Diego taking over the company until I finished high school and was ready to assume the role, but fate had other plans.

Throughout my childhood, my mother struggled to support us. She worked tirelessly to keep us afloat, putting in an immense effort matched only by her ongoing struggle to stay sober.

***

I had a friend in London who used to work for Harrods. He said Mohammad Al Fyed, the millionaire owner, used to fire anyone he saw not attending to a customer. So, he was always alert and, likewise, working in a place like Jean Luc's, every valet has a 'spider sense' for clients.

So, even as I am lost in memories, the muscular diesel rumble of a Genesis GV80

SUV startles me back to reality. I quickly straighten my shirt, assume my well-rehearsed valet stance, and welcome the new guests (but not before quickly admiring the 3.5T Prestige Signature trims).

"Good afternoon, sir and ma'am," I greet them cheerfully and respectfully, my energy like that of a butler who's restraining the enthusiasm of a fast-food mascot.

"Welcome to Jean Luc's restaurant!"

The gentleman steps out of the car. He's not young but his Jasper Littman suit, sophisticated enough to belong on the pages of a GQ magazine, and his smoothed wrinkles grant him a timeless and refined allure.

God, I hope I look that good at his age.

Perhaps that very allure is what draws the stunning woman in the sky-blue dress in the car to him, her right shoulder sporting a prominent maple leaf tattoo.

I'll bet there's a story behind that too.

She gets out of the car, looking down, her curly hair falling around her face. I approach them to collect the car keys "Can I please have your names?" I ask, holding up the valet ticket as if it's a valuable document. "Jose Morales," he replies, and I quickly scribble down his name feeling an unusual urgency…

Then she looks at me and speaks. "Natalia."

Then I realized where my feeling of urgency comes from. They say dogs and horses can sense your energy. Well, when the woman's clear blue eyes flick up to meet me, I can sure feel hers; reaching out, caressing, teasing me.

Whether it's the sheer magnetism of her life force, or (frankly) just my hormones reacting to her multifaceted perfume she exudes an irresistible charm, and her eyes challenge me to rise to the level of her energy.

Unexpectedly, she winks at me, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Caught off guard, my cheeks flush with warmth. Suddenly, I feel like a novice in a high-stakes game. My mind is racing as time speeds up and my thinking processes slow down - but not in a useful way.

What do I do?

I don't know.

Wink back.

Yes.

I aim for a smooooth James Bond wink to her -- behind Mr. Morale's back -- an almost unnoticeable sliver of a moment just between me and her. But as I try to decide how much to wink my eyelids receive the command. The resulting clumsy eye twitch feels like the demon love child of an involuntary eye blink and a painful allergic reaction.

"Here."

Mr. Morales is holding up his car keys. He sees my contorted expression and looks confused. I feel a bolt of anxiety (or is it guilt?) rip through my gut. I look down and, in a split second, I improvise, pretending to rub my eye vigorously as though something bothers it.

"Hey, something in your eye?" he asks.

I freeze for a second, then, … "Yeah, some fly or something." I wave him away. "I'll be fine."

Mr. Morales grins, balling up his fist. "Want me to get it out for you?"

I chuckle at his playful threat…

Thank God!

..grateful that the situation's graduated from potential humiliation to humorous.

Natalia watches from the side, the wry twist of her mouth saying much. My cover-up didn't fool her. But perhaps I was memorable!

I handed Mr. Morales the valet ticket and explained the retrieval of their vehicle for later. Then I notice John, holding up his iPhone… and I get a sinking feeling as I see that all-too-familiar grin.

"Ooh, trying a new move there?"

I close my eyes briefly. " You recorded all that, didn't you?"

John chuckles, "Oh, I did. And this little video is premium gossip material."

Just great…

"What's it gonna take for you to delete it?"

Grinning like a tabloid newspaper photographer who's got his mark, John replies,

"How about 40 bucks? Consider it an insurance policy against public embarrassment."

I sigh, roll my eyes, "You're impossible, you know that? Fine, $40. But you better delete it right in front of me."

John smiles, "Deal. Easy money. But hey, practice that wink for next time, okay?"

I slip John the cash. As the bills exchange hands, John leans in, his voice lower,

"Heads up, VIP Jacob Ferguson will be here in about 5 minutes."

I raise an eyebrow in surprise. "Jacob Ferguson? As in, the world-renowned tattoo

artist?"

John nods, "The very same. He'll be pulling up in a white Mustang. Just keep it professional, okay? Don't mention anything about tattoos."

I sigh, "I've always wanted a tattoo from him, you know. But Myra's never been on board with the idea."

John smiles, "Once you muster up the courage to stand up to Myra and do what you want, you should know that Mr. Ferguson just opened up a new shop here in town." "Really?" I ask, intrigued.

John leans in closer, "The Word is, there was this tattoo artist here in New York who started bad-mouthing Mr. Ferguson, claiming he was better and all. Well, Mr. Ferguson, cool as ever, bought the entire building where the guy had his studio. And guess what? Evicted him on the spot! Turned the place into his new tattoo palace. Talk about a power move."

I chuckle, thoroughly entertained by the anecdote, "That's one way to deal with competition. Thanks for the heads up, John."

The day passes fast enough - attending to each guest's needs takes an individual touch. Before long John is swinging by mouthing 'lunch' to me. I visit the back of the Jean Luc kitchen where a limited lunch menu is available to the workers.

Picking the restaurant's version of a Butter Chicken burger, I settle down in a quiet corner with my phone in one hand. Accessing social media, I scroll through feeds filled with pictures from various parts of the world, aspirational lifestyles - that of the unashamedly rich and utterly free.

I breathe in - almost a reverse sigh - wishing for the day I'll walk amongst them. But as I breathe in, a rogue chicken piece shifts in my mouth and flies down my throat.

My windpipe registers the blockage. A few tearing chokes later my brain realizes I'm in real trouble - my heart pounds in my chest; hot waves of adrenaline wash over me, emanating from the base of my skull and engulfing my whole body.

I stand upright, slamming my hand on the wall to ground my focus. A cold hand of panic grips me; the world stutters out of awareness as my body instinctively reacts to danger. The snatches of idle chatter and the hum of city life recede into the background, muffled like I'm sinking underwater.

My heartbeat moves up, pounding in my throat, swallow and gags reflexes convulse, futile straining against the lodged bite. In a wash of bitter saliva, I taste spices. I clench my fist hard around my phone, the screen a meaningless blur of colors as my vision narrows down to the only thing that matters - survival. My blotchy face manifests a carousel of colors.

I'm gonna di…

Two beefy arms encircle me; simultaneously I'm shocked awake by a pungent sweat smell of wet dog combined with over-ripe onions.

The arms lock hands into a fist; and pull upwards and inwards. I unceremoniously lunge forward. "Don't worry buddy," rasps a man's voice.

I try to look over my shoulder only to have my head rocket back as I'm squeezed in another Heimlich maneuver. At the same time as I feel his sweaty nose press into my neck the chicken burger flies out of my mouth arcing through the air like a low-budget space launch.

I collapse forward, bending over in relief at about the same moment the 'nugget' lands on the windshield of a 1992 5.0 Mustang, pristine white with a striking red trim.

"You okay now?" It's my savior; a middle-aged Puerto-Rican with a New York accent. His abandoned sports bike lies across the driveway.

I nod. "Thanks, man, you saved me."

He nods back. "Jose Antonio."

Mr. Jacobs is nearby. "We really owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Antonio." He puts his hand on the man. "Thank you, sir."

Looking down the forecourt, I see a tastefully tattooed gentleman looking curiously at the splat on his windscreen. I pause, my eyes widening in horror as I recognize the car and its iconic owner.

"Oh no," I murmur, "Mr. Ferguson?"

Jacob Ferguson, the world-renowned tattoo artist. His eyes shift from the messy spectacle on his windshield to me. "Well, that's a first," he remarked with a wry smile. "I've had birds leave their marks on my windshield, but never a burger."

Flushing with embarrassment, I smooth my top down and approach quickly. "Mr. Ferguson, I can't apologize enough. I... choked, and... well, that happened. I can't believe I did that to your beautiful car."

He burst into laughter, the genuine kind that put me slightly at ease. "Don't sweat it. It's been a while since something caught me off guard like that. Thanks for the chuckle."

Still feeling the heat on my cheeks, I confessed, "I've admired your work for years. I never thought our first meeting would go down like this."

He looked amused, his eyes twinkling. "Life has its own script, doesn't it? By the way, got any tattoos?"

I nodded eagerly, "No, I've always wanted one though, and especially from a legend like you."

"Well," he said, glancing at his Mustang's windshield, "seeing as you've given my car a unique touch, perhaps I could return the favor? Drop by my shop when you can." With gratitude for his understanding, I offered, "Allow me to park your car."

He tossed me the keys, grinning, "Sounds good. But let's keep the food clear of the car this time."

I chuckled, "Absolutely, I promise."

Life sure has a warped sense of humor.

My shift ends and I can't wait to share my chaotic day with Myra. I treat myself to a cab home and once through the door, I find her curled up on the couch, engrossed in her current read How to be a Bawse: A Guide to Conquering Life.

Her casual elegance takes my breath away, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight filtering through the window. Seeing her there, so peaceful, my tensions begin to melt away.

"Hey, Mr. Adventure," she teases, setting down her book. Her gaze seductively invited me to spill the details of my day.

I collapse onto the couch beside her, my nose catching a whiff of the scent of vanilla candles she's been burning. "Myra, you won't believe the day I've had."

She glances over with a raised eyebrow, her face a picture of curiosity. "What happened now?"

Taking a deep breath, I launch into my story. "So, I choked on a chicken burger at lunch. But that's not the worst part. When it finally dislodged, it flew right onto Mr. Ferguson's car."

"The tattoo artist?" Myra's eyes widen. "Jacob Ferguson?"

I nod. "Exactly. Embarrassing, right? But he was so chill about it. Even told me to come by his shop sometime. And honestly? I've been thinking about getting a tattoo for a while now."

Her eyes narrow, an edge to her voice. "You? A tattoo? No way. Absolutely not." "Why not?" "It's my body, and I've wanted one for ages."

She huffs, crossing her arms. "You know I don't like them. And I thought you respected that."

I sigh, frustrated. "It's not about disrespecting you, Myra. It's something I want for me. Why are you being so controlling?"

She looks away, searching for words. "I just... I thought we had an understanding." "We had a conversation. Doesn't mean I gave up my wishes," I counter.

After a pause, she murmurs, "Look, let's not do this now. You've had a rough day. Let's go take a shower and wash it all away."

Well okay. You don't need to tell me twice!

I nod, ignoring the tension. There are some real issues we need to navigate in our relationship. But for now, the warmth and comfort of the shower seemed like the best place to start.

As she leads me into the bathroom, I can't help but admire her form and her slinky walk.

Damn.

She looks stunning, a feast for the eyes. No wonder she's MY addiction. As I watch her move, I don't watch the mouthwash bottle on the edge of the sink. The contents flood the bathroom floor. I look up, with chagrin, hoping this clumsiness doesn't ruin the moment.

But she's in a good mood, her eyes sparkling, her laughter echoing around the small bathroom. The passionate moments that follow prove that no number of awkward mishaps can extinguish the spark between us.

At least I hope so.