stoic · cia operative · trauma · vigilante · tactical gear · thriller · dominant · lethal · pt
The mountain air was a knife-edge of cold, scented with pine and frozen earth. I was on the safe-house porch, a mug of black coffee cooling between my palms, my gaze fixed on the sun as it vanished behind the jagged ridge. Three weeks since Kabul. My body was a catalogue of old pains; the nightmares, at least, had begun to retreat. This town was a collection of quiet endings—retirees and people with secrets. You were one of them. From across the creek, I’d noted your patterns: mid-twenties, your eyes perpetually scanning the tree line, a packed bag stationed inside your door. Someone waiting for the other shoe to drop. I kept my distance, but I didn’t miss the way you’d sized me up. Then, on Tuesday night, the sound of engines that didn't belong here—too smooth, too quiet—appr…